Deadly Jewels (10 page)

“I see,” said Hans, thinking about it.

Maurice grinned. “Saved best for last, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I'm hearing,” said Maurice, “is that they've got the royal crown jewels in with it all.”

Hans stared at him. “The crown?”

Maurice shrugged. “I dunno what it means. Crown, crowns, who knows what these people wear? But that's it. I got you what you want.” He glanced nervously at Hans. “We're even, right?”

Hans was watching a freighter being unloaded. “Yes,” he said absently. “We're even.” At least for the moment, he thought.

He had a message to send.

 

CHAPTER NINE

Late September, it was easy to get a table at Jardin Nelson. In the height of the summer season, there'd have been a twenty-minute wait. Worth it, mind you; but a wait nonetheless.

On the other hand, I had a feeling that Julian Fletcher never had to. Wait, that is. He's in his early thirties with the kind of crooked smile that women fall for, and everything about him whispers money. Even though he's a cop. Well, he was one of the Fletchers of Westmount long before he became a cop, and would remain one long after he retired from the force.

If the city police let him last until retirement.

He held my chair for me as I sat down. That was definitely a Fletcher thing. “Martine. You look well.”

“As do you, Julian.”

He handed me my menu. “So, why all the mystery?”

I closed it. I didn't need to look: apart from the two Breton
crêperies
, Jardin Nelson has the best crêpes in town. “Because the secret's not mine. Well, not really.” I paused. “Well, maybe.”

He nodded. “I like your decisiveness. It's becoming.”

“Sarcasm always sat well on you, too.”

We beamed at each other. The waiter came and we ordered, Julian glancing around, automatically checking the environment. That wasn't a Fletcher thing; that was a cop thing. “So what do you have for me?”

“Some remains down in one of the sewers. Well, a room off the sewers. It's a skeleton, actually, but parts of it are disarticulated.” I was rather proud of that word: I'd just learned it that morning, sitting in my office and reading about how one determined the age of corpses. Lovely stuff.

“And it concerns me because…?”

“A bullet hole in the skull,” I said with my sweetest smile. “Don't you remember? Does that work for you?”

He whistled. “Does it ever.”

The waiter came and brought us the bottle of wine Julian'd ordered, poured, and left again. “I'm glad it cheered you up,” I said. “Me, I could have done without it.”

“That's what you get when you muck about in sewers,” said Julian cheerfully. “What got you mucking about, anyway? Wouldn't have thought it part of your job description.”

“I am in a challenging and exciting line of work.”

“Apparently so.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.
Voilà
. There's a doctoral student at McGill. Her name is Patricia Mason. She's been following up on the rumor about the British crown jewels being in Montréal for safekeeping during the Second World War.”

“Thought that was fact, not rumor.”

“Depends on your source,” I said, remembering François and the Gray Line tour narrative. To him, it was gospel, anyway. Probably everyone in the city who knew anything about it thought it gospel, too. I spared a moment of pity for the sad folks still championing the “cave in Wales” story. “Anyway, she's been spending a lot of time underground. She's been part of the team over at Pointe-à-Callière, opening up the underground rivers, but she's also been doing a lot on her own, pretty much sub rosa. She calls it recreational trespassing.”

“Urban exploration,” Julian said and nodded. “Have a couple of friends who're into it.”

He would. They probably got around on skateboards, too. I was feeling old. “She found some documents—I think they were letters—in London saying that some of the jewels had been stolen, maybe replaced with imitations,” I said. “She thinks that at the end of the war they were moved from the Sun-Life Building, and that's when some of them were stolen.”

Our lunches arrived, and Julian continued to look at me, steadily, while plates were put in front of us. “No,
merci
, that's all for now,” he said to the waiter.

I cleared my throat. “When they were still in London, the jewels had been taken out of their settings—I guess there's not much secrecy in packing a bunch of crowns and scepters and what-have-you—and apparently put into hatboxes. The hatboxes were put into mislabeled crates and sent over here along with the gold that was paying for convoys. When they were returned at the end of the war, they were in different packaging.”

“Hatboxes didn't fit in the vault?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. But someone took away the hatboxes and the crates, and they turned up under another building—the old stock exchange.”

“Which, presumably, also had a decent vault,” said Julian, making the connection instantly.

I took a forkful of cheese and mushrooms simmered in béchamel and wrapped in a crêpe, chewed, and nodded. “Presumably so. Patricia got under the Exchange—well, it's that theater now.”

“A very good theater.”

“Just so. And she found—”

He held up a hand. “The suspense is killing me, so let me guess. The hatboxes.”

“One of them. And the crates. And a skeleton with a bullet hole in its skull. And”—I took a deep breath—“some of the missing jewels, right where his pockets used to be.”

He choked on his wine. “You're kidding.”

“Never,” I said, solemnly.

“But this is all just speculation. You have to look at the facts, and you don't know for a fact if any of the jewels went missing.”

“Okay, you're right.” I put up my hands in surrender. “Then someone else was running around with priceless jewels in hatboxes during the Second World War. City was probably full of them.”

We sat for a while without saying anything. I took a couple of swallows of wine and scoffed most of my crêpe while Julian thought about it. Finally he put his napkin on the table. “Even if they knew,” he said slowly, “no one was going to say anything.”

I nodded. I'd already worked that out. “There would have been English opposition to sending the jewels across the ocean,” I said. “It was a risky move. The North Atlantic was already full of U-boats. To have it proven that they'd have been safer, after all, in some lonely cave in Wales—well, it wouldn't have made anybody popular. And Britain after the war needed a rallying point. There had been so much damage, there was so much rebuilding to do. Everything was still scarce, and the king and queen took leadership roles in keeping things positive. They couldn't afford to admit that everything having to do with the royals wasn't perfect.”

“So the guy with the bullet's the thief?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Depends on who he was when he still was … him, I guess.”

“Hmm.” He signaled for the bill. “Is Miss Mason going to take us there?”

“
Bien sûr
. I'm pretty sure that I couldn't find my way again on my own, and it's creepy enough that I wouldn't want to. And anyway, it's really her find.” I hesitated. “She'd like to keep it as quiet as possible, Julian. Her academic career is kind of hanging on it.”

He gave me a look as he sorted through bills and coins. Obviously the success of Patricia's dissertation was way down on his list of priorities; but I'd given her my word, and I was going to at least try to keep some discretion in the proceedings. “I told her we'd meet at the theater at two.”

“Then let's be off. And, you know, you need to get out more, Martine,” he said. “Used to be you only
worked
in the Old City; now you live down here, eat down here, discover corpses down here…”

“Don't quit your day job,” I said, and he grinned at me and we were on our way. On foot, fortunately: Julian had an Audi TT and an approach to driving that was guaranteed to turn your hair white. Always supposing, of course, that you survived the trip.

Patricia was hopping from one foot to the other when we arrived. I introduced them, and she kept looking around, still moving, not really seeming to be present. “What is the problem?” Julian asked her.

“Nothing.” She shrugged and looked around again.

“Then let's go,” I said, but he put a hand on my arm, stopping me. “Something's the matter,” he said to her. “Is someone following you?”

She looked startled. “No,” she said. “Yes. I don't know.”

“Then let's take a walk,” Julian said easily, as though nothing could be more natural on a fine Friday afternoon in September. “Where did you leave your gear?”

“At the museum,” she said. “They let me store things there.”

“Good. We'll head that way.”

Three people walking together anywhere is awkward; three people navigating the narrow cobbled streets and alleyways of the Old City is ridiculous, and made carrying on a conversation together nearly impossible. Julian, however, seemed to find it quite comfortable. He engaged Patricia in talking about McGill and a mutual acquaintance there, and in the process he managed to walk behind us, beside us, even in front of us, walking backward and laughing at something she'd said. I thought he was completely out of his mind.

We reached the museum and he gave us a small formal half bow. “Ladies,” said Julian. “Miss Mason—may I call you Patricia?”

She nodded, bemused.

“Great. Patricia is right. We've been followed. I'd like you to carry on into the museum and wait for me there. I'm anxious to see this body of yours, but I don't want us to bring anybody else along with us.”

“This is your fault!” she hissed at me. “I didn't want to bring anybody in on this!”

“They didn't follow
us
, Patricia,” I pointed out reasonably. “They followed you. You're the one who noticed them.” I looked at Julian. “Who are they, anyway?”

“If you'll just do as I say,” he responded without bothering to clear the exasperation from his voice, “we just might find out!”

We did as he said.

*   *   *

In the end, of course, he didn't find out. We sat and chatted with the woman staffing the museum's front desk about nothing for about twenty minutes before Julian showed up again, slightly pinker under the collar than usual. “We can go now,” he said.

“Who was it?”

He shrugged. “Haven't a clue. He picked up the bus near the World Trade Center. Let's go.”

“Didn't you follow him?”

He sighed. “Martine, right now it's more important for us to figure out whether or not there's actually anything to investigate here. If he wants more, he'll be back. We'll get a second chance. Let's go.”

“But what if he wasn't alone? What if—”

“Do you want to show me this find of yours or not?” he demanded. “Let's
go
!”

We went.

*   *   *

Generaloberst Karl Schultz was staring out the window.

He wasn't staring at anything in particular; night had already fallen on Berlin, and all he could really see was his own reflection, the reflection of the lit chandelier behind him, and that of the younger man nervously fingering the captain's uniform cap he was holding.

He had good reason to be nervous.

“We have someone in Montréal?”

“Yes, Herr General.”

“And he has access?” He hadn't moved from the window, hadn't turned to face the young officer.

“Yes, Herr General.” The captain cleared his throat. “The vault is guarded round the clock by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but he's obtained access through one of the men on the rotation.”

“His report?”

“That the first shipment arrived from Halifax last week. Crates with significant weight. Probably the gold.” He paused, gestured uncomfortably; Karl could see the reflection of the movement in the dark window. “The rest is really nothing but rumors.”

“Which say…?”

“It seems almost too fantastic to repeat, Herr General.”

“Be fantastic, Captain. Let yourself go.” The voice was dry.

“Very well.” He cleared his throat again. “My man reports rumors that the freight includes the—er—well, the British crown jewels.” A pause. “Sir.”

There was a long silence. The longcase clock by the door ticked loudly; a log in the fireplace fell, sizzling. “The British. Crown. Jewels.”

“Yes, Herr General.”

“Perhaps not as fantastic as you think, Captain.” The younger man couldn't see him, but Karl was smiling. Everyone knew the convoys were there, and it was sheer bad luck that none had ever been caught as they made their limping way across the Atlantic.

But this … this might be even better than sending the English gold to the bottom of the sea. This could mean a lot of things.

It meant the Englanders were scared. As well they should be.

It meant there was an opportunity for a boot on the neck of the damned island.

“Get my aide,” he said.

“Yes, Herr General.”

The young soldier came in, snapped to attention. “Herr General?”

“Get me Reichsmarschall Göring on the telephone,” said the general. “We have some very interesting news for him.”