A Study in Victory Red Page 8

  "What?" Joe shook his head. "I'm on your side. I just think that, maybe, not everything has some deep connection to it. Not everything can be explained by some grand deduction. The woman just lost her husband. When people lose someone, they tend to act a little grieved for some time."

  Irene started pacing. "Why alter her accent, then? Where did she come from? And why comment on my lipstick colour? I hadn't mentioned the lipstick on the wall."

  "Alter her accent? I didn't notice if she did," Joe said. "Also, perhaps she simply liked the colour of your lipstick. You should know that it's not uncommon for women to complement each other."

  Irene waved him off.

  "If you are this concerned," he said. "Why did you give her the pin?"

  "What was I to do?" she said. "Deny a wife a precious item of her husband's?"

  Joe's eyes widened in frustration. "So, you admit that perhaps she was telling the truth?"

  "I admit nothing other than this is not what I was expecting," Irene muttered, folding her arms across her chest and hunching her shoulders. She just needed to think.

  "Perhaps that's the real problem." Joe stepped forward, towering over her. "You missed something, and are frustrated with yourself. People make mistakes, Irene. You said yourself that you were out of practice, so perhaps this is the result."

  Irene looked up at him, meeting his eyes in a challenge. "Then what about the German writing? What about the lipstick? What about the poison?"

  "I don't know," Joe answered, exasperated. "That's your job to figure out. I'm just the tag-along without the notebook, remember?"

  He'd raised his voice, something Irene hadn't expected out of him. He'd been soft-spoken until now. Dramatic and firm, but soft and kind. This tone, though, was harsh and angry, and it made Irene shrink back a bit.

  "Sometimes," he continued, voice still edging with distaste. "You just have to take the loss, Irene."

  "No," she snapped. "I can't take any more loss. If you want to give up-"

  "I am not giving up." Joe, frustrated, ran a hand through his hair. "That was hard to watch, Irene. I returned enough of my dead friends' items to their loved ones to remember how utterly horrible it is, and I remember how those loved ones reacted, yet here you stand questioning this lady because she acted off? Sorry, but I am done for the day. I'll see you at home."

  He headed out of the garden and marched down the street, hands shoved in his pockets, leaving Irene all alone in the garden of the wrecked house where they'd first met.

  Her chest rose and fell with frustrated spasms of breath, and she kicked a chunk of dirt. It hit the small garden wall and exploded into tiny bits.

  She started down the street as a tremor ran through her hand, startling her. She hadn't had tremors in two years, and she'd done everything to prevent them from returning.

  She wiggled her fingers, keeping the numbness at bay. She had made some errors, but the case wasn't over yet, and a clue may present itself in the papers from Madame Jeannie and the allusive Drunk Man.

  Chapter X

  The Case That DI Gregory Solved

  After his row with Irene, Joe decided dinner out was the best course of action. He'd contacted Michael, and they'd met at a restaurant. Michael inquired about his new flat and Joe lied through his teeth, telling him about what a smooth transition he had and how living with Irene was easy as pie.

  He didn't mention the impromptu trip to the brothel or the fight he'd had over an American pin, mostly because he had yet to process the day for himself.

  He'd lost his temper at Irene purely out of embarrassment and frustration with himself. Admittedly, she'd reacted to that conversation with the woman a bit harshly, but Joe was learning that brashness was a trait of hers.

  Joe wanted to help with this case so badly, but today he felt like a lost puppy following her around. He wanted to be part of the detective team, not the bumbling fool asking obvious questions.

  He arrived home late and nearly went straight to bed. Instead, he went into the living room. Irene sat at the window, cross-legged on the small bench, staring out at the dark street. The window was open, letting cool air into the flat.

  He wanted to say something to her but had no idea where to start. She shivered as the breeze blew into the room. Joe grabbed the blanket from the couch. He knew Irene wouldn't get it herself because she was lost in thought, and she was too stubborn to move from the window.

  He draped the blanket over her shoulders, then headed to bed.

  * * * * *

  He woke before Irene the next morning and dallied over his breakfast. After musing about the case for half the night, he had to admit, the American's wife seemed suspicious. Then again, everything about this case was out of place.

  The papers on poison sat on the small chemistry counter beside the kitchen. Joe grabbed his half-finished tea and the documents and wandered to the armchair.

  Irene wrote notes on practically every page. She'd placed an asterisk beside a few toxins based on their compositions and side effects. Joe pulled that portion out, setting the rest on the table.

  He flipped through them, skimming the information, and one particular chemical caught his attention.

  Cyanide.

  He leapt off the chair, sourcing one of his medical textbooks. He flipped the pages as he settled back in his chair, finding the paragraph he wanted. He fact-checked the medical terminology in his textbook to the effects of cyanide poison.

  Increased venous haemoglobin oxygen saturation.

  A rise of oxygen in the blood, turning the cells, and therefore the skin, bright red after death.

  Just like the poor American.

  Joe's heart palpitated hard against his chest. The only interaction he'd had with cyanide was in capsule form.

  He'd seen such capsules, touched them, counted them.

  More than once had been threatened to have one forced into his mouth.

  A capsule, when bitten, caused instant death.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, preventing the painful flashbacks before they began. This was no time for his mind to fail him and fleet away.

  He tossed the other papers on the table, clutching the page on cyanide for dear life.

  "Irene!" He called, forgetting that she might either be in bed or not even in the flat at all.

  His voice must've sounded more panicked than he intended because Irene's bedroom door flew open and she rushed out, tying a housecoat around herself.

  Joe held up the paper.

  "Cyanide pill," he said. "That's what killed the American."

  Irene vaulted over the couch, feet on the cushion, then on the floor. She perched on the armrest of Joe's chair, skimming the paper.

  "You're certain?"

  "More certain than anything regarding this case," he said. "The Germans were directed to use this pill to end their own life if caught behind enemy lines or capture was imminent. I have first-hand knowledge of such pills. They're hidden in mouths, somehow, or carried on the person. They turned commonplace for German agents near the end of the war."

  Irene slouched on the armrest, thumb tapping the paper, thinking. She shifted on the arm, barefoot on the chair cushion next to Joe's hip, balancing herself.

  "The German writing..." she said, voice trailing away in thought.

  "The German at Madame Jeannie's house," Joe offered. "All connected. The Thin Man could be German for all we know. This whole mess could be unfinished business from the war. We thought the writing was the standout clue when the American could lead us to the conclusion."

  A smile spread over Irene's face.

  "Excellent," she said. "Simply marvellous."

  She planted a hard kiss on the top of his head, then sprung from the chair. Her hair was even more unruly today, and in her hurry out of her room, she'd tied her housecoat askew, striped pyjamas peeking through the fabric.

  "The Drunk Man." She faced him, hands clasped in excitement. "I guarantee that he is the large German, and The Thin Man, they are
our culprits in this murder. We must find them. Get ready, and we'll seek out Eddy and Thom, send them on a hunt like the bloodhounds they think they are."

  Behind Irene, the door opened, and Miss Hudson walked in.

  "I thought that racket above me meant you were up," she said. "Oh heavens Irene, where are your clothes?"

  Irene spun around. "Clothes are the least of my worries right now, Miss Hudson. We've had a breakthrough in the case thanks to Doctor Joe here."

  "I'm sure the doctor would prefer if you wore something proper when conducting your work," Miss Hudson said.

  "It's fine, Miss Hudson," Joe said. "This is Irene's house too, and one day she may catch me in my robes, and I would hate for that rule to be in place."

  Miss Hudson tut-tutted. "Young people... Irene, you'd best get dressed either way. Detective Gregory is here, beaming like a boy who just won a prize."

  "Perfect," Irene said. "We were about to seek him out. Give me a few moments then send him right up."

  Miss Hudson made a point of looking at the housecoat tie coming undone at Irene's waist, then she left the flat.

  Irene twirled and flew into her bedroom, but not a second later she reappeared, something in her hand. She came right to Joe and held out a gift.

  A leather bound thick notebook, with a silk bookmark, and a slip with a pen tucked inside. Joe turned the book over in his hands, examining the soft cover, utterly shocked at the expensive and unexpected treasure.

  "For when I prattle on and on," she said, modest and shy. "You can keep track and remind me of things should I forget them or start to unravel due to my frantic mind. I chastised you at the crime scene for not having a notebook, but then thought that if I expected you to carry one as my colleague, I should provide one for you."

  He stared at the notebook for another few seconds, trying to think of what to say.

  "Thank you." He kept his words simple.

  "And thank you," she said. "Now, I shall get dressed. I don't mind you seeing me like this, but Fashion Forward Thom is a different story."

  Joe laughed. "The red and blue tartan housecoat does clash with the green striped pyjamas, I'm afraid."

  She jutted her chin toward the notebook in his hands. "Make that your first note."

  She laughed at her own joke and headed into her bedroom. Joe didn't have much longer to look at the notebook because Detective Inspector Gregory entered the flat. As Irene had teased, Thom looked just as fancy and pressed as he had at the crime scene. Everything about him polished and trimmed and neat.

  "Gregory," Joe said, shaking the man's hand. "Irene shall be out in a minute."

  Miss Hudson entered behind Gregory with a tray of tea, setting it on the chemistry papers atop the table. Gregory sat on the couch, and Joe took up his place in the armchair again. They chatted a bit about the good weather, and how hopefully it continued for the parade on Saturday. Just as they ended that conversation, Irene appeared. She'd changed into a blue blouse and beige trousers, and pinned her hair back, the Victory Red on her lips again.

  "Thom," she said. "Bearer of good news I see. Shoulders square and confident, eating biscuits merrily. What have you come to tell us?"

  She went to the other armchair but hesitated at the pile of pillows and blankets still in a heap. Leaving them, she took up the armrest of Joe's chair. He shifted to stand, but she put her hand on his shoulder and gave her head a little shake, so he settled back down for Gregory's story.

  "Congratulate me, Holmes," he said. "I've solved the case. I have an arrest out for the elusive Thin Man, otherwise known as Sergeant Lewis Farmer, and intend to charge him for the murder of Sergeant Alan Jacobs, both of the one-hundred and first airborne division."

  Joe's mouth parted in surprise and beside him, Irene tensed. Gregory knew both the Thin Man and the American's name? Joe's heart sank. Had he been fooled into thinking that Irene was a crack investigator when perhaps she was wrong more often than she believed? No, he was sure they had a handle on this case and were close to a conclusion.

  "Interesting," Irene said. "I'm curious about how you came to that conclusion, and how the lipstick and the pin play a part."

  Irene couldn't keep the hint of sarcasm out of her voice, but Gregory didn't seem to notice, he was too pleased with himself to display his own deduction.

  "I first looked into the American," he said. "I still have connections with some American troops I met during the war, and I acquired a list of the paratroopers matching his description and who didn't return home. When I found a name with Alan's exact description, with the words MIA beside it, I knew I'd found my man. I also learned that he would often disagree with another sergeant in his Company. When I looked up the description of that man, he matched our thin culprit exactly. Both men are MIA, and when I spent a whole day scouring restaurants and places where two Americans by those descriptions had dined and shopped, I stumbled upon a bookseller who claimed that both men had been there, and had heard our deceased call the Thin Man 'Lou'. I think you can piece the rest together, can't you, Holmes?"

  The story seemed so whole and complete, and yet completely different than the one Joe and Irene were building. Was it even the same case? Or were Joe and Irene so far off the scent that they were crafting another story altogether?

  Joe looked up at Irene. She had her fingers intertwined and rested her chin on her fists. A nerve in her neck twitched. She was clenching her jaw, probably working out the same questions as Joe likely had

  "A good narrative, indeed," she finally said. "But, what about the word in lipstick? And the pin with the etchings? And why would this 'Lou' poison Alan? Could he be that vengeful?"

  "The lipstick was to distract us," Gregory said as if the answers to her questions were prepared and rehearsed. "And German? Tensions are still high, Irene. You weren't in the trenches, but you still know the high emotion and negative effects caused by the war. Perhaps Sergeant Lewis was trying to steer the murder in a different direction. Those etchings on the back of the pin could mean anything. Dates of an anniversary, dates that are meaningful to Sergeant Alan. As for poisoning, sometimes when you've shot enough men, shooting a gun doesn't appeal to you any more."

  "That," Joe said, wanting to give Gregory some credit. "Is very true."

  Gregory gestured in thanks, but Joe wasn't entirely convinced. There were still so many missing pieces, and yet the Detective Inspector's story made sense. The answer was neat, simple, and wrapped in a bow, like a gift.

  Irene stood and walked to the open area of the flat. She paced back and forth, then stopped and eyed the pile of lipstick marked bricks, then the notes on the poisons on the table, under the tea tray. She inhaled deeply and continued to pace.

  "Have I finally solved one before you?" Gregory asked. "Admit it, nothing beats good old fashioned police work, and having connections."

  "I shall admit, Thom," Irene said, words heavy. "This was a case well concluded by you. I don't know if it's the case that was put upon us all, but certainly a case."

  Gregory took offence to her words and stood. "Tell me where the flaws are, Holmes. Tell me one, dammit."

  Joe stood too "I think this case has made us all irritable and tired, but we need to remember, that whoever solved it, we shall soon have a murderer under arrest."

  Gregory and Irene glared at one another until Joe stepped in between them.

  As everyone calmed themselves, the door flew open.

  Lestrade, huffing and puffing, rushed into the room.

  "We have a situation," he said, then noticed Gregory and straightened immediately.

  "The situation has already been solved," Gregory said. "Did you not get my report of the investigation?"

  "Yes," Lestrade said, smoothing his windblown hair. "Something else has come up."

  "Why didn't you ring?" Irene said.

  Lestrade cussed. "I'd forgotten you have a phone up until just this moment."

  "Well, now that you are here," Irene said. "What has caused you such pan
ic?"

  "The Thin Man," Lestrade said. "The one Thom calls Lewis Farmer, was found this morning, strangled to death in a small flat down town.”

  Chapter XI

  The Thin Man's Fate

  "Aha!" Irene punched Thom's arm. Relief washed over her like gentle rainwater. Thom had a good theory about the case, but Irene knew there was more. She grinned, and Joe cleared his throat.

  "But now there is another victim," she said, wiping the excitement from her face. "Unfortunate."

  Within minutes, the four of them were on their way to the crime scene. Thom had opted to take his car and indicated strongly that the rest of them share a cab, for he had recently had his interior cleaned.

  So, Irene, Joe, and Eddy packed into a cab and headed to crime scene number two.

  "Do you agree with Thom's report?" Irene asked, from the middle of the two men.

  "Yes," Eddy said. "I don't have the military connections he has, but I was able to ask around about an American and got varying answers. But I had come to the same conclusion, just not as quickly. What about you two? Similar vein?"

  Joe gave a snort of laughter.

  "Our investigation," she said. "Has been rather complex. I shall relay it in its entirety once the case is wrapped up."

  They arrived at a house, no garden, but a wooden gate between the pavement and the front door. Irene slid out of the car and immediately took to the curb, looking for the familiar tire scuffs, and within seconds she found them, red paint and all, fresh, made within the past twelve hours. Joe appeared at her shoulder, notebook open, pen ready.

  "Twelve feet. Red paint," she said. He wrote it down. She moved on to the gate, moving back and forth, trying to catch the daylight at the just the right angle.

  "Large fingerprint," she said, then saw the gate latch. "Snapped spring. Forcefully opened."

  Joe scribbled her words, and they followed Eddy into the house.

  The crime scene was in the first floor flat. The sparsely furnished room held a desk, a chair in front of the fire, and a small dining table. The body lay in the middle of the living room, splayed out.