Hands of the Traitor Read online

"She's a woman, Ken, not a girl. A nurse. And for the record, Zoé Champanelle doesn't do old men's piles, so don't bother getting in touch."

  "Who's having a bad day then?"

  "And I'm not exactly going out with her. We've been round the shops, and I've taken her for a couple of meals."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. What were you expecting?"

  "I hope you're not looking for consolation for Louise dumping you. I thought wedding bells were in the air."

  "Louise didn't dump me. We both agreed ... Yes, okay, she dumped me. And I don't want to rush in and make the same mistake with someone else."

  "Where's the Matt Rider I took on -- the man who knows what he wants and doesn't stop until he gets it?"

  "That's work, Ken. Love is more difficult. Don't you think so?"

  "No idea, kiddo. Mrs. Habgood and I aren't exactly..."

  "See, you're calling her Mrs. Habgood. I don't want a relationship like that." Matt opened the cupboard and pulled out two mugs. "Coffee?"

  "I don't think the missus would want any sort of relationship with you."

  "I'm glad. From what you tell me..."

  Ken changed the subject abruptly. "Someone at the club said your grandfather's been in trouble."

  "Word certainly gets around. It was nearly two weeks ago. They've moved him now."

  "After he had a go at someone in Saint Monica's?"

  Matt switched on the percolator and spooned coffee into the filter. "He only tried to kill the man who shared his room. Took an apple and pushed it into the old fellow's mouth. Got it halfway down his throat. The matron said my grandfather was shouting something about gold rings when she got to him. The other man wasn't able to shout anything, until they got the apple out."

  "Senility is a terrible thing, Matt." Ken opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a folder of accounts. Then he nodded towards the percolator. "I'll have white. So where's your grandfather now?"

  "The South Memorial Hospital for a few weeks. He's not senile. It's some major mental disorder." Matt found a half empty carton of UHT milk in the cupboard and sniffed it cautiously. "I'm still not allowed to see him." He put the milk down quickly. "They've hidden all the fruit at Saint Monica's -- and the knives -- in case anyone else has a go."

  "Alec Rider, the Killer of Saint Monica's Home for the Elderly." Ken closed his eyes and shook his head. "You've got one hell of a granddad there, kiddo."

  "Did you see the news about the killings near Calais on Saturday? It seems everyone had it in for a Dutchman, and all for one lousy gold ring. I told Zoé Champanelle there has to be a connection with my grandfather."

  Ken pulled some hand-written notes from the folder, but paused to look up. At least he was listening. "You said Zoé Champanelle with a certain something in your voice, you randy old dog. I hope you're not stricken with her. It's a bit soon to initiate a new girlfriend into your family's grisly past, isn't it?"

  "She's not my girlfriend. And her interest is purely professional." Matt realized how pathetic he sounded. And why was he denying what he felt for Zoé? Louise was out of his hair now.

  "What's your grandfather got to do with Saturday's massacre in France, kiddo? Was he there on an old folks outing?"

  Matt checked the percolator. "Granddad brought back a signet ring from a commando raid in the war. Still wears it as a souvenir. It's got the initials D and C, and an engraved eye -- just like the ring the Dutchman found."

  "It might be a coincidence."

  "My grandfather says he met two Americans on a Nazi flying bomb site in France. I think it was 1944. They had a case of small gold cylinders. Granddad unscrewed one of the caps, and he reckons it contained a poison gas that made him go ape."

  "The Americans were supplying the Nazis with poison gas?" Ken closed the folder.

  "Granddad says it all got hushed up by the military."

  "That doesn't surprise me." Ken leaned back in his chair. "I guess everyone wanted to live in peace when the war ended. So maybe your granddad wasn't making things up."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think your family should have looked into it years ago."

  Matt shrugged. "No one believed him. Not the army, and certainly not my family. I guess no one wanted to know what happened to Granddad in France."

  Ken laughed. "Not even you, as a cynical PI?"

  "Not even me; but maybe there's still time to find out." Matt switched off the percolator and poured two mugs of coffee. "The milk smells terrible. Yours will have to be black."

  "As long as it's hot."

  "If I can find out what happened in the war I can tell the hospital specialist. Maybe he'll be able to sort out the right treatment. I'm not prepared to let them keep Granddad on sedation for the rest of his life."

  "You're not taking this investigation up full time, kiddo?" Ken sounded anxious.

  "Can you spare me for the rest of the day?"

  Ken sighed. "Grandfathers don't live for ever. Mine died years ago and I still miss him. Okay, the sooner you sort this out the better. I don't want you mooching around here all day like a constipated cat. Where are you going to start?"

  Matt used his thumb to break through the crust that had formed on top of the sugar over the weekend. He passed the bowl to Ken. "My grandfather said the two Americans were called Heinman. Someone called Jason Heinman was on the news a few days ago. He's the new president of Domestic Chemicals International in New York. The company is about to launch a cancer drug."

  "So?" asked Ken.

  "Domestic Chemicals International. DCI. Get it?"

  Ken shrugged. "No."

  "Get your brain in gear, Ken," said Matt in a voice of feigned impatience. "There's a D, a C and an eye on the rings, and a Heinman is running a pharmaceutical company called DCI."

  Ken nodded. "So you think maybe the Heinmans were running it in the war?"

  "If they were, it proves my grandfather knows what he's talking about. I've looked up the DCI web site. You have to register if you want full access, and I didn't want them to know I'm interested. But they list their products. Poison gas isn't one of them."

  "Have they got an email address for general inquiries?"

  "Yes, but they'll still want to know who I am. Anyway, I can't ask them if one of the Heinmans had his head blown off in France."

  "What are you going to do if your grandfather's guilty of murder?"

  Matt stayed silent for a moment. He'd already thought of that one. "I just want to know whether he's telling the truth or not. Maybe Granddad butchered everyone on the site, and that's what screwed him up."

  Ken wiped the rim of his mug with his fingers before taking a sip. "How about trying Louise?"

  "What for?" Matt started his coffee. The French beans had kept considerably better than the milk.

  "Louise works for the Chamber of Commerce. Ask her to find an American trade organization. They should be able to tell you if anyone called Heinman from DCI died in France in the war -- if you write a confidential letter." Ken began to sound unexpectedly keen. "Don't bother with emails. No one answers them. Use Habgood letter heading. People respond to Habgood Securities."

  "There is another avenue to explore."

  "Go on." Ken put his mug down and pulled a face. "This is terrible. Get some instant next time you're at the shops and do us all a favor."

  Matt ignored the criticism. The coffee was an expensive blend, bought by him with Ken's petty cash. "There's a French girl -- Sophie Bernay. My grandfather thinks he killed her. He keeps hearing a grenade going off in his sleep. If I could find her, she'd maybe remember what happened."

  "Not if she's dead she won't remember anything," commented Ken dryly.

  "If she's dead I don't have to tell him."

  "Wouldn't any French woman do? Get your Zoé to pretend she's Sophie. See if it helps your grandfather remember a few more things."

  "I couldn't live with myself."

  "And now you want to find a beautiful French mademoisell
e called Sophie? Isn't one enough for you?" Ken gave a dirty laugh.

  "I'm not sure how Sophie Bernay would look. Granddad says he has this memory of Sophie's face covered in blood. He had a knife as well as a grenade, so he may..."

  "I think I get the point," said Ken. "And your lovely French girlfriend doesn't mind you chasing after another woman?"

  "Zoé isn't my girlfriend. Anyway, Sophie would be in her late seventies -- at best. Perhaps you'd like to be introduced."

  Ken ignored the offer. "If you want my advice I'd go for the French woman and leave the Heinmans alone. No one messes with big American companies." He thought for a moment, tapping his uneven teeth with a pen. Then he pointed the pen at Matt. "I don't know if it will help, but I had an uncle who had an urge to trace a family that sheltered him in the war. He wrote to the mayors of a few French towns in the area."

  "And?"

  "He never heard anything more as it happened." Ken sucked the end of his pen. "But we always thought it was a good idea. Do you know where your granddad had his ordeal?"

  "Near Calais. That's all."

  "And where was the weekend massacre?"

  "Near Calais."

  "There you are then." Ken's face beamed. "Get on the Internet and find the name of the nearest town to the blood bath, and write a letter to the local mayor. Give him Sophie's name and see if he can track her down for you. Your new girlfriend can help you with the long words. I'm giving you the rest of the day off -- with pay."

  "Thanks."

  "That's it, kiddo, look on the bright side." Ken seemed to be playing the unaccustomed role of beneficial uncle. "An Internet search could take hours. I need the computer today, so nip on down to Mac the Hack at the Internet café. He'll give you a special rate if you mention my name."

  Matt decided that Mac had every reason to be generous. Ken's computer was unreliable and often in need of Mac's expertise for finding lost files.

  "Things are fairly quiet here," Ken continued. "We've cleared up that case for Tom Grieves, so you can have a few days off to go to France."

  Matt nodded. This certainly wasn't the Ken Habgood who usually sat at the desk.

  "And there's more good news, kiddo. You'll find an orange car in the yard. A gift from Tom Grieves. He says you saved his company money. Ring your insurance and get it transferred onto your policy."

  "Are you serious?"

  "It's yours. A present. You can drive down to the Chamber of Commerce and see Louise Grantham. She'll help you get in touch with the right people -- if you speak to her nicely." Ken winked deliberately.

  "I'm not going near Louise. Anyway, she won't want to see me."

  "This could be your last chance to patch things up, kiddo. You'd better take a look at your new car or it may disappear -- like Cinderella's coach."

  Matt caught the keys that Ken tossed him. He moved towards the door, anxious to discover what sort of vehicle Tom Grieves had kindly donated. The fact that the keys were old and worn didn't register at first.

  "I don't want to patch things up," he called back as he went down the stairs. "I'll have a look at the car, then I'll go round to Mac's and get on the Internet. Maybe there's something to the background of the massacre on there. If those Heinmans have a guilty secret, I want to know what it is."

  The Past

  Chapter 4

  New York -- June 1937

  ...THEREFORE we are terminating your financial agreement with Berlin at the end of July.

  It was a brief note on heavy paper, deeply embossed with an eagle and a Nazi swastika. Albert Becker Heinman swore loudly and lengthily. The Germans were about to pull the plug on DCI. He depended on the Germans for trade, and without their support he'd go broke.

  He joined the crowd pushing its way into Macy's large entrance hall. One of the girls in here should know what would excite a woman like Irena.

  "Hey, fella, who do you think you're pushing!"

  He muttered an apology to the man he had accidentally touched, but his voice was unheard above the noise of customers crowding through the Manhattan department store. An apology by Albert Becker Heinman, president of Domestic Chemicals Incorporated? He stopped beside a perfume counter. This must be one hell of a shopping trip if it made a man of his height apologize to anyone.

  What had caused this sudden rejection by the Nazis, when their joint project in the development of artificial fibers was going so well? It had to be the pressure of public opinion from those anti-German protestors campaigning loudly in Madison Gardens just down the street. Did they think there was a war coming?

  He usually made a point of keeping well clear of the shops at any time, but especially on Saturdays. He cursed his secretary for being away. A very convenient time for a girl to phone in sick. Some sort of early morning nausea that had been going on for several weeks.

  What the hell were secretaries for if they couldn't attend to choosing a wife's birthday present -- or remembering the birthday in the first place? Karen McDowell should have reminded him yesterday, and today she could have come down here to the city. A woman would even be able to buy fancy underwear. He picked up a bottle of perfume and replaced it immediately. Karen McDowell would have known what to choose for Irena. A girl like Karen should stay in good health at all times, especially on Saturdays.

  Some small kids, no doubt out to cause trouble, began to drop stink bombs. Innocent passers-by unwittingly crushed the thin glass capsules of glass under their feet while the boys made good their escape. A foul stench of rotten eggs pervaded this section of the largest store in Manhattan.

  In the vain hope of masking the odor the counter assistants sprayed priceless fragrances into the air. The resultant mix was an offence to both eggs and perfume. Many of the customers simply laughed with embarrassment before moving swiftly through to the next department. Unfortunately the brats were just ahead, with a pocketful of the bombs.

  A few of the customers were rightly furious. Heinman stopped, oblivious to the obnoxious blend of sulphur dioxide and rose petals. He realized that the smell was fuelling something that already existed in the crowded shopping conditions. As the shoppers jostled their way between the counters they exchanged heated words. Their initial amusement at the childish prank was quickly turning to real anger.

  A middle-aged woman in her Macy's blouse and skirt, her face made up like a brown mask, reached forward to squirt a generous spray of scent in his direction. It reminded him of the perfume used by Karen. Karen McDowell might not be particularly desirable, but she had a delicate fragrance that attracted the men. It certainly attracted him.

  The smell was clearing a little by the time a uniformed commissionaire escorted three white-faced boys to the main entrance. The kids protested their innocence, and would probably continue to do so until they entered one of the adjoining stores to release further foul capsules.

  The Nazi letter again filled Heinman's thoughts: the letter on official Third Reich stationery. He stayed motionless, starting to see the way to retain Berlin's funding. One of DCI's experimental substances had such a serious side effect that no one could get near it without becoming emotionally disturbed.

  Jacco Morell believed it was something in the smell that triggered the response. The effective agent had yet to be identified. Albert Heinman made for the exit and the fresh air. DCI would apply their existing chemistry to a shunned method of warfare, and the Nazis would buy it as part of their rearmament program. If there was a war in Europe, America would be well out of it. The development program would be extremely rewarding for Domestic Chemicals, especially if the funding came directly from the wealth of Chancellor Hitler's Third Reich.

  The work must be a secret between himself and his senior chemist, Jacco Morell -- and Skorensky, the chief executive officer of course. Igor Skorensky, the crazy driver who had nearly killed himself twice in the past twelve months. Senior men in the company had no right to go motor racing in their spare time.

  *

  IRENA HEINMAN received
no birthday present in June 1937. She made it clear that a fiftieth birthday deserved some sort of recognition, even from a man totally immersed in his lifelong passion of work. Instead of the eagerly awaited gift she received a phone call. Her hard-working husband had set out from the office for the Manhattan shops but had been unavoidably diverted. He was now back at DCI. She must be patient and understand that the future of Domestic Chemicals was in the balance.

  Seven Years Later

  Chapter 5

  England -- June 12, 1944

  "GERMANY CALLING. Germany calling."

  "Turn that damn row off!"

  George Penbridge looked up from his supper. "You watch your lip, woman," he growled in response to his wife's scolding. "There's news on there we don't hear from the BBC."

  The oldest son, Jeffrey, began to join in, siding with his father for once. "It's the invasion, Ma. The war's nearly over. Our troops have landed in France and we want to know what's happening."

  "Well, if you don't all shut your mouths, we'll none of us know what Lord Haw-Haw is on about. Quiet!"

  As several neighbors would later testify, George's voice could be very loud. And extremely angry.

  "The British people are facing defeat," whined the nasal tones of William Joyce, nicknamed Lord Haw-Haw by a journalist at the start of the war. The majority of listeners received the aristocratic voice with derision, tempered by the view that there just might be some item of truth amongst the dross.

  "On the beaches of Normandy the British and American soldiers are lying dead. The so-called invasion was a failure. Your leaders have lied to you. The superior German army was waiting for your badly prepared landing forces. There are few survivors. I have here some of the names of the dead. Mothers of England, weep for your sons."

  While Lord Haw-Haw read out the list, the argument in the Penbridge farm in Berkshire, well to the west of London, was renewed.

  "He's just making them up. There's no such people," insisted Mrs. Penbridge as she gathered the empty plates from the table with as much noise as possible.

  "Might be," muttered George. "You don't know that, do you, woman."

  Mrs. Penbridge dropped the armful of plates into the old earthenware sink. Miraculously none broke. "All I know is the man in the newspaper said Lord Haw-Haw talks rubbish," she bawled. "He just invents the places where bombs land, so we think the Germans know everything that's going on in this country. We don't know if it's true or not, because we're not there to see."