Covert in Cairo, page 18
“No need to take it out on me,” Fredricks said, his voice strained. “I’m on your side.”
“That’s why you reported me to the authorities?” Herr Gabler’s German accent only made him sound more sinister.
Herr Gabler and Fredricks might be on the same side, but if Fredricks had turned him in, then he wasn’t a complete scoundrel. He had some principles. Still, I didn’t believe for a second Fredricks was in Egypt to stop the illegal antiquities trade. He was a German spy on a mission to help his side win the war.
“The artifacts belong to the Egyptian people,” Fredricks said. “Not to the British. Not to the Germans. And especially not to you to sell for personal gain.”
Again, it occurred to me that the murders related to the illegal antiquities trade. Maybe the British agents had discovered Herr Gabler selling illegal treasures. How did the codes at the theater fit in?
It just didn’t make sense. Why would Herr Gabler, an Egyptologist, be involved with Fredricks, a German spy? Yes, they were both on the side of Germany. But what did Fredricks have to do with Egyptology? And more to the point, what did Herr Gabler have to do with whatever Fredricks was plotting?
La Sultana and the Isis Theater were the missing link. If only I could break the code. The coded aria was key.
“Don’t be such an idealistic fool,” Herr Gabler said.
“I may be an idealist, but I’m no fool.”
I agreed with Fredricks. He was no fool.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the wardrobe, I could make out Kitty’s silhouette and Poppy squirming in her arms. Hold still, beastie. Please hold still.
Poppy sneezed.
I held my breath.
Silence.
Kitty pinched me.
Ouch. Why did she do that? I bit my lip.
The wardrobe door flew open.
I gasped.
Kitty exploded out of the wardrobe feet first. Swinging from the clothes bar, she kicked Herr Gabler. Both of her little booted feet landed squarely on his nose.
Herr Gabler yelled something in German and flew backwards, hitting the table with a loud thwack.
I peeked out of the wardrobe.
Like an angry badger, Herr Gabler growled and lifted himself off the table. His nose was bleeding. Kitty must have broken it.
Herr Gabler fumbled for his Luger, which had fallen to the floor.
Oh, no.
“Run!” Kitty shouted as she crossed the room. Poppy led the way, her little toenails tapping against the floor.
I dashed after them, stopping only to retrieve my wig from the desk.
“Watch out,” Fredricks shouted. “He’s got a gun.”
I glanced back in time to see Fredricks stick a foot out and trip the German, who, with a mouth full of curses, landed face first on the floor.
“Don’t dillydally, ma chérie.” Fredricks struggled against the ropes. “Save yourself… and your beloved lieutenant, if you must.” He winked at me. “Unless you’re saving yourself for me.”
How could he flirt at a time like this?
I tugged on my wig.
“Your toy gun is hidden under the telegraph machine.” Fredricks wriggled one hand free and gestured toward the desk.
I dashed back to the desk, snagged Mata Hari’s gun, and tucked it into my handbag.
“Go. Save yourself.” Fredricks held up the rope. “Don’t worry about me.”
I stood blinking at him.
“Your concern is touching.” He smiled weakly. “Now go!”
Herr Gabler growled and sprang to his feet.
I sprinted down the hallway as fast as my Oxfords would carry me.
I didn’t look back again.
18
THE INTERROGATION
Dawn was just breaking when we arrived back at the hotel. We found Clifford pacing the lobby. Had he been up all night? The wrinkles in his suit and the purple bags under his eyes suggested as much.
Somehow the bright colors of the hanging tapestries, the baroque patterns of the wool rugs, and the enormous height of the ceilings seemed even more extravagant after a sleepless night. My head was spinning.
Dodging a porter carrying a big stack of parcels for a well-dressed woman, Clifford rushed up to us. “I say, where have you been?” His tone was sharp. “I’ve been worried.” He removed the pipe from his mouth. “I had visions of you kidnapped, tied up, pistol whipped… or worse.”
Ha! The man was clairvoyant.
“Good lord.” He pointed his pipe at Kitty. “What happened to you?”
Kitty did look a sight. Strands of blonde hair had escaped her chignon. Her black fencing vest had a tear where Poppy’s collar had grazed it. And she had a giant purple goose egg on her forehead where she’d been pistol whipped.
“You’ll never believe it.” Kitty clapped her hands together in her now familiar act. From the outside, you’d never know she was a petty criminal plucked off the London streets by the War Office. Forensics expert. Master foot-fighter. What other secrets did she have?
Even if Clifford lapped it up like cream, I wasn’t falling for the excitable schoolgirl routine.
“You fill him in.” I put my good hand on her arm and glancing around the crowded lobby. “I have to rescue Archie.”
Poppy jumped up and down and squeaked until Clifford picked her up. He nuzzled her topknot. “You didn’t endanger my little princess, did you?”
Figures. He was more concerned about the dog than he was about us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark uniform approach. A police officer marched toward us. He didn’t take his gaze off me.
“Miss Fiona Figg?” he said, glancing from Kitty to me and back again. His sandy-colored mustache and Cockney accent, in addition to the navy uniform with gold buttons, indicated he was from the British police force.
Now what?
“Yes.” I raised my good hand. “I’m Fiona Figg.”
“I need you to come to the station and answer some questions.” He adjusted his hat.
No. Not now. I had to get back to the blooming tomb and save Archie before he’d lost too much blood.
“I say, what’s this about?” Clifford came to my defense.
“We need to take your statement about Mr. Relish’s death.” The officer fingered his Billy club.
By we, did he mean he and his Billy club? I hoped he didn’t plan to use the bloody thing.
“It was an accident.” My cheeks warmed. “Or rather, sabotage.” I really was too tired for this now, not to mention I had more pressing things on my mind, like saving Archie’s life and finding Agent Dankworth.
“Just come with me, please, ma’am.” He took my elbow.
Poppy growled at him. My little guard dog. If I spoke in Russian, would she grab the copper’s trouser leg in her teeth and stop him taking me off to the nick?
“There’s no need for manhandling.” I wriggled out of his grip. “Might I at least have a bath first?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I have orders—”
“Oh, alright.” Sigh. What choice did I have? My shoulders slumped.
What if Archie’s wound was serious? What if he’d already bled out? I shook the terrible thoughts from my mind.
“Ma’am.” The copper tugged at my arm. “You can freshen up later. Come on.”
After a night without sleep, being tied up and gagged, and hiding in a musty wardrobe, I could only imagine what I must look like. Perhaps the disheveled, odiferous state of my person would encourage them to make it quick.
I adjusted my wig and allowed the officer to lead me outside, where a police motorcar was waiting. What a fuss.
I shielded my eyes. Even the sunrise was brighter than usual. It stabbed at my brain like a red-hot poker.
“I’ll bail you out.” Clifford’s voice carried across the lobby.
“Get to Lorrain’s dig and rescue Archie,” I called over my shoulder. The copper pulled me outside. “He’s tied up! And bleeding—” The copper hustled me off before I could get an answer. Had Clifford and Kitty heard me? Would they save Archie? My heart sank.
Don’t die on me, dear Archie.
Everyone on the terrace stopped to gawk as the officer helped me into the backseat of the police motorcar. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have been mortified.
I might not be a murderer, but I’d kill for some headache powders.
Only a few blocks away, the nick was a squat pink stone building with lovely navy-blue accents adorned with pretty painted gold leaves. It looked more like a fancy boutique or salon. Inside, the rooms were plain and boxy. The officer led me past the reception area, deposited me in a hallway, told me to wait, and then disappeared. I slumped into one of the chairs that were lined up against one wall.
For a police station, the place was quiet. Sitting in the hallway, leaning my head against the wall, I was alone with my thoughts… and the faint smell of cigar smoke. I closed my eyes, which was probably a mistake. Given how little sleep I’d had in the last twenty-four hours, I could have slept standing up.
I fidgeted into the wall, trying to get comfortable. As I drifted in and out of sleep, a queasy feeling left me drained. The only thing worse than lack of sleep was the twilight just before sleep being constantly interrupted. The coppers might as well have been torturing me.
Every time I drifted off, I had nightmares about Archie tied up and bleeding. Only I knew they weren’t dreams. They were all too real.
I searched the pockets of my dress for something to keep me awake. A sweetie or a throat lozenge or anything. Where was a stray biscuit when I needed one? Even a dog treat would have been welcome. All I found was my miniature magnifying glass and my spy lipstick. Turning sideways on my chair, I took the opportunity to use it to touch up my lips.
To distract myself from my pounding head, I took stock of everything that had happened since I arrived in Cairo.
The stranger on the train had turned out to be Fredrick Fredricks in disguise—as much as it galled me to have been taken in by him, I did appreciate a good disguise. French archeologist Jean-Baptiste Lorrain had been murdered after Lady Enid’s party and after he met HG at GAI, Hermann Gabler at the German Archeology Institute.
I searched my pocket again. Whew. It was still there. The bit of fiber I’d plucked from the orange and green carpet at the institute. Darn. I should have given it to Kitty to analyze when I had the chance. I wished these blooming coppers would hurry up. I had murders to solve and canals to protect, and potential lovers to save.
Fredricks had claimed the map and the code on the tablecloth were a ruse. Had he made it his mission to humiliate me? Or was he trying to throw me off the scent of his true plans? Then again, he might have told me it was all a lark precisely because blowing up the Suez Canal at Crocodile Lake was the true plan. You should never trust a liar, especially when he tells you he’s lying.
Mori Al-Madie was delivering the true plans in code in the last act. I had to break that blasted code.
Then there was poor Agent Relish, killed in hospital by my own hand. I shuddered. Would the coppers believe me? If only I had proof that Fredricks had tampered with the morphine bottle. Then I could clear my name and finally have the goods on the rotter.
In the mirror of my spy lipstick, I saw the young nurse swaying toward me.
“Excuse me.” She stopped in front of me. “I see they’ve got you here too.” Again, her face was painted to perfection with dark eye kohl, arched brows, and bright red lips. Instead of her nurse’s uniform, she wore a tight red silk dress. Judging by the way the coppers ogled her as they passed down the hall, her ensemble was quite affecting. “I’m Amelia, by the way.” She held out a dainty paw complete with red claws. “Amelia Emerson.”
I popped my lipstick back into my bag and stood up. With my injured wing, the handshake was awkward. “Fiona Figg.” After introducing myself, I glanced up and down the hall and then leaned in closer. “What did you tell them about the morphine bottle?”
“The truth.” Her arched brows fell.
“And what’s that?” Did she know something I didn’t? Or was she in on it with Fredricks? Good grief. I was getting downright paranoid.
She squinted at me as if I’d asked a trick question. “You gave him too much… and… and… he died.” She gave me a sheepish half-smile. “I’m sure it was an accident.”
I’m sure it wasn’t. “Of course it was an accident.” I brushed imaginary crumbs off my dress.
The uniformed copper appeared in the hallway and beckoned to me. “Miss Figg, you’re next.”
“What else did you tell them?” I whispered. I had to know what to expect before entering that interrogation room. I’d spent enough time in jail to know I didn’t like it.
“Nothing.” Amelia’s face contorted as if I’d accused her of something.
“What did they ask you?”
“Miss Figg.” The officer raised his voice. “Come along.” From down the hall, he wiggled his fingers at me.
“One minute.” I held up my good hand.
“They asked a lot of questions about the man who visited Mr. Fredricks.” She shrugged.
“A man visited Fredricks in hospital?” Why didn’t I know about this before?
She nodded.
The officer marched down the hall toward me.
“Who?” My pulsed quickened. Spit it out, pet, before the copper drags me away.
“Just a man.” Her eyelashes batted a mile a minute. “A man with a charcoal fedora hat with a red hatband.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Some man.”
Charcoal fedora with a red band. The rude doctor… who was not a doctor. The man I’d passed in the hallway at the hospital. The man who’d sabotaged the morphine and killed Agent Relish.
The copper’s hand clamped around my arm. “Let’s go, lady.”
I glanced back at Nurse Amelia Emerson, her hips wagging as she strutted down the hall. The word siren came to mind.
“No need to drag me.” I pulled out of the copper’s grip and followed him into the tiny room.
The interrogation room was only big enough for a square table and four chairs. Another plain-clothed policeman sat at the table, writing on a notepad. He didn’t look up. Like a schoolboy learning to draw, he had his full concentration on his work.
The overhead light might as well have been a spotlight shining right into my eyes. My headache was becoming a full-blown migraine. The kind that sent me to bed in a dark room.
“Miss Figg.” The uniformed officer announced my arrival.
The plain-clothed man only grunted. Wiry, with a shock of jet-black hair atop an otherwise shaved head, along with a pointy beard, he looked like a terrier.
The uniformed officer pointed at a chair.
I took a seat and waited for the other copper to finish with his crayons. The longer I waited, the heavier the weight in the pit of my stomach. My palms were sweating. Discreetly, I wiped them on my dress. As I did, my hand passed over my miniature magnifying glass, which reminded me again of the carpet fibers. Blast. If only I’d remembered to give them to Kitty.
“The autopsy on Mr. Relish showed a lethal dose of chloroform.” Finally, the plain-clothed copper looked up from his notes. “Did you administer that dose?”
Chloroform! I didn’t give him chloroform. How did he get a lethal dose of chloroform? My heart sank. Oh, my word. The grassy smell. The morphine bottle must have contained chloroform. A sharp stabbing pain like an icepick to the brain made me cringe. I put my head in my hands. I had checked the label. It had said morphine.
Confound it. I was right. Someone had tampered with the bottle. The murderer put chloroform into the morphine bottle—dear me—and I injected the poor man with it. Fredricks… either him or the man in the fedora.
Misery loved company. My headache had been joined by roiling nausea.
Waiting for an answer, the copper stared right through me. Bloody unnerving. I wished he’d go back to his notebook. He hadn’t even introduced himself. Rude man.
“I did give the shot, but—”
“So, you admit you gave the fatal injection?” He didn’t blink.
“Yes, but—”
“Shhh.” He held up a finger. “Just a minute.” He bent over some papers on the table and started scribbling.
“But I didn’t—”
“Shhh!”
Irritating man. Shushing me like an overzealous librarian. I really was in no mood.
He slid a paper across the table. “Would you sign this confession?”
What? “Heavens, no.” I crossed my arms. “I didn’t kill Mr. Relish… I mean I killed him, but I didn’t murder him.” I felt like my head might explode.
“You’ve already admitted you administered the lethal injection.” He tapped his pen on the table.
“If you’ll ever let me finish a sentence, I’ll explain.” I waited for the next shush. It never came. Finally. He was ready to listen. “I administered a small dose of morphine. But, unbeknownst to me, someone had sabotaged the bottle.”
He tilted his head and squinted at me. “You didn’t know you were injecting the patient with chloroform.” He scribbled on his notepad. “You thought it was morphine.”
“Exactly.”
Bent over his notepad, he continued writing. “Someone else put chloroform in the morphine bottle.”
“Right.” I rubbed my temples.
“Who?” He stared across the table at me.
“I don’t know.” Either this copper was a bit off, or I didn’t understand his interrogation techniques. Didn’t he believe me? “Perhaps the man with the fedora.” Or Fredrick Fredricks.
He perked up. “Tell me more about this man.”
What could I say? I didn’t know anything. “The nurse told me a man visited just before Mr. Relish died.” I took a deep breath to quell the nausea. “I saw the man leaving the ward. I thought he was a doctor.”
“You saw him?” He scowled.
“Yes. But at the time, I thought he was a rude doctor.” Should I tell him about Fredricks?
If Fredricks faked his injury, he could have put chloroform into the morphine bottle when both the nurse and I were out of the room. He’d killed British agents before. And he’d always gotten away with it because he was a slippery fish. “Have you questioned the patient in the next bed? Mr. Fredricks?”
“That’s why you reported me to the authorities?” Herr Gabler’s German accent only made him sound more sinister.
Herr Gabler and Fredricks might be on the same side, but if Fredricks had turned him in, then he wasn’t a complete scoundrel. He had some principles. Still, I didn’t believe for a second Fredricks was in Egypt to stop the illegal antiquities trade. He was a German spy on a mission to help his side win the war.
“The artifacts belong to the Egyptian people,” Fredricks said. “Not to the British. Not to the Germans. And especially not to you to sell for personal gain.”
Again, it occurred to me that the murders related to the illegal antiquities trade. Maybe the British agents had discovered Herr Gabler selling illegal treasures. How did the codes at the theater fit in?
It just didn’t make sense. Why would Herr Gabler, an Egyptologist, be involved with Fredricks, a German spy? Yes, they were both on the side of Germany. But what did Fredricks have to do with Egyptology? And more to the point, what did Herr Gabler have to do with whatever Fredricks was plotting?
La Sultana and the Isis Theater were the missing link. If only I could break the code. The coded aria was key.
“Don’t be such an idealistic fool,” Herr Gabler said.
“I may be an idealist, but I’m no fool.”
I agreed with Fredricks. He was no fool.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the wardrobe, I could make out Kitty’s silhouette and Poppy squirming in her arms. Hold still, beastie. Please hold still.
Poppy sneezed.
I held my breath.
Silence.
Kitty pinched me.
Ouch. Why did she do that? I bit my lip.
The wardrobe door flew open.
I gasped.
Kitty exploded out of the wardrobe feet first. Swinging from the clothes bar, she kicked Herr Gabler. Both of her little booted feet landed squarely on his nose.
Herr Gabler yelled something in German and flew backwards, hitting the table with a loud thwack.
I peeked out of the wardrobe.
Like an angry badger, Herr Gabler growled and lifted himself off the table. His nose was bleeding. Kitty must have broken it.
Herr Gabler fumbled for his Luger, which had fallen to the floor.
Oh, no.
“Run!” Kitty shouted as she crossed the room. Poppy led the way, her little toenails tapping against the floor.
I dashed after them, stopping only to retrieve my wig from the desk.
“Watch out,” Fredricks shouted. “He’s got a gun.”
I glanced back in time to see Fredricks stick a foot out and trip the German, who, with a mouth full of curses, landed face first on the floor.
“Don’t dillydally, ma chérie.” Fredricks struggled against the ropes. “Save yourself… and your beloved lieutenant, if you must.” He winked at me. “Unless you’re saving yourself for me.”
How could he flirt at a time like this?
I tugged on my wig.
“Your toy gun is hidden under the telegraph machine.” Fredricks wriggled one hand free and gestured toward the desk.
I dashed back to the desk, snagged Mata Hari’s gun, and tucked it into my handbag.
“Go. Save yourself.” Fredricks held up the rope. “Don’t worry about me.”
I stood blinking at him.
“Your concern is touching.” He smiled weakly. “Now go!”
Herr Gabler growled and sprang to his feet.
I sprinted down the hallway as fast as my Oxfords would carry me.
I didn’t look back again.
18
THE INTERROGATION
Dawn was just breaking when we arrived back at the hotel. We found Clifford pacing the lobby. Had he been up all night? The wrinkles in his suit and the purple bags under his eyes suggested as much.
Somehow the bright colors of the hanging tapestries, the baroque patterns of the wool rugs, and the enormous height of the ceilings seemed even more extravagant after a sleepless night. My head was spinning.
Dodging a porter carrying a big stack of parcels for a well-dressed woman, Clifford rushed up to us. “I say, where have you been?” His tone was sharp. “I’ve been worried.” He removed the pipe from his mouth. “I had visions of you kidnapped, tied up, pistol whipped… or worse.”
Ha! The man was clairvoyant.
“Good lord.” He pointed his pipe at Kitty. “What happened to you?”
Kitty did look a sight. Strands of blonde hair had escaped her chignon. Her black fencing vest had a tear where Poppy’s collar had grazed it. And she had a giant purple goose egg on her forehead where she’d been pistol whipped.
“You’ll never believe it.” Kitty clapped her hands together in her now familiar act. From the outside, you’d never know she was a petty criminal plucked off the London streets by the War Office. Forensics expert. Master foot-fighter. What other secrets did she have?
Even if Clifford lapped it up like cream, I wasn’t falling for the excitable schoolgirl routine.
“You fill him in.” I put my good hand on her arm and glancing around the crowded lobby. “I have to rescue Archie.”
Poppy jumped up and down and squeaked until Clifford picked her up. He nuzzled her topknot. “You didn’t endanger my little princess, did you?”
Figures. He was more concerned about the dog than he was about us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark uniform approach. A police officer marched toward us. He didn’t take his gaze off me.
“Miss Fiona Figg?” he said, glancing from Kitty to me and back again. His sandy-colored mustache and Cockney accent, in addition to the navy uniform with gold buttons, indicated he was from the British police force.
Now what?
“Yes.” I raised my good hand. “I’m Fiona Figg.”
“I need you to come to the station and answer some questions.” He adjusted his hat.
No. Not now. I had to get back to the blooming tomb and save Archie before he’d lost too much blood.
“I say, what’s this about?” Clifford came to my defense.
“We need to take your statement about Mr. Relish’s death.” The officer fingered his Billy club.
By we, did he mean he and his Billy club? I hoped he didn’t plan to use the bloody thing.
“It was an accident.” My cheeks warmed. “Or rather, sabotage.” I really was too tired for this now, not to mention I had more pressing things on my mind, like saving Archie’s life and finding Agent Dankworth.
“Just come with me, please, ma’am.” He took my elbow.
Poppy growled at him. My little guard dog. If I spoke in Russian, would she grab the copper’s trouser leg in her teeth and stop him taking me off to the nick?
“There’s no need for manhandling.” I wriggled out of his grip. “Might I at least have a bath first?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I have orders—”
“Oh, alright.” Sigh. What choice did I have? My shoulders slumped.
What if Archie’s wound was serious? What if he’d already bled out? I shook the terrible thoughts from my mind.
“Ma’am.” The copper tugged at my arm. “You can freshen up later. Come on.”
After a night without sleep, being tied up and gagged, and hiding in a musty wardrobe, I could only imagine what I must look like. Perhaps the disheveled, odiferous state of my person would encourage them to make it quick.
I adjusted my wig and allowed the officer to lead me outside, where a police motorcar was waiting. What a fuss.
I shielded my eyes. Even the sunrise was brighter than usual. It stabbed at my brain like a red-hot poker.
“I’ll bail you out.” Clifford’s voice carried across the lobby.
“Get to Lorrain’s dig and rescue Archie,” I called over my shoulder. The copper pulled me outside. “He’s tied up! And bleeding—” The copper hustled me off before I could get an answer. Had Clifford and Kitty heard me? Would they save Archie? My heart sank.
Don’t die on me, dear Archie.
Everyone on the terrace stopped to gawk as the officer helped me into the backseat of the police motorcar. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have been mortified.
I might not be a murderer, but I’d kill for some headache powders.
Only a few blocks away, the nick was a squat pink stone building with lovely navy-blue accents adorned with pretty painted gold leaves. It looked more like a fancy boutique or salon. Inside, the rooms were plain and boxy. The officer led me past the reception area, deposited me in a hallway, told me to wait, and then disappeared. I slumped into one of the chairs that were lined up against one wall.
For a police station, the place was quiet. Sitting in the hallway, leaning my head against the wall, I was alone with my thoughts… and the faint smell of cigar smoke. I closed my eyes, which was probably a mistake. Given how little sleep I’d had in the last twenty-four hours, I could have slept standing up.
I fidgeted into the wall, trying to get comfortable. As I drifted in and out of sleep, a queasy feeling left me drained. The only thing worse than lack of sleep was the twilight just before sleep being constantly interrupted. The coppers might as well have been torturing me.
Every time I drifted off, I had nightmares about Archie tied up and bleeding. Only I knew they weren’t dreams. They were all too real.
I searched the pockets of my dress for something to keep me awake. A sweetie or a throat lozenge or anything. Where was a stray biscuit when I needed one? Even a dog treat would have been welcome. All I found was my miniature magnifying glass and my spy lipstick. Turning sideways on my chair, I took the opportunity to use it to touch up my lips.
To distract myself from my pounding head, I took stock of everything that had happened since I arrived in Cairo.
The stranger on the train had turned out to be Fredrick Fredricks in disguise—as much as it galled me to have been taken in by him, I did appreciate a good disguise. French archeologist Jean-Baptiste Lorrain had been murdered after Lady Enid’s party and after he met HG at GAI, Hermann Gabler at the German Archeology Institute.
I searched my pocket again. Whew. It was still there. The bit of fiber I’d plucked from the orange and green carpet at the institute. Darn. I should have given it to Kitty to analyze when I had the chance. I wished these blooming coppers would hurry up. I had murders to solve and canals to protect, and potential lovers to save.
Fredricks had claimed the map and the code on the tablecloth were a ruse. Had he made it his mission to humiliate me? Or was he trying to throw me off the scent of his true plans? Then again, he might have told me it was all a lark precisely because blowing up the Suez Canal at Crocodile Lake was the true plan. You should never trust a liar, especially when he tells you he’s lying.
Mori Al-Madie was delivering the true plans in code in the last act. I had to break that blasted code.
Then there was poor Agent Relish, killed in hospital by my own hand. I shuddered. Would the coppers believe me? If only I had proof that Fredricks had tampered with the morphine bottle. Then I could clear my name and finally have the goods on the rotter.
In the mirror of my spy lipstick, I saw the young nurse swaying toward me.
“Excuse me.” She stopped in front of me. “I see they’ve got you here too.” Again, her face was painted to perfection with dark eye kohl, arched brows, and bright red lips. Instead of her nurse’s uniform, she wore a tight red silk dress. Judging by the way the coppers ogled her as they passed down the hall, her ensemble was quite affecting. “I’m Amelia, by the way.” She held out a dainty paw complete with red claws. “Amelia Emerson.”
I popped my lipstick back into my bag and stood up. With my injured wing, the handshake was awkward. “Fiona Figg.” After introducing myself, I glanced up and down the hall and then leaned in closer. “What did you tell them about the morphine bottle?”
“The truth.” Her arched brows fell.
“And what’s that?” Did she know something I didn’t? Or was she in on it with Fredricks? Good grief. I was getting downright paranoid.
She squinted at me as if I’d asked a trick question. “You gave him too much… and… and… he died.” She gave me a sheepish half-smile. “I’m sure it was an accident.”
I’m sure it wasn’t. “Of course it was an accident.” I brushed imaginary crumbs off my dress.
The uniformed copper appeared in the hallway and beckoned to me. “Miss Figg, you’re next.”
“What else did you tell them?” I whispered. I had to know what to expect before entering that interrogation room. I’d spent enough time in jail to know I didn’t like it.
“Nothing.” Amelia’s face contorted as if I’d accused her of something.
“What did they ask you?”
“Miss Figg.” The officer raised his voice. “Come along.” From down the hall, he wiggled his fingers at me.
“One minute.” I held up my good hand.
“They asked a lot of questions about the man who visited Mr. Fredricks.” She shrugged.
“A man visited Fredricks in hospital?” Why didn’t I know about this before?
She nodded.
The officer marched down the hall toward me.
“Who?” My pulsed quickened. Spit it out, pet, before the copper drags me away.
“Just a man.” Her eyelashes batted a mile a minute. “A man with a charcoal fedora hat with a red hatband.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Some man.”
Charcoal fedora with a red band. The rude doctor… who was not a doctor. The man I’d passed in the hallway at the hospital. The man who’d sabotaged the morphine and killed Agent Relish.
The copper’s hand clamped around my arm. “Let’s go, lady.”
I glanced back at Nurse Amelia Emerson, her hips wagging as she strutted down the hall. The word siren came to mind.
“No need to drag me.” I pulled out of the copper’s grip and followed him into the tiny room.
The interrogation room was only big enough for a square table and four chairs. Another plain-clothed policeman sat at the table, writing on a notepad. He didn’t look up. Like a schoolboy learning to draw, he had his full concentration on his work.
The overhead light might as well have been a spotlight shining right into my eyes. My headache was becoming a full-blown migraine. The kind that sent me to bed in a dark room.
“Miss Figg.” The uniformed officer announced my arrival.
The plain-clothed man only grunted. Wiry, with a shock of jet-black hair atop an otherwise shaved head, along with a pointy beard, he looked like a terrier.
The uniformed officer pointed at a chair.
I took a seat and waited for the other copper to finish with his crayons. The longer I waited, the heavier the weight in the pit of my stomach. My palms were sweating. Discreetly, I wiped them on my dress. As I did, my hand passed over my miniature magnifying glass, which reminded me again of the carpet fibers. Blast. If only I’d remembered to give them to Kitty.
“The autopsy on Mr. Relish showed a lethal dose of chloroform.” Finally, the plain-clothed copper looked up from his notes. “Did you administer that dose?”
Chloroform! I didn’t give him chloroform. How did he get a lethal dose of chloroform? My heart sank. Oh, my word. The grassy smell. The morphine bottle must have contained chloroform. A sharp stabbing pain like an icepick to the brain made me cringe. I put my head in my hands. I had checked the label. It had said morphine.
Confound it. I was right. Someone had tampered with the bottle. The murderer put chloroform into the morphine bottle—dear me—and I injected the poor man with it. Fredricks… either him or the man in the fedora.
Misery loved company. My headache had been joined by roiling nausea.
Waiting for an answer, the copper stared right through me. Bloody unnerving. I wished he’d go back to his notebook. He hadn’t even introduced himself. Rude man.
“I did give the shot, but—”
“So, you admit you gave the fatal injection?” He didn’t blink.
“Yes, but—”
“Shhh.” He held up a finger. “Just a minute.” He bent over some papers on the table and started scribbling.
“But I didn’t—”
“Shhh!”
Irritating man. Shushing me like an overzealous librarian. I really was in no mood.
He slid a paper across the table. “Would you sign this confession?”
What? “Heavens, no.” I crossed my arms. “I didn’t kill Mr. Relish… I mean I killed him, but I didn’t murder him.” I felt like my head might explode.
“You’ve already admitted you administered the lethal injection.” He tapped his pen on the table.
“If you’ll ever let me finish a sentence, I’ll explain.” I waited for the next shush. It never came. Finally. He was ready to listen. “I administered a small dose of morphine. But, unbeknownst to me, someone had sabotaged the bottle.”
He tilted his head and squinted at me. “You didn’t know you were injecting the patient with chloroform.” He scribbled on his notepad. “You thought it was morphine.”
“Exactly.”
Bent over his notepad, he continued writing. “Someone else put chloroform in the morphine bottle.”
“Right.” I rubbed my temples.
“Who?” He stared across the table at me.
“I don’t know.” Either this copper was a bit off, or I didn’t understand his interrogation techniques. Didn’t he believe me? “Perhaps the man with the fedora.” Or Fredrick Fredricks.
He perked up. “Tell me more about this man.”
What could I say? I didn’t know anything. “The nurse told me a man visited just before Mr. Relish died.” I took a deep breath to quell the nausea. “I saw the man leaving the ward. I thought he was a doctor.”
“You saw him?” He scowled.
“Yes. But at the time, I thought he was a rude doctor.” Should I tell him about Fredricks?
If Fredricks faked his injury, he could have put chloroform into the morphine bottle when both the nurse and I were out of the room. He’d killed British agents before. And he’d always gotten away with it because he was a slippery fish. “Have you questioned the patient in the next bed? Mr. Fredricks?”
