Paris, May 1945
She stood on the wet cobbles at the river’s edge, and looked across at the Eiffel Tower. The foggy dawn was clearing. There’d been a meeting arranged.
The Tower had survived, and the city had been liberated for eight months. Now she just wanted to go home. Back to the east end of Vancouver, where she’d no longer be a code name floating on encrypted radio waves between Paris and 64 Baker Street. Where she’d no longer earn her keep by killing silently.
Her neighborhood, back home, would be coming into bloom about now, in its own slightly savage way. But there was still so much to do in The City of Light. Mopping up, the Special Operations Executive called it. They who sat in London, sipping tea. Ink on their fingers, instead of blood on their hands.
“Soho,” said a man, as he came up behind her. He spoke in prefect street Parisian.
“Hello, Vicker,” she said without turning around.
Vicker was the alias for an American agent named Amsterdam, Timothy. Soho was her own. The hostilities were over, and the use of code names between spies was no longer strictly necessary. But survival habits die hard.
“I must be the first man ever to creep up on you,” he said.
“I’ve been listening to you approach for forty-five seconds,” Soho said. “French made leather soled shoes, with composition heels. Likely size nine or ten. Colour unknown. A tall, athletic man. I’d need to fire first. But I assumed it was you. Or you’d be bleeding right now.”
He was impressed, not for the first time.
“You’ll be missed by London,” he said.
“They can go to hell.”
“And Dillinger, is he nearby?”
“It’s part of his charm,” she said, turning to face Timothy Amsterdam.
“Why am I still alive, Trudy?” he said, dropping her alias. “I understand that I’m at the top of your list.”
“Officially you’re not alive,” said Trudy Parr. “Officially, I did my job. And you were fished out of the Seine with your throat cut last night. It was the body of a Vichy operative I’d been letting live for a moment like this. He had fake papers with your name on them in his coat pocket. So the heat’s off for now. They’ll know it’s not really you when London gets the finger prints. That’ll take about a week, though. By then you should be securely underground.”
“Straight razor and slight of hand,” he said. “Your calling card.”
She said nothing.
“So, I’m free to go then.”
“Any way you can, Timothy,” Trudy Parr said. “But you should be more careful. Money isn’t everything. If it’s found out that I purposely let you live, that it wasn’t some dumb female error, I’ll be as dead as you’re supposed to be. I still have some explaining to do. Consider it a favour between professionals who worked well together in the past, but don’t expect another.”
“There’s booty involved, Trudy,” said Timothy Amsterdam. “A lot of it. And I could use an accomplice. Two, if Crispin wants in.” He looked around the general area for a trace of Crispin Dench, code name Dillinger. But Dench was playing shadow, for the moment.
“The Russians are throwing money around like mad men,” Amsterdam continued. “They’re being sloppy about it, too. They need intelligence, badly. They’re not stopping at Berlin, you know? Americans or no, they’re planning on taking Europe.”
“And you’re going to help them?”
“No. I’m giving them crap. It looks good because I can counterfeit anything, as you know. But it won’t get them anywhere, and they won’t know it until I’m long gone.”
She watched him talk, his body moving to the words. His steady eyes. And she knew he wasn’t lying. She was paid to know.
“We can’t go home, Trudy,” he said. “You, me or Dench. Not really. You know that, don’t you? We can go back and try to make it, but they’ve used us up. And no one wants to know what it really took to win this war.”
“Crispin and I are going to try.”
“Where do two assassins fit into postwar Canada? Or greasy little Vancouver, for that matter?”
She didn’t know. But spies weren’t heroes — she knew as much. They were dirty secrets.
the offices of Dench and Parr Investigations
Trudy Parr picked up the phone. It was Virginia in reception.
“There’s two mooks out here,” Virginia said. “They got revolvers stickin’ outta their jackets, like it’s a Cagney film. Say they wanna see you.”
“They show you any tin?” said Trudy Parr.
“Yeah, they showed me some.”
“Then send them in.”
“All right. I’ll tell ‘em to wipe their feet before enterin’ your office.”
Trudy Parr hung up, sat back in her desk chair and lit a Black Cat. There was a soft knock, and two men walked in, taking off their hats. It was detectives Olaf Brandt and Roscoe Finch of the VPD.
“What’s the good word, Trudy?” said Brandt.
“I don’t deal in good words,” Trudy Parr said. “You know that, Olaf. But pull up a chair, anyway.”
The two men sat down.
“Well?” she said.
“That secretary of yours is kinda rude,” said Finch.
“Maybe,” said Trudy Parr. “But she types fifty words a minute, and she’s good with a gun. That kind of makes her indispensable. Sorry if she hurt your feelings.”
“What’s a secretary need a gun for?”
“This is a private investigation agency,” said Trudy Parr, looking Finch over like he was a street shill. “We attract undesirables.”
Finch shifted in his chair.
“Never mind that,” said Brandt. “Finch and me got something we want you to see.”
“This,” Finch said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a photograph, and slid it across the desktop face down. Trudy Parr looked at it lying there, and smoked her cigarette. It was 5×7, and had a phone number and the name Foncie Pulice stamped on the back.
“It was taken by that Foncie character,” Brandt said. “He snaps you on the street, and hands you a card, and….”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Finch said. “ We all know — take a gander, Trudy.”
She flipped it over and saw a black and white image. It was a Vancouver street scene. Olaf Brandt and a skinny woman walking hand-in-hand down Granville Street on a sunny day, both smiling for the camera.
“Nice,” said Trudy Parr, pushing the photo back at Finch. “You and your girlfriend look very pleased with one another, Olaf. I wish you many years of happiness.”
Finch pushed it back.
“Take a closer look,” he said.
She’d seen something strange in the photograph on first glance, but had ignored it out of mounting boredom. She looked again. Behind the smiling couple was a man in a trench coat and fedora, his face circled with grease pencil. It was a familiar face. Handsome in spite of the dark scar on his left cheek and jaw. It brought back cold memories.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Sure you do,” Finch said.
“It’s Timothy Amsterdam,” said Brandt.
“Swell.” She pushed the photo back again.
“He was an American spy,” Finch said. “During the war. Mostly in Paris. He turned commy near the end.”
“That’s not what I heard, Roscoe,” Trudy said. “I heard he’s all free market and apple pie. Sure, he cashed-in selling the Ruskies dirt. But that was a couple weeks before VE day. He was gonna be out of a job soon, I heard he was real selective in what he sold. It was out of date, redundant or generally misleading. Useless, in other words. The Russians were paying in captured SS bullion, so he took the gold and ran. You know, a spy needs a plan at the end of a war. They don’t fit back into society so well.”
“Really?” said Finch. “What was your plan?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That still makes him a double agent,” said Brandt. “There’s a warrant.”
“Okay,” said Trudy Parr. “So call the RCMP and the FBI. It’s a US federal rap. He’ll be extradited.”
“We want him,” said Finch. “The RCMP will get him eventually – we’ll hand him over when the hoopla’s over. But we want to make the arrest.”
“You want your pictures in the papers, is that it?.”
“Sure,” said Brandt. “Why not. We spend all our time sweeping up other people’s messes, and don’t get no thanks for it. Now we gotta big fish in our shitty little pond, and we wanna hook him.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“We figure you know where he is.”
“That’s a surprise,” said Trudy Parr.
“You were a spy, yourself,” said Finch.
Trudy Parr lit another cigarette.
“You was in Paris,” Brandt said. “Your paths must have crossed.”
“C’mon, Trudy,” Finch said. “We’re the cops. We know you were an Allied spy. You’re on at least three watch lists. And we know you worked with Timothy Amsterdam. We ain’t supposed to know it. It’s classified, I’ll grant you. But we know it all the same, and that makes you a semi-legitimate lead.”
The traffic hissed by on the rainy street fifteen storeys below. Trudy Parr smoked.
“Just tell us if you’ve seen him.”
She picked up the photo once more and looked. Timothy had been a good agent. He deserved whatever he could scam out of the chaos. And he’d need it, too. He couldn’t have come back after the horror show and work in a hardware store. No one could.
She tossed the Foncie photograph back at Finch, across the desk .
“It ain’t him,” she said.
“Oh, come on.”
“Look, Trudy,” said Brandt. “We’re colleagues, you and us. We don’t wanna have to bring you in, and make this all official.”
“Don’t you?” she said. “I wonder why that is. Perhaps because you’ve obtained most of your information illegally, from classified documents. State secrets.”
“We don’t gotta bring her in,” said Finch. “We just gotta make her life difficult.”
“No,” said Brandt. “Let’s keep this friendly.”
“Friendly, my ass,” Finch said. “We cut this bitch way too much slack. She’s always slicin’ some poor bastard up or breaking an entry. Most of the private dicks in this town are standing in soup lines while she drives round in her little red Porsche and has a top floor office in the Dominion Building. Where’s the money comin’ from for all that, Trudy?”
“We solve more cases than your standard soup line dick.”
Roscoe Finch clenched his fists in his lap.
“You know what your problem is, Trudy?” he said.
“I have some ideas I haven’t shared.”
“You’re not afraid of nothin’,” Finch said, standing up. “And that ain’t healthy. It ain’t like a dame. And maybe you’re not afraid of nothin’ because you need a lesson in what to be afraid of.”
“That’s dime store talk,” said Trudy Parr.
“Take it down a notch, Roscoe,” Brandt said.
“Naw,” said Finch. “No way, She’s comin’ with us. Down to the docks. See how smart she is when she comes back with a busted nose.”
“I ain’t goin’,” said Brandt.
“What? You yellow over a skirt?” Finch said. “Ha!”
“No,” said Brandt. “I just don’t think you understand the seriousness of what you’re suggesting.”
“Fine,” Finch said, starting to move. “You go home and arrange some flowers. Me and Miss Parr are going for a ride.”
“Oh boy,” Brandt said, grimly.
Finch moved round the desk like a locomotive. When he arrived at Trudy Parr, still sitting in her desk chair, he got an unexpected size six Chanel pump to the groin, and another one hard in the chin. And as he stumbled to the floor, Trudy Parr retrieved a straight razor from where it was hidden under her chair. Then she stood, grabbed Roscoe Finch by his thinning hair, and held the razor’s edge firmly against the general area of his carotid artery.
“Don’t do it, Trudy,” Brandt said, standing up.
Finch coughed and whimpered.
“What else is there to do?” said Trudy Parr. “If I start letting this sort of thing slide, I might as well close the agency.”
“God! Trudy.” Olaf Brandt pointed at a trickle of blood dripping from Finch’s neck.
“Ah shit,” she said, and let Finch fall to the floor. “Mop this fucker up and take him back to the nursery.”
“Sure, sure,” said Brandt. He helped Finch to his feet and the men exited the office.
A moment later, the closet door next to Trudy Parr’s desk opened and a man with a scar on his left cheek stepped out.
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your panache,” said Timothy Amsterdam.
“They’re small time,” she said, and lit another cigarette. “You’ve got a train to catch.”
Amsterdam checked his wristwatch.
“Damn,” he said. “Well, it was a short but pleasant visit. Tell Crispin I said hello. And, oh! I almost forgot why I came by. We sort of lost touch, you and me, when the shooting stopped. I never got a chance to share the spoil with you. I figure I owe you something for not turning me over.”
He pulled three hand sized gold ingots, embossed with swastikas, from his satchel. They made a heavy, blunt thud when he placed them on the desk.
“That’s a load off,” Amsterdam said. “Those get heavy after a while.”
“You did kind of push your luck near the end,” said Trudy Parr. “Now nowhere is home.”
“I can’t stay put in one place more than forty-eight hours, anyway. Besides, there’s this new thing called the CIA. I hear they’re recruiting fellas like me. They’re kinda criminal, themselves. The outstanding warrant for my arrest will just make me more appealing.”
He exited Trudy Parr’s office with a tip of his hat.
She watched from her window as Timothy Amsterdam exited onto the street below, and walked toward the CPR station.
“You know,” Virginia said, coming into Trudy’s office with the mail. “It’s not even lunchtime yet, and you’ve already nearly cut off a cop’s head, and there’s a small fortune in Nazi gold on your desk.”
“It’s a glamorous life,” said Trudy Parr.