Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 805 & 806, September/October 2008

The Rock by Edward D. Hoch

© 2006 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in Great Britain in I.D.: Crimes of Identity, edited by Martin Edwards.

Here, for the first time in print in the U. S., is a story Edward D. Hoch wrote for the British anthology I.D.: Crimes of Identity (edited by Martin Edwards) in 2006. Readers in search of more new Hoch stories should look for a copy of Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, which contains the new Hoch tale “The Automaton Museum.” Next month we’ll be featuring the last story the great short-story writer worked on, completed by Jon. L. Breen.

Linda O’Toole had been in Gibraltar only a few hours when a rumpled little man stopped her in the lobby of the Rock Hotel and asked, “Pardon me, but are you Laura Nostrum?”

“That’s right,” she agreed. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Liam Fitzhugh with the London Daily Mail. Do you have any comment on the Internet news story stating that you’re an undercover agent for the Central Intelligence Agency?”

Linda gave him her brightest smile. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about. I’m here representing Osage Investment Corporation at the Casino Conference.”

“Then you deny any involvement with the CIA?”

“I certainly do. If you’ll excuse me now, I have a meeting to attend.” When he showed no interest in stepping aside, she walked around him and out of the hotel.

Gibraltar, a slender peninsula extending south from Spain and separated from it by a kilometer-wide neutral zone, might have seemed an odd venue for the first worldwide casino conference, but among the attending nations it seemed both centrally located and relatively independent of foreign influence. True, Gibraltar was an overseas territory of the United Kingdom, but “overseas” was the operative word. Its reputation as an international conference center was well earned. This was not the same as having such a conference in London or Las Vegas or Monaco, where the influence of local casinos could well control the agenda. Gibraltar had only two land-based casinos, both quite a bit smaller than the average American ones, and both located on Europa Road. One was in the Rock Hotel where Linda was staying, a long white multi-story building that blended well with its surrounding gardens.

At the nearby theater where the meeting was taking place she stopped at the registration desk and identified herself as Laura Nostrum. The ID badge was waiting for her. She pinned it on her jacket and started into the auditorium, then changed her mind and headed for the ladies’ room instead. Inside one of the stalls she took out her cell phone and punched in a familiar number in a Paris suburb. When the connection was made she didn’t speak but merely punched in another series of numbers. She received an answering beep, closed her cell phone, and left the room.

Back at the theater, the first man she met was a bearded Frenchman named Pierre Zele. He carried an ivory-knobbed cane, leaned down for a better look at her ID badge, and introduced himself. “I am here on behalf of the casino at Monte Carlo,” he told her, “and I am president of our association this year. I trust this little conference I helped organize can accomplish something, Miss Nostrum.”

“Please call me Laura. I represent Osage Investments.”

“They are one of your Native American tribes. No?”

“Well, there is an Osage tribe, but we have no connection with them. We have a proposal to make regarding the investment of casino profits. I’ll be addressing your conference tomorrow morning.”

Pierre Zele eyed her with new interest, studying her ID badge as if to memorize the name. She wondered if he had seen the Internet report the Daily Mail reporter had mentioned. “I will be listening with interest,” he promised, and turned away.

The afternoon sessions were under way when she entered the theater, but progressing slowly as remarks were translated into English and French. After some thirty minutes she exited, along with a slender young man whose nametag read Michael Patrick, Ireland.

“Gets a bit boring, doesn’t it, sitting through those translations?” he observed as they reached the outer lobby. “They should use simultaneous translators like the UN.”

“That would be more expensive,” she told him, glancing again at his nametag. “You’re Irish.”

“Guilty. Since we both ducked out of there together, could I buy you a drink at the hotel bar?”

“Sure, why not?”

They walked around the corner and up the hill to the Rock Hotel. Though the main casino didn’t open until nine in the evening, the slot machines were in operation from noon on. Their familiar clanging could be heard even in the hotel’s cocktail lounge. “Is this your first trip to Gibraltar?” he asked after they’d ordered whiskey and water.

“It is. I’m anxious to see the apes.”

Michael Patrick smiled at her. “They’re actually tailless monkeys known as Barbary Macaques. British sailors brought the first ones here after the Royal Navy captured the stronghold in seventeen oh-four. There are more than a hundred and sixty now, each one named at birth, but they almost died out during World War Two and Churchill famously took steps to insure their survival. Tradition had it that when the apes were gone, the British would be gone too.”

“You know a great deal,” she said, sipping her whiskey. “Apes or monkeys, I’d like to see them.”

“That’s easily arranged. They’re in two areas. The best for viewing is the Apes’ Den at Queen’s Gate, right up the hill behind this hotel. And surely you’ll want to view the Rock itself from the observation deck. We can reach it by cable car. I’d be pleased to give you a tour tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “I have to read a paper at the morning session.”

“Perhaps later, then.”

“I thought casinos were still illegal in Ireland. What brings you here?”

“Commercial casinos are illegal, but there are a number of private members’ clubs throughout the country. We have seven in Dublin alone. I manage one of the smaller ones.” He passed her his card, with a lucky clover embossed in green. “If you’re ever up that way, come see our place. I’ll get you members’ privileges.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, tucking the card away in her purse. Glancing toward the bar, she spotted the British journalist, Liam Fitzhugh, eyeing her. Time to move on, she decided. “And thanks for the drink. I have to go now.”

Later that evening, after the full casino was in operation, she wandered in and spent some time at the roulette wheel. It was American-style roulette, with both the zero and double zero. She noticed the Frenchman, Zele, avoiding the table.

“Are you enjoying yourself, mademoiselle?” a handsome foreign gentleman asked after she’d won on three spins in a row.

“I am indeed, but I’m no mademoiselle. I’m American.”

“Ah, yes!” He glanced at her ID badge, which she’d neglected to remove. “Laura Nostrum, I am Bert Stein.”

“German?”

He smiled. “Born there, but I’ve lived in Spain for thirty years.”

“Are you attending the casino conference?”

“Yes,” he replied, remembering to take the ID badge from his pocket. “It is a good excuse to visit the Rock, which should belong to Spain.”

“You want Gibraltar back?”

“Most certainly,” he said with conviction. “It is the most famous rock in the world, even more famous than Ayers Rock in Australia. There have been referendums from time to time, but always the people vote to remain a British dependency.”

She placed a few chips on the red and lost. “I guess my luck just changed. I’d better quit while I’m ahead.”

“If you’d like a tour of the Rock—”

“Thanks. I’ve already had an offer.”

In the morning the theater was filled as the casino session got under way in earnest. Pierre Zele said a few words by way of introduction, and then it was Linda’s turn. She came directly to the point. “I’m here on behalf of Osage Investments, a small international company with big plans. It seemed fitting that this first casino conference be held here in Gibraltar, where we can actually look across from the rock to the poorest continent, just thirteen kilometers away. Africa needs our help. It needs our money. There can be no better use for the billions of dollars and pounds and euros that would otherwise be reinvested in newer and larger casinos.”

She went on from there, making a passionate case, but already she was aware of some eyes glazing over, some hands discreetly hiding a morning yawn. This was not what they’d come to hear, at least not from Laura Nostrum. After her talk there was a scattering of polite applause and already the next speaker was being announced. Pierre Zele met her on the way out. “Miss Nostrum, that was an interesting talk, but not the subject we expected.”

“I decided to change the subject,” she told him.

“Has your agency shifted its priority to Africa?” he asked, with a shade of emphasis on the word agency.

“Osage Investments has several priorities.”

She continued on her way, walking around the corner to the wooded botanical gardens across the street from her hotel. Seated near the statue of the Duke of Wellington, she smoked a cigarette and watched the spray from a nearby fountain. A blond woman about her own age was strolling nearby, carrying a black tote bag that might have contained a laptop computer. Linda ground out her cigarette and started walking again, west toward the bay. When she reached Rosia Road she turned south, heading for the harbor and dock area. She reached a building called Jumper’s Bastion and paused as the blond woman came up to her.

“Are you thinking of jumping?” she asked Linda.

“What? You startled me!”

“It’s not an invitation to suicides. It was named after Captain Jumper, the first British officer to land on Gibraltar.”

“Interesting,” Linda said, avoiding the woman’s eyes.

“This is one of the best harbors around.” Her casual tone suddenly disappeared and she asked, “Who are you?”

“What?” Linda pointed to the badge still pinned to her jacket. “Laura Nostrum.”

The woman shook her head, almost sadly. “No, you’re not. I’m Laura Nostrum. I believe your name is Linda O’Toole, since that was the only ID badge left unclaimed this morning.”

“Maybe I picked up the wrong one.”

“Maybe you did. Are you a reporter?”

Linda almost laughed at the idea. “No. I’m representing Osage Investments. We’re trying to funnel investment money into Africa to help the economy there.”

“What made you think you could use my identity?”

She sighed and tried to explain. “I saw on the convention schedule that you were speaking this morning in a prime time slot. That reporter Fitzhugh asked if I was Laura Nostrum and I just said yes. When he mentioned the CIA connection and I saw your ID badge was unclaimed I figured you’d canceled because of the press. So I just said I was you and spoke in your place.”

Laura Nostrum studied her with steely eyes. “Your explanation is hard to accept. You told that reporter you were me before he mentioned the CIA. Why would you do that unless you were already planning to impersonate me?”

“I saw the item on the Internet, too. The reporter’s mistake gave me an opportunity to switch identities.”

“You felt safer being mistaken for a CIA agent than being plain Linda O’Toole?” When Linda didn’t answer she continued. “That reporter, Liam Fitzhugh, was murdered early this morning, stabbed to death in the gardens across from our hotel.”

“Oh no!”

“Yes. And the police seem to think Laura Nostrum might have killed him for spreading the news of her identity.”

It was true. Fitzhugh had left the casino when it closed at four A.M. and someone had stabbed him along the Europa Road near the gardens. His wallet was untouched. As she listened to Nostrum relate the events, Linda felt a stab of fear not unlike the blade that must have ended Fitzhugh’s life. “Did you kill him?” she asked.

“I had nothing to do with his death. I represent an international on-line casino company. That’s all you need to know. The only reason I contacted you at all was to warn you. If people believe you’re me, your life could be in danger.”

“Why is the CIA interested in casinos anyway?” Linda wanted to know. “Is this some American scheme to balance the budget?”

Linda Nostrum was not amused. She glanced around and motioned toward a nearby cafe with sidewalk tables. “Let’s have a drink and we’ll talk some more.”

They ordered a couple of Tuskers, an African beer whose popularity had spread across the Strait, and Nostrum leaned her tote bag against the table leg between them. It was Linda’s first chance to study the other woman and she saw a slender frame with an attractive face and blond hair pulled back and knotted behind her head. She was a bit taller than Linda, and her face was dead serious as she spoke. “First of all, forget about the CIA. If I did have a connection with them I couldn’t reveal it.”

“All right.”

“Just what did Liam Fitzhugh say to you?”

“He asked me if my name was Laura Nostrum. I suppose we’re about the same age and coloring. I saw my opportunity and said yes. Then he mentioned something that was on the Internet about my being with the CIA. I wasn’t the one he wanted so I just denied it and walked on.”

“But you picked up my ID badge. Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

“No,” Linda admitted.

The woman opposite lowered her voice, though there was no one close enough to overhear their conversation. “Do you realize how much money is skimmed off the top of casino profits each year? There was a time decades ago when the money from Las Vegas helped support organized crime. Today, with so many nations involved, it’s difficult to determine where some of those casino profits go. I planned to address the issue in my talk, to warn that some of it might be funneled to terrorist organizations.”

“Then maybe I did some good suggesting it go to the African—” She stopped suddenly as a Gibraltar Police car pulled up at the curb.

Two officers got out and the driver asked, “Are you Laura Nostrum?”

Both women exchanged glances and the real Laura Nostrum stood up. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like you to accompany us to the station,” he told her. “It’s concerning the death of Mr. Liam Fitzhugh.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“We only wish to question you and take a statement.”

“Very well.” She glanced back at Linda, as if to convey some message. Then she climbed into the backseat of the patrol car with one of the officers.

Linda watched the car disappear down Rosia Road. It was only then that she realized the black tote bag still rested against the leg of their table. She picked it up and started back to the hotel. When she reached the lobby she knew the news of the reporter’s killing was spreading. It was the German Spaniard from the casino who intercepted her on the way to the elevator.

“Miss Nostrum, are you all right? We heard that the reporter Fitzhugh was killed in the gardens. They say it was because he revealed your identity.”

“I — that’s not true. You see, I’m not Miss Nostrum. It was all a terrible mistake.”

Bert Stein frowned at her words. “What do you mean?”

“My name is Linda O’Toole. The police have picked up the real Laura Nostrum for questioning.”

“That is bad. The police do not like interference from the CIA.”

“They’re British police, not Spaniards,” she reminded him.

He shrugged. “Police are police. Be careful, Miss O’Toole, if that is your name.”

As she made her way to her room she knew what she must do next.

Once in the safety of her room she opened the tote bag, revealing the laptop computer she’d expected. But when she raised the lid there was a surprise, a sticker that read: Property of the London Daily Mail. It was the dead man’s computer. She took a deep breath, wondering if Laura had killed him for it. She scrolled down the e-mail list of sent items and opened the last message, addressed to someone at the paper, most likely his editor. Skimming down the screen she saw Nostrum’s name and read: Nostrum was observed speaking with a man I suspect is channeling casino profits to terrorist organizations. I am keeping an eye on the Rock.

She stared at the screen, trying to understand the words. At the time Liam Fitzhugh sent this e-mail, he still believed she was Laura Nostrum, the purported CIA agent. And she’d noticed him nearby once or twice when she was speaking with someone. But what men had she spoken with prior to his murder? She made a quick list in her head and came up with only three: Pierre Zele, the conference organizer; the Irishman Mike Patrick; and Bert Stein from Spain. Patrick had offered to show her the Rock apes and take the cable car to the Rock’s observation deck. Was that why Fitzhugh had wanted to keep an eye on it?

When there was still no word that Laura Nostrum had been freed by the police, she sought out Pierre Zele and asked if he’d heard anything. “Only that they’re holding her,” he said, standing outside the theater, where a film on casinos in the Far East was being shown to delegates. “It’s best not to ask too many questions.”

“But she was on your program as a speaker!”

His eyebrows rose a fraction. “You’re forgetting, Miss Nostrum did speak to us, just this morning.”

“I... I shouldn’t have used her name. I thought I was doing it for a good cause.”

“You’re still wearing her badge.”

“She must have mine. When I see her we’ll have to exchange them. I’m Linda O’Toole.”

“I see.”

She hurried away, regretting that she’d approached him at all.

Back at the hotel casino, Mike Patrick caught up with her. At that moment, despite her suspicions, his friendly face was a relief. “How about that trip to see the Rock apes?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Why not?”

“I’ve got a rental car. We can drive through. It’s the best way to see them. They climb all over the cars.”

“Sounds exciting,” she replied with only a touch of irony.

The car was an older model that looked as if it had visited ape country before. As they started up the road toward Queen’s Gate, Mike Patrick remarked casually, “The word around the conference is that you’re not Laura Nostrum at all.”

She laughed. “There was a bit of a mix-up. I’m just a poor Irish girl named Linda O’Toole.”

“I thought you were American.”

“I am, but I work at my firm’s Paris office now.”

“And they are...?”

“Osage Investments.”

He grunted. Ahead of them she saw the Apes’ Den, and an officer stopped them with a few words of warning. “Stay inside the vehicle at all times and do not touch the apes. They do like to bite people. We’re not responsible for injuries to yourself or your vehicle.”

They continued down the road, watching the hillside for movement. “There’s one!” Linda exclaimed, pointing to a tailless monkey about two feet tall that had suddenly come running down from the trees.

Within minutes there were three Barbary Macaques on the car, one of them effectively blocking Mike’s view through the windshield. He kept driving slowly. “They want food, I suppose. Here’s a bag of berries. Throw them a few, but don’t let them bite you.”

She opened the window far enough to toss some berries, and by that time two more cars had appeared behind them. One of the macaques grabbed a berry while the other two jumped off, heading for the new arrivals. “This is a popular place,” Linda said.

“In the busy season they have a thousand visitors a day here.”

“I can tell this isn’t your first trip.”

He increased their speed as more apes headed for the car. “I was here once before, a couple of years back.”

By then it was late afternoon, but Mike insisted they must take the cable car to the observation platform on the Rock. When they reached it, crowded in among some French and Spanish tourists, Linda had to admit it was a magnificent sight. “Is that Africa over there?” she asked.

“It certainly is. Those are the Rif Mountains you’re looking at. It’s Morocco, the country of Tangier, Marrakesh, Casablanca, and a thousand intrigues, only a few of them captured in the cinema. We could take the ferry across tomorrow if you have time.”

She gave her familiar laugh. “There are enough intrigues right here on Gibraltar. This has been pleasant, but I’d better be getting back. I’m anxious to learn if the police have released Miss Nostrum.”

Bert Stein was the first person she saw in the hotel lobby. It was he who told her the news. “The police have released that woman, Laura Nostrum. The word is there was pressure from Washington and the Prime Minister ordered it. If the Spanish were in control, it wouldn’t be like that.”

“Is she back here?”

Stein shook his head. “Zele says they’re flying her to London on the first available plane.”

She glanced at her watch, wondering about the schedule. Gibraltar’s airfield was at the north end of the peninsula, almost to the Spanish neutral zone, but it was barely more than two miles from the hotel. She hurried up to her room to get the laptop and then went out to the street where a few taxis were waiting. The airfield, jutting into the bay to allow the necessary length for takeoffs and landings, was located just beyond Gibraltar’s sports stadium. She was there within minutes, just as the setting sun was dipping into the bay, and she only hoped it wasn’t too late. A Gibraltar police car was parked in front of the terminal, which was a good sign.

“When’s the next London flight?” she asked the ticket seller.

“British Airways has a delayed flight to Gatwick boarding in twenty minutes.”

“I have to see someone waiting to board.”

The young woman stared at her. “You can’t pass through security without a boarding pass.”

Linda turned to see Laura Nostrum being escorted through security by a police officer. “Laura!” she called out. “Wait up!”

The blond woman turned and recognized her at once. She shook off the officer’s arm and came forward to meet her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I thought you’d want this laptop. Can I speak with you in private before you take off?”

“I only have fifteen minutes.” She glanced at the officer. “The police are convinced I killed Fitzhugh because he blew my cover. If they see that computer, they’ll be sure of it. They only released me on condition that I leave Gibraltar at once.”

Linda glanced around. “Do they have a private office we could use?”

“This is as private as it gets. Who are you, anyway?”

Linda took a deep breath. It was time for the truth. “Interpol. I’m stationed at their Paris headquarters. We’re both after the same person, the one who’s diverting casino profits to terrorists. I think I know who it is, but I need you to confirm it. Washington wouldn’t have sent you here unless they were suspicious of someone at the conference.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you a thing.”

Linda was aware that someone else had entered the terminal building behind her, but she ignored it until she saw the startled expression on Laura’s face. “He’s got a gun!”

There were two shots close together as Laura pushed her to the floor. Then she realized the police officer had fired back. “Stay down!” the officer warned them as he made his way carefully to the wounded man. Already the ticket agent was calling for help on her phone.

Their assailant was still alive, but bleeding badly. “Who is this man?” Laura Nostrum asked as they ignored the officer and got to their feet.

“He’s the one we’re both looking for,” Linda told her, “and I’m pretty sure he’s Liam Fitzhugh’s killer. His name is Bert Stein.”

The flight to London departed without Laura Nostrum. There were police reports to be filled out, and a trip back to the station for them both. The investigating detective was Lieutenant Collins and he let them know that Stein would probably live. “He might even be willing to implicate others in his skimming operation, if we’re lucky. I assume that’s the goal of both Interpol and the CIA. Now suppose you tell me about Fitzhugh’s computer, Miss O’Toole.”

“Laura left it by our table when the police took her in for questioning this morning, obviously because if you found it in her possession you’d think she killed the reporter to obtain it.”

Collins nodded. “We certainly would have. How did it come into your possession, Miss Nostrum?”

She shrugged. “As soon as I heard he’d been killed I went to his room, found it, and removed it.”

“Did you have a key?”

“Not an official one.”

Lieutenant Collins grunted. “We’ll let that pass.” He turned back to Linda. “Go on, Miss O’Toole.”

“I read Fitzhugh’s last e-mail to his London paper. He said he’d observed Nostrum — the name I was using at the time — speaking with the man he suspected of aiding the terrorists. I’d only spoken to three men since I’d arrived — Pierre Zele, Mike Patrick, and Bert Stein. Fitzhugh went on to say he’d be keeping a close eye on the Rock. Did he mean the Rock of Gibraltar? Hardly! Since he was already on the Rock, how could he help but keep an eye on it? His sentence meant something else. He was keeping a close eye on one of those three men, and his murder confirmed it. He must have followed one of them into the gardens and got stabbed for his trouble. This evening after he told me Laura was on her way to London, Stein saw me come down from my room with a computer tote and hail a taxi. He didn’t know what was on the computer, but he had to retrieve it or kill us trying.”

“I see. And how did that message tell you it was Bert Stein?”

Linda smiled when she saw by Laura’s expression that she’d realized the obvious answer herself. “Well, the names Zele and Patrick have no connection with Gibraltar, but I suddenly remembered that Stein is the German word for rock.”