On April 28, Connie Berry presented the readers of Writers Who Kill with a puzzle. She gave us a set of clues and challenged us to write a solution. Today, I’m presenting my proposed solution.
During the COVID pandemic, I had moved the office of Jameson Forensic
Investigators to the front first-floor rooms of my five-story brownstone
rowhouse.
Both the agency and the rowhouse had been bequeathed to me by my
late husband, God rest his soul.
Most aspects of the move suited me. I must admit I am somewhat
reclusive, and now I seldom had reason to leave the building. Should I wish to
work into the wee hours, or if inspiration struck in the middle of the night,
all my resources were right at hand.
A related disadvantage, however, was that it could be problematic
to separate private life from professional one.
This morning, Sierra, my assistant, came dashing into the tiny
breakfast room in the rear of the house where I sat savoring my third cup of French roasted Tanzanian peaberry coffee and the most
delectable pecan-topped sticky bun. With Irish butter.
I have given a strict standing order that I am not to be disturbed
until my morning repast is complete.
Usually, Sierra respects that, but every once in a while her
enthusiasm and anxiety to get moving on a case overwhelms her self-control.
Today was apparently one of those days.
Since Sierra is a loyal and competent employee, I am inclined to
overlook the occasional transgression.
Our newly acquired case involved investigating fraud and money
laundering perpetrated by a British investment banker, Martyn Whyte, who was
now missing. A strong lead had surfaced when a man was found murdered as a
cruise ship docked in Miami at the termination of a voyage along the east coast
of South America and the Caribbean. The shipping company identified him as Juan
Cabrera, a native of Peru, travelling on a Peruvian passport.
He was, however, also in possession of a British passport in the
name of Martyn Whyte. The British government verified that it was a valid
passport.
In addition to files provided by the British insurance agency
concerning the original crime, my office was currently in possession of copies
of the reports written by those investigating the murder.
With a sigh, I popped the remaining luscious bite of sticky bun
into my mouth and pushed the coffee to the side of the table, where its
enchanting aroma continued to tickle my nostrils.
Sierra needed no prompting to launch into speech. “Tilda, I see
you got the encrypted files from the British insurance company,” she said.
“Have you had an opportunity to look at them?”
“What did you find?”
“Exactly what I expected to find.”
“Which was?”
“That immediately following last year’s internal audit, one Martyn
Whyte, investment banker, established five new accounts and deposited several
hundred thousand pounds in each one in installments over the following eleven
months. Then, just prior to this year’s audit, he transferred the funds, closed
the accounts and disappeared.”
“And has anyone seen him since?”
“Certainly the insurance company has yet to find anyone who has.
And they are looking.”
“What happened to the money?”
“Tracing it is difficult, although not impossible. There are
indications that the majority of the funds went to banks in Rio de Janeiro and
Suriname.”
“Did that cruise ship dock in those ports?”
“Yes, she did. And passengers were encouraged to disembark for the
day.”
“Did they?”
“Many did.”
“How about Juan Cabrera?”
“The ship’s records indicate that he did not, but a member of the
crew is certain that he saw him ashore in both those ports. It struck him as
odd that, although Señor Cabrera was dressed in casual tourist-type clothing,
he appeared to be headed toward the business district instead of availing
himself of the usual attractions.”
Sierra jumped up. “Shall I book us on a flight to Miami?”
I raised my eyebrows. “And why, pray tell, would you do that?”
“The crime was uncovered in Miami. The witnesses and the evidence
is there. We need to investigate.”
“Good heavens. Before we go dashing hither and yon, we must make
sure such a move is absolutely necessary. We need to analyze the information
which we already have in our possession. Go down to the office while I finish
my breakfast. I will join you shortly.”
A half hour later, dressed in business attire from the waist up,
in case of an unanticipated on-line meeting, but with sweatpants and fuzzy slippers
below, I entered my book-lined office and sat in the high-backed leather
executive desk chair.
The
comforting scent of leather, old books and fresh tobacco filled the air.
I had
participated successfully in a smoking-cessation program, but never lost my appreciation
of the rich odor of fresh tobacco. I had some delivered weekly, and kept it in
a stone potpourri holder with a decorative grilled top.
Sierra had pulled up the relevant encrypted files on my computer, spread
the notes out on my desk and sat in her chair, fidgeting with her notebook and
pen.
I eased myself into the chair and turned off the computer monitor.
I find the glare to be distracting when I am trying to think, and I doubted I would have further need for that
information. Then I removed my feet from the slippers.
“First,” I said, closing my eyes to concentrate. “I think we can
discount both of Juan Cabrera’s supposed identities.”
“Why is that?” Sierra asked.
“Señor Cabrera’s accent is described as ‘Spanish.’ We can assume
that, on a cruise traveling up the east coast of South America, many passengers
and virtually all the crew will be comfortably bilingual,
if not trilingual. Such people would be no more likely to describe a
Peruvian accent as ‘Spanish’ then they would describe a Texas drawl as
‘British.’ So we can discount the validity of the Peruvian identity.”
“And the Martyn Whyte passport?”
“Again, the accents are at odds with that identity. Also, look at
the photocopies we have of the passports.”
Sierra moved the photocopies under the light. “The pictures aren’t
identical, but they do appear to be the same person.”
“Yes. Check the birthdates.”
“Martyn Whyte is twenty-two years older than Juan Cabrera!”
“Exactly. The victim is described as in his thirties. But Martyn
Whyte is considerably older. Much more in line with what one would expect in age and experience for a trusted investment
banker. Had there been a discrepancy in the birth date with the British
records, it would have been noticed when the validity of the passport was
questioned. Which it was when the passport was found. It is less likely,
however, that such a check would uncover a false photograph.”
Sierra chewed on the end of her pen. “So who was Juan Cabrera?”
“We may never know. But I suspect he was a Spaniard stationed in
South American to facilitate Martyn Whyte’s transfer of funds. Possibly a plant
from the gambling syndicate to which Mr. Whyte was indebted. Señor Cabrera had
covered his tracks as much as possible by acquiring the accruements of a South
American tourist. He undoubtedly was in Peru to obtain a fraudulent Peruvian
passport. It may have taken several days for the passport to be prepared. In
the interim, he continued to play the part of tourist, as evidenced by the
picture in Macho Piccho.”
“The British passport could be authenticated. Wouldn’t they do the
same with the Peruvian one?”
“The British maintain excellent, easily accessed records. I fear
those in Peru may be less accurate and more susceptible to error or
falsification.”
“He must have been travelling with someone else. Otherwise who
took his picture? And why would he have it on his cellphone?”
My eyes still closed, I leaned back in my comfortable chair. “Any
number of people will gladly take your picture, especially if you are willing
to pay a small amount for the service. It was part of his cover. To have a
tourist-type photo be the first thing that pops up on the cellphone would tend
to defuse suspicions that Señor Cabrera was merely playing that role, should anyone have occasion to access his phone.”
Sierra frowned. “So what do you think happened?”
“Let’s take a look at the couple next door. They are somewhat
older. Does it strike you as reasonable that people would embark on a pleasure
cruise such as this one unless they were quite convinced that they were not
likely suffer from profound seasickness?”
“Well, no. But suppose it was their first cruise?”
“Not impossible, but also not exactly a likely voyage for a
first-timer. And there is no record of them visiting the ship’s doctor for
relief.”
“So you don’t think they were ill?”
“I didn’t say that. I do think they may never have been on such a
cruise before, but were quite anxious not to call attention to themselves.
Hence no trip to the doctor.”
Sierra picked up the notes and reread a few paragraphs. “Do you
think they were really seasick?”
“I think it was in our Señor Cabrera’s best interest that they be
incapacitated. And seasickness would be a convenient
explanation.”
“Why would he want them incapacitated?”
“Suppose the man in the cabin next door was, in fact, Martyn Whyte?
Traveling, like Señor Cabrera, on a fake passport. His intention would have
been to visit banks in Brazil and Suriname to transfer the money on to yet
another location. But if he were too ill to do that, someone else would have to
take care of business. Someone with a passport identifying him as Martyn Whyte.
Someone who could use the cruise ID card in whatever name Mr. Whyte had adopted
at the time to leave the ship and then reboard. Someone like our Señor
Cabrera.”
“What would be the point of that?”
“If Mr. Whyte were not present to handle the transfer of funds,
Señor Cabrera could have them sent wherever he wanted. Not necessarily where
Mr. Whyte intended for them to go.”
“So how could he make sure that the couple, and everyone else,
thought they were seasick?”
“Remember the hot chocolate?”
“That Señor Cabrera ordered the night before they docked?”
“Yes. If you
look more carefully at what the room steward reported, you will see that the
couple ordered a pot of hot chocolate every night. Spiked with a substantial
amount of rum, which is common in South America.”
“Wouldn’t that upset their stomachs worse if they were seasick?”
“Perhaps, but among certain folklore, cacao, brewed into a
beverage, is reputed to settle one’s stomach. Señor Cabrera may have introduced
that notion and encouraged his fellow passengers to try the remedy.”
Sierra frowned. “I thought the traditional cacao beverages were
quite bitter. And foamy.”
“Indeed they are. And likely to be unappealing to the British
palate. So they ordered hot chocolate, instead. And Señor Cabrera joined them
for a drink each evening.”
“Odd.”
“Not really. They were not experienced sailors, and may have
relied on Señor Cabrera’s supposed wisdom. Have you ever heard of theobromine?”
“No. What’s that?”
“That’s one
of the active ingredients in cacao and chocolate. Very toxic to dogs; that’s
why you should never give a dog chocolate. It’s less toxic to people, but too
much of it will cause a person to have severe stomach upsets. I have a feeling
our Señor Cabrera decided to introduce his neighbors to the delights of South
American chocolate drinks, but was nearly thwarted when they rejected it.
However, he managed to switch them to the spiked hot chocolate drink—which is
truly superb when properly prepare—and added concentrated theobromine to their
drinks. That way, should they ever decide to seek medical attention for their
stomach ailments, even extensive tests would merely reveal the presence of the
natural ingredients of the hot chocolate.”
“Why didn’t
Señor Cabrera get sick, too?”
“He did enjoy
the hot chocolate, in fact, enough that he ordered it on his own the last
evening. But he never added the concentrated theobromine to the pot until after
he had poured his own drink.”
“If he were
able to doctor their drinks on a regular basis, they must have gotten together
fairly frequently.”
“They probably did. It would take only a modicum of caution to
slip between the rooms with no one being the wiser.”
“That doesn’t explain how Señor Cabrera was killed. Or why.”
“I imagine that just before docking, the real Martyn Whyte managed
to contact one of the institutions where he made arrangements to have funds
transferred from South America. And discovered that nothing had been deposited.
He must have been furious, so went to see Señor Cabrera. And stabbed him.”
“But there were so signs of a struggle.”
Sierra shook her head. “Under the right circumstances, anyone is
capable of violence. And murder.”
“Indeed. And Mr. Whyte had already risked all for this one-shot
attempt at wealth. He had very little to lose.”
“I thought he was embezzling to pay off gambling debts.”
“Why did Mr. Whyte leave the British passport for the
investigators to find?”
I wiggled my unshod toes comfortably. “In the hopes that someone
would come to the conclusion that Martyn Whyte had been murdered and the search
for him would be discontinued.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
“No. But there was a chance it might.”
“What will Mr. Whyte do now?”
“Europe?
Wouldn’t that be dangerous? Won’t they be on the lookout for him?”
“You might think
so.
But since Brexit, there is no valid extradition treaty between the European
Union and Great Britain. I’m sure that will be corrected eventually. And I’m
sure there is currently cooperation in monitoring terrorist activity and the
like. But a white-collar financial crime that has very little international
impact? Right now, no one outside the British banking system will give that a
second glance.”
“And what will happen to all the money Señor Cabrera stashed away?
Will the gambling syndicate get it?”
“I doubt it. He probably intended to pay the syndicate what they
were owed, then retire himself on the remaining funds. After all, he must have
hidden the money well. And as far as I can see, no law enforcement would be
looking for him. Even if they could figure out who he was.”
“Where do you think most of the money is?”
“I suspect in Cheyenne.”
“Wyoming?”
“Have you ever heard of the ‘cowboy cocktail’?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a strange situation set up by some naïve state legislators
in Wyoming to encourage investment. Presently, the laws there are quite
favorable to money laundering and hiding the source of funds. Not to mention
that the identity of the holder can be buried under layers of almost
unregulated corporations, until it’s virtually impossible to trace the money.
It will probably sit there, invested, accumulating interest and profits for a
good while before anyone realizes there is no one at the helm of the
corporations. And even then, since no one thought through the consequences of
the legislation, they may not know what to do about it.”
“Are we going to try to trace the money? Or find Martyn Whyte?”
“No. The insurance company hired us to explain what happened.
Given what is known, they have the capability to find most of their money. Once
they have that, they really don’t care what happens to Martyn Whyte. Who, together
with his companion, is undoubtedly settling in an expatriate colony somewhere
in the world under his assumed identity.”
I slipped my feet back into my slippers. “So you see, we have no
further need to work on this case. And definitely no need to run off to Miami
on a wild goose chase, especially when the geese have long since fled.”
Sierra, who did like to travel, sighed and began gathering up the
files.
I pushed my chair back. “I am going to prepare some hot chocolate.
And add some of that excellent Jamaican rum. Would you like a cup?”
Sierra’s mouth fell open and her eyes opened wide. “Not on your
life!”
Well, that was fun!
ReplyDeleteWay to go, Kathleen.
ReplyDeleteExcellent! I knew the couple in the next room were involved, but you made it work...superbly.
ReplyDeleteWhat fun! Excellent solution.
ReplyDeleteIt was fun! And now I have a basic structure of Tilda Jameson, her Jameson Forensic Investigators, and her assistant Sierra, should I ever decide to build on it.
ReplyDeleteWhat I lack, however, is Jim's extensive understanding of the financial world.
Lots of fun, KM! Great nod to Nero Wolfe.
ReplyDeleteHow fun! I had a different suspect, but I think this is explains it all beautifully. I bow down!
ReplyDeleteTilda is fantastic! I hope you'll bring her back for more adventures. My favorite part was her business on top, sweatpants and fuzzy slippers below Zoom outfit LOL!
ABSOLUTELY brilliant!!!
ReplyDeleteNero Wolfe has always been one of my favorites. I love the way he sits there & solves mysteries.
ReplyDeleteI did try to grasp all the clues, one way or another. I'm still not sure which clues were the red herrings.
Of course, I'm not sure what the "real" solution Connie had in mind was, either. I hope she let us in on that!