The Red Bag

London, 1942

With her bobbed dark hair, big green eyes and pensive expression, Brita Johansen looked at the clock as if she were the tragic heroine of a silent melodrama. Internally she was furious.

When that last client had shown up ten minutes before five o’clock she’d had a bad feeling that the meeting would take ages. He’d gone in with a briefcase and a solemn expression, which usually meant an hour at least. How much longer would she have to wait? She had to be at the Moonlight Theater at six sharp! It was so late that she’d need a taxi, and the drivers would all be busy because of the snow. Impatient to leave, she’d already packed her bag and put on her coat.

Mr. Cooper had always insisted on a full report of every little thing she’d done before she could even think about leaving. She wondered what would happen if she simply left. No, she didn’t wonder what would happen, she knew: She’d lose the only steady job she’d ever had and would have to sleep on a futon at Portia’s place forever. She could already see Mr. Cooper’s face glare at her with that angry, drawn expression, his sarcastic comments making it clear that she was a charity case, that he’d taken pity on her because she was an orphan. Brita knew that wasn’t fair; she was a hard worker and he paid her a pittance. The real problem was that he resented paying anyone at all—his own sister had done the job for free until she died the previous year.

Sometimes, in her darker moments, Brita daydreamed about killing Mr. Cooper. She and Portia had even written stories about it as a kind of de-stress exercise, much more effective than those adult coloring books. They imagined many different scenarios: poison, a shovel, a plastic bag, a nicely aimed letter opener…It was just a fantasy, of course. Her real escape plan, the true revenge, would be to make it as an actress. She’d always dreamed that one of these days a director would recognize her talent, pick her for the star and launch her into an illustrious career. And now it had finally happened. Yves Barbier, the up-and-coming director, had chosen her to play Marguerite Wyke in Hedda Gabler! She was finally going to make it! The offers would start coming thick and fast. She and Portia could say goodbye to their tiny apartment, to instant noodles, and to minimum-wage jobs. Of course they’d stick together through thick and thin: they were both orphans and both actresses. Brita worked as a secretary, Portia as a cleaner. Sometimes it felt like they were sisters.

When the acceptance letter came from Yves, she’d felt practically dizzy with joy. The only damper had been seeing Portia’s face. Poor Portia, who had auditioned for the same role and had been crushed by the rejection, though she’d tried not to show it.

Restless, Brita stood up and walked to the window. She put her hands on the sill and looked out at the snowy courtyard. Mr. Cooper’s office was on the ground floor at least, so she’d be able to make a fast exit. Gazing at the wintry garden, she noticed fresh footprints in the snow. They passed close to the wall under the window.

“That’s weird,” she said out loud.

She could see that the footprints led directly to the red door that connected the courtyard to the corridor next to her office. Someone had gone through that door. The odd thing about that was that Brita knew she was the only one with a key to that door. She hadn’t unlocked it today, but the footprints were fresh.

Intrigued, she went out of her office and into the corridor. If she turned right she’d get to the door leading to the street, if she turned left, she’d reach the red door. She turned left and looked at the floor. Sure enough, there were drops of moisture and even snowflakes on the doormat and carpet. She stood up and tested the doorhandle. Locked! Frowning, she went back into her office, strode over to her desk and opened the drawer where all the keys were kept. Sure enough, there was the key in question, safe and sound.

How on earth had anyone gone into the courtyard?

She glanced up at the clock again: five-twenty-five.

It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard any voices coming from the room for a long time. For goodness sake, what were they doing in there? She had to be at the theater at six! She decided to muster up her courage and approach Mr. Cooper’s door. She was going to tell him in no uncertain terms that she simply had to go. If he wanted to fire her, then so be it!

As she was standing there gathering up her nerve, she felt a dreadful premonition come over her, as if she already suspected the truth. Perhaps it was the cold whisper of air playing around her ankles, seeping in from under Mr. Cooper’s door.

She knocked timidly. Hearing no answer, she slowly pushed the door open.

The window facing the courtyard was wide open and the room was as cold as a fridge. Mr. Cooper himself sat slumped forward, face down. His forehead pressed against the desk. His arms hung limply down, fingertips almost touching the floor. His skin had a bluish tinge. On the side of his neck there was a wound. Blood had seeped out of it, soaking his collar. Looking at him, Brita had the sensation of seeing a fish hauled up from its watery home and laid bare on a wharf.

She walked, as if in a dream, over to the desk and put a hand on one of Mr. Cooper’s dangling wrists, cold.

“Oh hell,” she whispered.

***

“The boss is dead,” Brita gulped into the phone. “I can’t do the play tonight after all. Can you tell Yves?”

“What happened? Did you finally do him in?” Portia asked.

“Don’t be silly! I was never serious about that. But someone was. Apparently they did it just as I was sitting here in reception, rehearsing my lines. And I didn’t notice a thing!” Brita moaned.

“How terrifying! Are you all right though?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, though her hands were trembling. “But I have to stay here for a while for an interview with the detective. Police orders. So…you’ll have to go on instead of me.”

“Of course I will. Oh, but it was going to be your big break, Britty!”

Brita felt like crying.

“Never mind, there’ll be other nights. It’s your turn to shine now. Break a leg for me, won’t you dear?”

Ending the call, she realized that she was more upset than she realized. She sat with a plomp on her office chair, feeling fragile and deflated.

A man like a shadow emerged from Mr. Cooper’s office and slid into the chair across the desk from her. Quite young, maybe thirty, and very sure of himself. She noticed that his hair was carefully swept into a kind of pompadour and that his hands were beautifully manicured. He wore some kind of expensive spicy scent. He smoothed his jacket. As he smoothed his jacket, she was reminded of a cat grooming itself.

Despite of her bad mood she felt intrigued and strangely energized by his presence. He was carrying a tray, which he set down carefully on her desk. On the tray were three objects: a red rose petal, a strand of red hair and a hypodermic needle.

“Ms. Johansen, please forgive me,” His voice was pleasant, gentle and a little mesmerizing. “In the rush to secure the crime scene I neglected to introduce myself properly. My name is Detective Inspector Ahmed Al Zaabi.” He bowed.

“How do you do?” she said. “Anything I can do to help, I’m sure.”

“I believe you are Mr. Cooper’s secretary? How long have you been working here?”

“Yes I am. I’ve been here about six months.”

“Can you tell me about your day, please? Starting from when you arrived at the office.” He folded his hands on his lap and waited expectantly.

“Well, I arrived at eight o’clock, as usual. Mr. Cooper usually arrives at eight-thirty and he expects everything to be ready: I turn the heater on in his office, make his coffee, organize his calendar for the day, put fresh flowers in the vase. Today he arrived at the usual time and stayed at his desk until twelve-thirty, which is when he always goes out for lunch.”

“When did Mr. Cooper come back from lunch?”

“At one o’clock. He stayed in his office until three. He came out then to ask me for a cup of tea. At three-thirty a woman came in, Norma McDonald, to get her taxes done. She left at four. At four forty-five a man came in. He didn’t leave a name. He said he was there for a meeting with Mr. Cooper, and he just walked right in there before I could stop him. That man never came out. I was sitting here until five-twenty. That’s when I went in and—found him dead.”

“Can you describe Norma McDonald?”

“She was maybe in her fifties. About my height—five foot four. Slim. She was wearing a beige hat. She wore glasses that made her eyes look big. She wore a camel-hair coat, beige calf-length skirt, beige wool stockings and beige pumps. My impression was very beige. Except for her handbag, which was shiny and cherry red. I remember it because I thought it was such a lovely bag and what a shame that it didn’t suit her.”

“You hadn’t seen Ms. McDonald before?”

“No. I’ve only been working here for a few months so I don’t know a lot of Mr. Cooper’s regular customers.”

“Did you get a sense of her personality or mood?”

“Not really, except she seemed hesitant, as if she were nervous. That’s pretty normal though,” she added.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Mr. Cooper is – was— intimidating. A lot of people are frightened of him.”

“And you?”

“Oh yes, terrified.”

A strange flickering expression like the flutter of a bird’s wing passed across his face. He waited.

“He…was quite sarcastic and…harsh,” she explained, blushing. “I’m sorry. The truth is he made my life quite difficult.”

“No apology required,” he said softly. “And the second visitor? What did he look like? And did he seem intimidated?”

“The man? I didn’t get a good look at him. He was like a whirlwind in a trenchcoat. I was sitting here at my desk, heard the door open, saw him stride in. I would guess he was in his forties, quite thin. Dressed in a suit, wearing a trilby hat low over his face and a scarf wrapped up around his chin. He said he had a private meeting with Mr. Cooper, rushed in and shut the door before I knew what was happening. I stood up, meaning to stop him—I knew Mr. Cooper would be annoyed, you see. He hadn’t mentioned any meeting, and there were only ten minutes to go before the end of work. Mr. Cooper was such a creature of habit that he never worked after five.”

“Did you go in after him?”

“I was going to but I heard the two of them talking, so I decided Mr. Cooper was fine with it.”

“You heard them both talking?”

She frowned.

“I think so. At least…well, no. I heard the stranger talking quite loudly. I could hear him say something like, “I know what you’re going to say, Randolph, but I’ve given it a lot of thought…” It sounded like he was pitching something. So I went back to my desk and read my script. I don’t like eavesdropping, you see,” she explained.

“Quite so,” nodded the detective. He looked contemplatively at the script on her desk.

“Hedda Gabler! So, you’re interested in the theater, eh?”

“Yes, I love it! I’m not really a secretary; I’m an aspiring actress. This is just my day job. I was going to be in the new production tonight at the Moonlight. Until this happened,” she added glumly.  “Now my friend is going to play the part instead of me.”

He watched her with eyes like dark ponds.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“That’s OK. My best friend gets to play the part instead, so that’s a silver lining. Oh! There’s something odd I noticed. I should tell you.”

“Yes?”

“Come to the window and you’ll see.”

She led him over and pointed to the snow.

“I noticed the footsteps just before I found…the body. I thought it was strange because the only way to get to the courtyard is through that door leading to the corridor. And the only key to the door is in my drawer. I realize now that the murderer must have jumped out Mr. Cooper’s window, then walked to the door…but how did he open it?”

“Where do you usually keep the key?”

“In my desk.”

“Do you lock your desk drawer at night?”

“Well, no.”

“And a cleaner comes in every night?”

“Yes.”

“You are usually here when they come?”

“Yes. I often have extra work to do so we chat for a bit before she starts work.”

“So the cleaner may easily have taken the key one night, had it copied at the hardware store down the street and returned it to your drawer without you being any the wiser?”

“What are you saying?”

“I think someone who had the key came into your office posing as a client, murdered Mr. Cooper, escaped through his window, walked across the courtyard, unlocked the door to the corridor, locked it again and then went out to the street.”

“Without me noticing? It seems very unlikely, don’t you think? What about the man who was meeting Mr. Cooper?” Brita said, staring at Al Zaabi and wondering if he was making fun of her. “And why do you want the cleaner to have done it? She’s a very nice girl, you know.”

“I don’t want her to have done it,” he said, evading her eyes by looking at his beautiful nails, “I am only exploring possibilities. After all, the drawer containing the key was unlocked and she had plenty of opportunity to take it, get it copied and put the original back.”

“So did I,” scoffed Brita.

“You make an excellent point. The most likely person to have done it is indeed you yourself. You had access to his office and I only have your word that he had any outside visitors.”

Brita folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.

“Mister Al Zaabi, I have had quite a bad day already. My dream of becoming a leading lady has just crashed to the ground in flames. My boss has been murdered and I no longer have the job that paid my rent. I do not need to be arrested for a crime I didn’t commit on top of all that.”

He nodded and adjusted his lavender cravat.

“I don’t absolutely intend to arrest you. As I said, I am exploring possibilities. That is, after all, my job. Another possibility is that Mr. Cooper himself had a key and had given it to someone else.”

Brita shook her head.

“He always said that he didn’t have keys so he couldn’t lock up the office. That was partly why he insisted that I wait until he left before I could go home.”

“Might have he been lying?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was an unpleasant person but a scrupulously honest one. “Oh!” Brita slapped her forehead.

“Yes?”

“I completely forgot. There was another key! It’s under the big vase in the hall. The cleaner told me she’d accidentally vacuumed it up by accident and I had a replacement made for it. That was a few months ago. It was probably Miss Cooper’s key—she must have kept it there as backup.”

“What is the cleaner’s name?”

“Mary. Mary Beggs.”

“Let us go and see if the key is still there, shall we?” said Al Zaabi pleasantly.

They trooped into the corridor and Ahmed lifted the big vase. Sure enough, there was a new looking key.

“Zot!” Al Zaabi smiled.

“Aren’t you going to take it for evidence?” Brita asked.

“No,” Al Zaabi said. “There won’t be any need for that. Let’s go back into the reception.”

As she walked behind him she noticed his movements were almost noiseless.

“Tell me,” said Al Zaabi when they were both settled.  “How did you get this job?”

 “Probably much the same way that you got yours. I applied, got an interview, got the position.”

“Who interviewed you?”

“Sally Cooper, my boss’s sister. She was my predecessor and seems to have done most of the work. She died shortly after I started work here.”

“What was your impression of her?”

“She seemed ill, to be honest. Very tired and ill. It didn’t surprise me she died so young. Also, she seemed scared.”

“Scared of what, do you know? Of her brother?”

“Not exactly.”

“Now, you mentioned a cleaner, the one who vacuumed up the key. Mary Beggs, her name is?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe her?”

“She’s about my age. Brunette. She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“And do you have a telephone number for this Norma McDonald?”

“Yes.”

“Could you call her and ask her to come in?”

“Yes,” said Brita.

***

“But—that isn’t her!” Brita cried in dismay.

“What is this about?” boomed Norma McDonald, a large woman with close-cropped grey hair.

“You…you didn’t come in earlier today,” Brita exclaimed accusingly.

“Of course I didn’t! You there, what is this about?” the woman glared at Al Zaabi.

“We are investigating a murder,” he said calmly.

“What does that have to do with me?” the woman looked outraged

“One of the last people to see him alive was impersonating you,” said Al Zaabi with a hint of weariness in his voice.

The woman looked flabbergasted.

“The cheek!”

“Yes,” said Al Zaabi. “Our murderer has no shortage of that. In any case, I’m sorry to have bothered you Ms. McDonald. Please feel free to leave.”

When the woman had grumbled her way out of the room, Brita looked at the detective, who was nodding to himself.

“You know who it was, don’t you?” she said with narrowed eyes.

“Perhaps,” said Al Zaabi.

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you yet. I’m waiting.”

A junior detective burst into the room.

“Sir!” he cried. “We’ve found something in the courtyard.”

Al Zaabi smiled with something like satisfaction, “Let me guess: a red bag?”

The junior detective looked crestfallen. “Yes! How did you know?”

“And there is a confession inside?” Al Zaabi asked.

His subordinate handed the bag over, a little sulkily. Al Zaabi produced an envelope and extracted a letter from it. He began to read:

“Mr. Cooper is crossing the road as I am driving towards him. I hit him and drive on.

He is sitting at his desk. I come up behind him and stab him in the neck with a letter opener.

He is drinking his tea and I hand him a plate of biscuits, smiling. He takes one, bites into the arsenic-laced cream filling.”

“Oh,” said Brita.

“Yes?” Al Zaabi said, looking at her intently.

“That was me! I wrote that!” she said. “But I didn’t mean it,” she added feebly. “It was just a way to let off steam. I hated him so much.”

Al Zaabi picked up a pen and twisted it in his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“You know, there was a blood-stained letter opener next to Mr. Cooper’s foot. It was almost certainly the murder weapon.”

“But…that’s impossible!” Brita said, almost wonderingly.

At that moment, a tall redhead carrying a vaccuum cleaner walked into the room. She looked at them curiously.

“Hello! It’s very busy in here tonight,” she said.

“Mary!” said Brita. “This is Detective Inspector Al Zaabi. Mr. Cooper was just murdered.”

“Bloody hell!” said Mary.

“Yes,” said Brita dully.

“If you don’t mind,” said Al Zaabi, “I would like to ask you a few questions Miss Beggs.”

“Me? Why on earth?”

“A matter of formality.”

“Oh, all right.” She put her vaccuum cleaner and sat down on a chair, looking up at Al Zaabi with interest. She looked a bit like a pre-Raphaelite heroine with her pale face and red hair.

“How long have you been working here?”

“Oh, about a year now.”

“Did you ever meet Mr. Cooper?”

“No, I never did. It was his sister Sally who interviewed me for the job and gave me instructions and everything.”

“Did you have a good relationship with Sally?”

She shrugged.

“She was nice enough. She always paid me on time anyway. I had nothing to complain of. It’s a different story now, of course, because that old skinflint never wanted to part with his money. I had to threaten to bring the cops in before he agreed to pay up.”

Al Zaabi nodded.

“Mary,” he said, “Do you own a red bag?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes I do! Funny you should ask that. I couldn’t find it this evening—I was looking everywhere for it.”

“Is this it?” he held up the red bag that contained the confession.

“Yes!” she said. “I think I left it here overnight. Strange, I don’t remember missing it last night.”

He waited.

“It contains a piece of paper, you may be interested to know: what amounts to a confession to murder.”

Her eyes widened.

“Can I see it?” she said.

“That is what I was going to suggest,” he replied. “Perhaps you recognize the handwriting?”

“Yes!” she said after peering at the paper. “It’s Brita’s handwriting!”

“Correct.”

“So Brita did it?”

“No. In fact, you did.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There were three of you in this diabolical plot and each of you contributed an essential element to the murder. You supplied the key, the false Norma supplied the ‘confession’, and the mystery client supplied the murderous hand.”

Mary Beggs raised her eyebrows contemptuously.

”Nice story. Who are you anyway?”

“I am the best detective you will ever meet,” said Al Zaabi. “That is all you need to know.” He looked down at his shiny nails with obvious self satisfaction.

“There were three people involved?” Brita exclaimed.

“Apparently. And all of them were trying to implicate you in the murder. Gregory,” he said sharply to his subordinate, “Put handcuffs on Mary Beggs before she runs away. Or should I say Mary Cooper!”

As the policeman advanced to secure Mary’s wrist, there was a piercing shriek that made everyone’s blood run cold. Mary bared her teeth and attempted to lash out but the policeman was too fast for her. Before she knew it her wrists were secured and he was leading her out to the police car.

“Cooper!” Brita whispered.

“Yes. She is Sally Cooper’s daughter. I don’t know for sure but I believe that she held Mr. Cooper responsible for her mother’s early demise.”

“And she took it upon herself to exact revenge. She had the help of two accomplices. One of them was your flatmate Portia Balderson.”

“What?!” Brita gasped.

“Both of them worked for the same cleaning company. I imagine that’s where they met. Portia knew you’d written some revenge fantasies. She mentioned it to her lover Mary and so provided her with the perfect scapegoat.”

“They were lovers? Why would Portia do something like that to me?”

“Can’t you guess?” Al Zaabi raised his eyebrows.

“Because she wanted my part in the play,” Brita said, her voice trembling.

Al Zaabi nodded.

“But who was the man, the last client of the day?” she said wonderingly.

“There was no man. That was Mary Cooper.”

“I’m confused,” said Brita wearily.

“It’s simple!” Al Zaabi sprang to his feet and started pacing in excitement, as if stimulated by an electrical charge.

“Mary Cooper was determined to kill her uncle. She knew that you hated him and that suspicion would fall on you if he was murdered at work. She knew that your flatmate was competing for the part of Hedda Gabler and was jealous of your talent. So Mary convinced Portia to assist her in her plan, promising that if she succeeded then she would get your part in the play. Tell me: whose idea was it to write those revenge fantasies?”

“Now that you mention it, it was Portia’s idea,” said Brita, her eyes filling with tears. “She said it would be a good way to de-stress.”

Al Zaabi nodded.

“And so Portia took the paper and brought here to the office in the red bag, hoping to condemn you.”

“Portia was Mrs. McDonald? How come I didn’t recognize her?”

“After all, she must be a good actress,” Al Zaabi shrugged.

“But who killed Mr. Cooper? Portia or Mary?”

“Neither of them.”

“What?”

“He was already dead. This hypodermic syringe was full of morphine. His arm has multiple puncture scars, suggesting that he was a regular user. This afternoon he took more than usual and died. He left a note on in an envelope on his desk. It was a suicide note and a confession of guilt in connection to the murder of his sister.”

“Zowee!” Brita exclaimed. “But hold on…what happened with Portia and Mary? Why did they both go in there?”

“When Portia entered the office, she saw he was already dead and panicked. She escaped out of the window, left through the corridor and called Mary as soon as she could to tell her what had happened. They could have done nothing—after all, he was dead, which was the goal—but Portia really, really wanted to implicate you. She was obsessed with being the lead actress. She was carrying a letter opener from your desk—it has your fingerprints on it, you see. She gave it to Mary, who put on men’s clothing, barged into the office, stabbed Mr. Cooper in the neck with your letter opener and put it next to his foot. Then she left, changed into her normal clothes in her car and came back in her usual role as a cleaner, hoping to learn more about what had happened.”

“Why would they go to such lengths? Why did they want to destroy my life?” Brita asked.

“It is unfortunately the nature of some killers that they are willing to sacrifice the innocent to achieve their own ends.”

“Will you be able to prove all this?” Brita asked anxiously.

“The coroner’s report will confirm the overdose. Gregory will check Mary’s car. Her change of clothes will be in there, as will Portia’s most likely.”

“Well!” she said. “This has been quite a day.”