Legacy of Suspicion

By Molly Grover Shallow

The Drug Abuse Commission in Washington suspected an art supply dealer, Peter Munroe, of drug sales in a university art department . When agent Doug Chase checks up on Munroe at his home, the elderly dealer commits suicide. The Commission investigates but remains baffled, instructing Chase to mark the case Open but Inactive.

In June 1944 a Resistance Army was operating in the Vercors mountain region of eastern France. The OSS parachuted a US Ranger-trained liaison agent, Paul Martin, there instead of the locally requested arms and supplies. Martin had some adventures and fell in love with a local partisan, Odile.

Martin was captured by the Germans, severely questioned and sent to prison camp in July 1944. It was possible for him to reveal information during questioning to protect Odile, pregnant with his child. He was never known to have returned to the Vercors.

In the Spring of the present time, Chase meets Odiles grand-daughter Paulette at a French Embassy party in Washington. They are deeply attracted and she shows him her grandmothers war memorabilia. The agent dimly recognises a man in her newspaper photograph, checks it with Commission facilities, and finds that her grandfather, Paul Martin, may have been Peter Munroe.

During summer vacation, Chase and Paulette visit the Vercors after her grandmothers death where he verifies his suspicion without revealing Peter Munroes

identity. No one can be certain of Paul Martins revelation to his German captors of a hospital cave because there was an unidentified informer. The case of Peter Munroe is marked Closed. Chase finds undeveloped roots in himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 25, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462832484

Molly Grover Shallow

Molly Grover Shallow was born in Princeton, New Jersey, in 1923 and grew up there, working for the Office of Scientific Research and Development at the University during World War II. She married and spent winters in Vermont and Ireland, summers sailing around France, England and Ireland with her husband. She holds a Norwich University degree and a United States Coast Guard license to U.S Merchant Marine officer. A retired professional photographer, she travelled in France and lectured at the Ecole Nationale Superieure des Beaux Arts in Paris. The Eisenhower Center for American Studies has written that the novel is remarkable. Molly Grover Shallow lives in Key West where her three children often visit.

Book preview

PART I

Chapter I

Rising to view in the flat countryside, the Hightstown cemetery appeared straight ahead. Probably Presbyterian, thought Chase, noting the mailboxes en route from Princeton. Dutch names and some English: Polhemus, Meers, Acheson. It was a tidy New Jersey landscape, mostly small shingled farmhouses set well back from the road between plowed fields. Roofs sloped down to low narrow front porches. The smell of freshly turned earth mingled with fertiliser flowed in through the car window.

Would Munroe’s house be like this? he wondered. He’d been directed by Munroe yesterday to turn right at the cemetery tee junction, and here the town atmosphere took over with clipped hedges, shade trees and small shops on one side of the main street. He remembered being told to look for Simmons Lane off to the left just beyond the park fountain where the cemetery ends. He turned and passed several houses on the short little street until he saw number twelve. Dark green clapboards, a property well separated by lawn and hedge. He pulled into the short gravel driveway and saw there was a double two-story garage in back.

The rental car was compact all right; he had to fold his long legs in half to get out. He pressed the bell on the front door frame and heard it ring inside. Munroe opened the door and they smiled at one another in recognition of Chase’s errand.

Come with me to the garage. That’s where I keep all the brushes and you can try some out if necessary.

How long have you lived here? asked the agent, nodding in agreement and looking around. Munroe looked as old as the house and as modestly finished with threadbare corduroy slacks and a stained cardigan. Chase was again in the dark green blazer and grey slacks he’d worn to the reception yesterday. It made him look very young, and he was always trying to appear more mature. His windblown blond hair didn’t help.

Fifty years, Munroe replied as they climbed an outside open stairway on the side of the garage. He unlocked the door at the top, switched on the overhead light inside, and they entered a very neat stockroom. There was a round table in the center.

Just what kind of brush are you looking for? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten overnight. I used to remember artists’ particular problems, but these days . . .

Not to be expected, Mr. Munroe. I wasn’t very exact anyway, because I’m not sure myself.

What medium are we dealing with? Munroe was looking at his visitor closely.

Chase was fingering a brochure that had been lying on top of others on the table.

Acrylics, said Chase. I had a certain brush when I was in France that I haven’t been able to find over here.

Munroe tensed and asked where in France he’d painted. Where was your studio?

Chase’s pause lasted longer than a natural response would need.

You’re not an artist, Mr. Chase. What do you want here?

The agent was ready for this because sooner or later Munroe would spot that he wasn’t an artist. I’m interested in the university art department. Their budget has been cut and yet they continue to invest in your expensive brushes. I’m a financial investigator. Here’s my ID. Chase pulled out his wallet and flipped it open so that Munroe could see an official emblem.

They send me purchase orders and I try to fill them, Munroe explained. If they have to economise, that’s not my business.

Do they pay by check? the agent pressed.

Always. I suppose I could show you my bank statements, but I don’t have to.

How about the purchase orders? Chase noticed a vein throbbing on Munroe’s temple and he was blinking.

They’re in the office file. Through that door, Munroe said, pointing. I’ll get this year’s folder. He opened the door at the back of the stockroom and stepped inside, closing the door as he snapped on a light.

Chase took the opportunity to examine some of the packages on the shelves, wishing he had one of those sniffer dogs. Any box there could contain an illegal substance. He’d opened quite a few at random before he heard a heavy thump in the office. His training should have alerted him. He started to open the office door but found that Munroe was pressed against it. He pushed hard and the body fell sideways, blood pouring out of a neck wound. Chase felt for a pulse but it was too late. There was a flood of blood on the floor, and a razor knife was still in Munroe’s right hand. There was no breath from the mouth or nose, nothing riffling against the blood that had spurted onto the face.

Chase’s sleeve was smeared with blood now and his foot slipped in a red pool as he reached across the body to the telephone on the desk against the back wall. He punched in the numbers for his Washington office and reported. They’d take care of Munroe now, remove the body, tidy up, and relock the premises. The Hightstown police needn’t know about this until they received a report from Washington. He’d have to keep his cool wits about him now, and his voice excluded the emotions that churned inside.

Phillips said over the phone, Check his bank statements. We’ll have everything there searched thoroughly.

I’ll have to wait for something definite to go on before I can go any further, Chase said.

When you get back here, Phillips said, we’ll go over your inquiry word for word. Try to keep it in mind till then. See you tomorrow.

Chase hung up and found the tiny lavatory next to the office. He wondered how he’d managed to get into this death scene. As he washed up, he recalled the beginning of the rebirth of this case. The Friday meeting was almost over, he remembered, and as the agenda closed Phillips had said, Whatever happened to that art supply dealer? Was he ever cleared?

The three other agents present had looked at one another.

one shrugged, another’s eyebrows went up in ignorance, and he’d answered.

I’m going up to Princeton this week-end. I have to go to an art reception and Peter Munroe may be there. I’ll check his file here now, call on him at his home, try to find out enough to get us definitely on or off the case.

Good. It’s marked ‘Open but Inactive’ now, Phillips had replied.

When the meeting closed, Chase thought he wouldn’t be too unhappy for the office to finance his week-end. He’d work a few hours in the campus vicinity; the file on Munroe gave a New Jersey address. Chase wasn’t keen on art receptions, but Gail loved them.

Chase was twenty-eight, and four of these years had been with the Commission since its establishment by the President. He’d left Princeton University with honors, then trained for his job as a law enforcement investigator. He’d be glad to see the pleasant town again, especially with Gail. It was a year ago they’d met. He really disliked arty gatherings and chitchat. So unlikely a place for Doug Chase! Gail had picked him out at the reception in Princeton last year because he looked so ill at ease.

Why are you here? she’d asked bluntly.

Good question. He’d smiled but couldn’t answer truthfully. His assignment last year was to take over this case from an agent who’d since left and who had turned up unproven evidence that Munroe might be supplying the University students with more than art supplies. Peter Munroe was known as a dealer in specialty art brushes and was one of the University art department ‘s suppliers.

I haven’t been back since graduation, Doug Chase had told Gail. This seemed a good place to get a glass of wine and meet a pretty girl. There was , it’s true, much wine and several pretty girls; he had to admit to himself this about vernissages, gallery openings, and art receptions. The conversations were certainly inane and often shrill. The austerely paneled hall in which this one was held didn’t tinge the occasion with serious overtones nor did the chandeliers improve dialogue content. Gail blossomed in the environment and he could hack it when necessary.

She’d responded favorably and he’d noticed her interesting outfit. A little arty, but pretty too, a filmy beige shawl over a light blouse, peasanty flowered skirt. Her perfume described bouquets of blossoms. Her crew cut was soft and would curl, he’d imagined, if it were another half inch longer.

Munroe hadn’t attended the reception after all, and the case subsided . But Chase had met Gail and their affair flourished. Now it was a kind of joke between them that they were revisiting the event. She learned that his job forbade disclosing information to her. This was an anniversary, and here they were at another art reception. The coincidence suited his job, he realised, but it wasn’t really fun.

As Chase filled her glass at the drinks table, he recognised a newcomer who acquired a drink for himself. It