Chapter 15

"The Remington Steele Agency. Krebs speaking," Mildred answered the ringing phone at the Agency with a crisp, authoritarian voice.

"Ms. Krebs," Daniel greeted, drawing out her name. Her frown was immediate, as she tried to place the voice. She didn't have long to wait. "Daniel Chalmers speaking. How are you this fine day?"

Daniel Chalmers… Daniel… Chalmers, she searched her mind, then sat straight up in her chair. Chalmers! Ho, ho! Not on my watch. As dapper as the man was, he was trouble with a capital 'T'. She didn't bother to pretend she understood the relationship between the Boss and this Chalmers fellow, anymore than she understood dance the Boss and Miss Holt did around one another, but she knew bad news when she saw it.

"Whatta ya want, Chalmers?" she bit out. "The Boss is out of the country, so if you're sniffing around to draw him into one of your schemes, you can forget about it!"

"Actually," Daniel cleared his throat, "It's not Harry I was wishing to speak with, but yourself, Mildred." He add a touch of charm to his voice. "May I call you Mildred?"

"It's 'Ms. Krebs' to you, Chalmers. Anyone that drags the Boss into trouble is no friend of mine," she declared.

Daniel pulled the receiver way from his ear, as Mildred prattled on, and cocked a brow at it. This was neither the motherly figure Harry had long described nor the outlandish 'Mildred Groggins' who'd been part of the Duke of Rutherford debacle. How it was that Harry seemed content around two such salty women was beyond him. The decidedly cool reception also might make it far more difficult to draw the woman into his scheme than he'd anticipated.

"… Boss is in the middle of a big case. Neither he nor Miss Holt have time for whatever funny business it is that you have in mind," she finished.

"On a case?" he inquired. It was just the opening he needed. "Odd. Harry's been with me the last two-and-a-half weeks, and he's made no mention of a case," he feigned confusion.

Mildred sat back in her chair, stunned. What's going on around here? she wondered. She shook off the suspicions that were now niggling at the corners of her mind.

"Just waiting until we finish tracing the passports," Mildred said with some confidence, "Then he'll be back on the trail—"

"Passports, did you say?" he interrupted. It couldn't be more perfect. "Are you a betting woman, Ms. Krebs?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I've been known to pull an all nighter at the baccarat table, to wrestle the one armed bandit now and then," she replied. Can't blame a woman for trying to create a little mystique about her, can you? she mused.

"Excellent. Then I'd like to propose a little wager." She was instantly on the alert.

"What kind of wager?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Well, let's see," Daniel considered, as he stretched out in a chaise on the balcony outside of his bedroom. "Should I guess the names on those passports you're attempting to follow, then you'll allow me to have my say. Should I not?" He pursed his lips, recognizing it was one hell of a gamble. "Well, should I not, then once Harry arrives back in LA, my word of honor, I'll not 'drag him into' any more of my 'funny business' for a full year…" he proposed, then couldn't stop himself from adding, "Providing, of course, he doesn't wish to be… recruited."

Mildred gave his suggestion some thought. There was no way Chalmers could know the names on those passports, she reasoned. And if he lost? Well, she had no doubt there would be a big raise… maybe even an offer of investigator-in-training… in her future, once Ms. Holt found out she'd given Chalmers the old heave-ho for…

"Two years," she upped the ante. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Two…" Daniel sputtered, laying it on thick for the woman. "Harry's like the son I never had. I can't imagine not seeing the lad for—"

"Two years. Take or leave it," she pronounced. Daniel studied the nail on his ring finger, as he allowed the silence to draw out, as though he was giving considerable thought to her proposal. Must remember to file that, he noted.

"It seems you leave me no other option," he sighed, as though defeated. "Very well, two years it is."

"Then let's hear 'em," Mildred demanded, a confident smile on her face.

"Well, now, strictly off the cuff you understand—" he 'stalled' for time.

"It's five-twenty, Mr. Chalmers, and I have a date with the Dragon Ladies at six," she prodded, having none of it. He lifted another brow. The Dragon Ladies? How fascinating.

"Very well," he replied, amicably. "John Murrell, Douglas Quintaine, Paul Fabrini, Michael O'Leary. Now, what is that last fellows name?" he muttered. "Ah, of course. How could I forget? Richard Blaine."

The phone dropped from Mildred's hand. She scrambled to pick it up, as she tried to overcome her shock.

"Now how would you know that?" she babbled.

"All indentities Harry's used, now again, in the course of business for…" he shifted to an undertone, as though what he was about to say was a secret, "…the company. Rather impressive covers, should you ask me. All characters from Bogart movies – and we know how the boy feels about his movies - and each of those identies with an unscrupulous past. No one would ever suspect one of those personas and Remington Steele to be one and the same." Daniel found he was infinitely impressed with himself. Adhering pretty much to the truth, not only had he won their little wager handily, he'd also explained away those passport identities and how they'd come to be, while the revelation of those passports would lend support to their impending coversation.

Mildred, on the other hand, was torn between worrying about Laura's reaction should she find out about this little wager or demanding to know what the hell was going on. While Chalmers' reply had caught her off guard, he hadn't knocked her off balance enough for her not to realize…

Something stinks around here…

And if she wanted answers, she was going to have to get them from the man on the other side of the phone call.

"No one can say I welch on a bet, so let's have it," she instructed, managing to dig out the gruff, no nonsense IRS auditor.

"You and I, my dear, are about to lead Miss Holt on a merry little chase…"

Mildred set the receiver of the phone down in the cradle for a third time. She stared at the phone where it hung on the wall in her dining room, trying to dig up a bit of chutzpah while reviewing, again, why what she was about to do might be underhanded, but for all the right reasons.

If Chalmers was right and the Boss wasn't away on a prolonged case, but he had left because of a rift between he and Ms. Holt… Well, she'd do anything to see those two kids together. They were meant for one another, even if they were afraid to admit it.

Unconsciously, she rested a fisted hand against her cocked hip while she frowned.

She'd thought they'd finally figured it out. Something had changed between them while they were lost in the wilds on that ski trip. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, turning the sexual frustration that had swirled between them since she'd starting working for them into something honest and genuine. Oh, they hadn't said they'd finally hit the hay together, but they hadn't needed to either. She hadn't lived fifty-ni-… forty-five years and worked as a cynical auditor for two decades without having learned to read people. And those two? They had left infatuation in the rearview mirror for something more durable: love.

They'd had it all: their partnership, friendship, and, at last, a relationship that was unquestionably… personal.

And if what Chalmers said was true, they'd gone and thrown it all away… for what?

Her gut told her, whatever it was, surrounded that nastiness with the Agency losing it's license. After weeks of warm glances, quiet tones and secret smiles, the tension between the two of them had been more than obvious, at times oppressive, even.

A glance at her calendar while Daniel was speaking had confirmed it: Richard Blaine had left Los Angeles for Perth on the same night the Agency's license had been revoked. The following day Mildred had arrived at the office to find Miss Holt already there, despite the fact she'd announced the afternoon prior that she was going on vacation that evening and would be gone several days.

"Aren't you supposed to be on vacation, honey?" Mildred had prodded gently.

"Cancelled. Mr. Steele…" she'd cleared her throat as though something were caught in it, "Mr. Steele has been called away on case with international implications. There's no way of knowing how long he'll be gone, and someone needs to keep things running around here."

The following day, an envelope addressed to Miss Holt, specifically, had arrived. Miss Holt had stared at the envelope for some time before carefully opening it. Whatever was in that envelope had made the woman shove it into a desk drawer, before closing herself behind her office door all day. And when she'd emerged? She'd looked as though she'd lost her best friend.

After Mildred had hung up with Chalmers, she'd – with no little guilt – gone into Miss Holt's office and opened the drawer where Laura had shoved that envelope and its contents weeks before. Mildred had recognized the Boss's handwriting immediately, and finding the restored Agency license within, all of Chalmers' beliefs appeared to be supported by the evidence. Still, she had covered all the bases and a search of flight manifests for Remington Steele had yielded bupkis. He'd never left Los Angeles… at least under his own passport.

If the kids needed a gentle shove to work things out, she was the woman for the job.

On the other hand, if Chalmers were wrong, Miss Holt would have her head… rightfully so.

Enough of this already, Krebs, she silently admonished herself. These were her kids. Right or wrong, she'd never forgive herself if Chalmers was right and these kids never found their way back to one another because she'd been afraid to stick her neck out.

Straightening her spine, she reached for the phone again.

Then jumped, let out a startled yelp, as it began to ring. Heart pounding against her ribs, she snatched the receiver up.

"Krebs," she barked.

"Mildred? It's Laura," Laura greeted, drawing out each word, in that habit of hers. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling well. I need you to clear my schedule in the morning so I can go to the doctor." Mildred's brow furrowed. Trying to get Miss Holt to see the doctor was like trying to get the Boss to do legwork voluntarily: It wasn't going to happen.

"Oh, Miss Holt, I was just about to call you!" Mildred colored her tone with excitement… she hoped. "Douglas Quintaine has finally landed!" Laura sat up, abruptly, on the couch in Remington's flat.

"Where?" she breathed.

"London. And you'll never guess who the flight manifest shows was in the seat next to Quintaine," she hinted, according to Daniel's plan.

"Who?" Laura immediately asked.

"Daniel Chalmers!" she answered, feigning disdain. "Is he involved in whatever the Boss is investigating?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's in it up to his neck," Laura bit out. She wasn't sure who she was more angry with: him for leaving, or herself, for not realizing he'd eventually return to the only roost he'd known for any length of time. "Alright, Mildred. I want you to book me on the first flight out tomorrow afternoon. Does the manifest, by any chance, show Chalmers' address?" Mildred had to give it to Chalmers, he was thorough.

"No, but I have the credit card number his ticket was charged to," she relayed according to Daniel's script. "I can pull the credit header and have the address associated with the card in a snap."

"I'll call you when I'm out of my appointment, tomorrow," Laura promised.

Mildred hung up the phone then turned around and leaned against the wall, holding a hand to her chest, as she drew a deep breath. Picking back up the handset, she dialed the phone number she'd scrawled onto a piece of paper earlier that evening.

"Chalmers, speaking," a man answered.

"It's a go. Miss Holt will be on a flight to London tomorrow," Mildred whispered, even though she stood in her empty home.

"Excellent work, Ms. Krebs. It's no wonder Harry speaks so highly of you." Despite herself, Mildred blushed. "I'll call you before noon your time, tomorrow, and will let you know our next steps."

"I don't get it. Why send Miss Holt to London, only to then send her to Cannes?" she wondered.

"Ah, because not only do I need time to implement the second phase of this plan of mine," he answered, with a self-satisfied smile in his voice, "But Ms. Holt is always her most cheerful self when she believes she's on the trail of a mystery." He added rueflly, "And I think my health may depend on her being a good mood when she arrives on my doorstep."

Mildred couldn't help her smile. She was beginning to understand what the Boss saw in this Chalmers character.

Laura stomped down sidewalk on St. James Place toward Pall Mall where she'd seen several phone booths as she'd ridden in the taxi a short time before.

A dead end. It had been a dead end.

"I'm sorry, dear, but Mr. Chalmers just left on holiday," the housekeeper had announced. "I don't expect him back for several weeks."

"And Mr.-…" She'd caught herself in the nick of time. "And Harry?" she'd corrected. "Is he in residence?"

"I'm afraid he's off with Mr. Chalmers. Are you a friend of Harry's?" The housekeeper's curiosity had been apparent.

"I suppose," she drew out the second word, thoughtfully, "That would depend on what day you asked. Thank you. I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"No trouble at all, dear. A good day to you."

"To you too…" she'd returned, as if she'd really had any choice to do otherwise.

What she'd wanted to do, was grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and shake 'Harry's' location out of the woman.

What she did was stomp down the sidewalk in search of a payphone.

Slipping into the closest booth, she closed the door, then picked up the receiver and dialed the operator.

"I need to make a collect, international call," she informed the operator.

She waited impatiently, the toes of one foot tap-tap-tapping out her irritation as she waited for the phone to ring, then Mildred to accept the charges.

"Chalmers is 'on holiday'," she informed Mildred, dully.

"Miss Holt, I've been waiting to hear from you!" Mildred admonished. "I was expecting you to call as soon as you checked into the hotel."

"I haven't checked into the hotel yet, Mildred," she replied peevishly. Guilt kicked her in the shin when she heard Mildred's sharp intake of breath. "I'm sorry, Mildred," she apologized, sincerely. "The connecting flight in New York had mechanical problems and ended up departing almost three hours late, on top of my two hour layover. I only landed an hour and a half ago, and went straight to Chalmers'."

"I gotta tell you, Miss Holt, my gut tells me something stinks about all of this," Mildred announced. Laura grew still, wondering if Mildred had linked those passports to 'the Boss.' "So I did some checking around, a little legwork, if you know what I mean."

"Go on," Laura prompted cautiously.

"I got a notification late yesterday afternoon that Douglas Quintaine checked into the Stafford in St. James," Mildred explained. "But what sense did that make? If he's in cahoots with Chalmers, why isn't he staying at Chalmers' place? Chalmers ain't exactly living in a dump, at least from what property records show."

No, he's not, Laura mused. The house she'd just left was a historic, terraced home on one of the best residential streets in London, and if she had to guess, the house had as much square footage as the Gallen mansion. Funny, she'd always envisioned Daniel as no more than 'comfortable' whereas the house attested to just how wealthy he might be. But, Daniel's financial status aside, she couldn't think of a reason why Mr. Steele would stay at a hotel rather than at his 'mentor's' townhouse.

"So I called the hotel and talked with the clerk that checked Quintaine in," Mildred continued. With a shake of her head, Laura forced herself to pay attention. "At first this kid… Callum Rigsby… wouldn't play ball, but when I promised him someone would be by with a hundred quid 'tip' for his cooperation, he changed his tune."

"A hundred quid?!" Laura asked in dismay. "Mildred, do you have any idea how much a hundred quid is?"

"A quid is like our quarter, right? So twenty-five bucks? It seemed pretty cheap to get what—"

"Mildred, a quid is just another name for the pound," Laura continued to lament. "That little tip is nearly one-hundred-and-fifty dollars."

"It was worth it," Mildred brushed off. "This Rigsby kid described Quintaine as around forty, forty-five, average height, dark hair, stocky build, and with the mouth of a sailor. According to Rigsby, Quintaine had company when he checked in: A man, early sixties, tall, slim, salt-and-pepper hair. I faxed him Chalmer's picture from your file, and nada. It wasn't him!"

"I don't understand why this makes you think Quintaine and Chalmers weren't on that flight," Laura commented. She wanted nothing more than to check into the hotel, take a long, hot shower then to tumble into bed for several hours.

"I told you, something didn't smell right. So I contacted the hotel in Dublin where O'Leary stayed. Same thing," Mildred said with emphasis. "A man matching the description of the man accompanying Quintaine at the Stafford was also in O'Leary's company in Dublin…" She paused for dramatic effect, making Laura roll her eyes, and tap her toes harder.

"Today, Mildred…"

"So, I decided what the heck, may as well check out the hotels in Genoa and Perth too. And guess what?"

"Mildred…" Laura warned.

"The clerks at those hotels described the man that had stayed there as 'quite refined', in his late-twenties to early-thirties, tall, slim, with dark hair, light eyes. It wasn't the same man as the one in Dublin and London. Then, bam," Mildred punched her palm with a fist, actually beginning to believe the fabrication, "It hit me!"

"Not hard enough as far as I'm concerned," Laura muttered under her breath.

"Why is it that out of all these characters, Morrell never stayed in a hotel? It's because he knows someone there, and went underground," she finished, proudly. Laura jerked up to her full height, her eyes widening.

Of course. Why she hadn't seen it herself, she didn't know. Mr. Steele had laid a trail of breadcrumbs to follow that would, at the end of the day, take her absolutely no where, buying him time to erase his footprint quite permanently. A knife twisted in her gut at the thought he'd go to such lengths to avoid her.

"Book me on a flight to St. Tropez, Mildred. I'm going back to Heathrow. And I need you to do a property listing search along the Cote d'Azur for the following names: Henri Lebret, Joelle Lebret, John Morrell, Daniel Chalmers, Leighton Sinclair…" She searched her memory.

"I want to know everything I can about anyone who comes on to my mother. She's just been through a very unhappy romantic experience. I don't want to see her get hurt again," she'd told Murphy as she rifled through the suitcase belonging to Colonel Reginald Frobish. She had, and hadn't been, shocked when her search revealed four passports.

"Leighton Sinclair, Britain. Eric Gunnar, Sweden. Col. Reginald Frobish, Hong Kong. Daniel Chalmers, Canada."

"…Eric Gunnar, and Colonel Reginald Frobish." She frowned, then added. "And check flight manifests for the past thirty days for any of those names."

"You got it. Your boarding pass will be waiting at the gate. And Miss Holt?"

"Yes, Mildred?" Laura asked, her thoughts already on the new hunt that lay ahead.

"Don't forget to drop that 'tip' off to Rigsby. A woman's word is her bond, you know." With a roll of her eyes, Laura said goodbye to Mildred then hung up the phone.

Stepping out of the elevator, she strode in the direction of the Stafford. It would't hurt to have this Risgby kid take a look at a picture of Mr. Steele.

"I just spoke with Miss Holt. She should be going to the hotel to find Rigsby now, then I've booked her on the four o'clock flight from London to St. Tropez." Daniel did the fast math of flight time, coupled with time it would take to maneuver the airport and to travel to the hotel. Given her rigorous schedule the past thirty-six hours, he imagined she'd go straight to bed despite the early hour. Still, a man needed to hedge his bets.

"I imagine she'll go straight to bed, given the chase we've led her on," he mused, aloud. "Stall her until five pm Cannes time which will be…" He converted the times mentally, "…nine tomorrow morning for yourself."

"You got it," Mildred agreed. "I just hope you're right about this Chalmers, because if not, the Boss and Miss Holt may have both our heads." Daniel grimaced and rubbed at his neck.

"Yes," he drawled the word, "It's a thought that has occurred to myself, as well."

"End of business?" Laura practically shrieked into the phone when Mildred informed her of the delay. "The end of business," she repeated, no less enthusiastically. "Mildred…"

"I don't know what to tell you, honey. Red tape can only be cut so fast. You're lucky it's only few hours, not days or weeks," Mildred reasoned.

"You're right, I know," Laura relented. Her shoulders sagged. "I just want to get this over with so I can get back home."

"It's only a few hours, kiddo. Hang in there," the older woman advised.

"I'm trying."

"Henri and Joelle Lebret, flew out of Cannes to Mexico City nine days ago," Mildred informed Laura when she called at five after five.

"No point in looking there, then," Laura concluded. "And the other names?"

"We hit paydirt. A villa in Pointe-Croisette, Cannes belonging to one Leighton Sinclair." Mildred rattled off the address. "I've already reserved you a room and a rental car should be waiting downstairs for you, as we speak."

"Thank you, Mildred," Laura told her, sincerely. "What would we do without you?"

As Mildred hung up the phone, her thoughtss were on what Miss Holt would do to her should this all go south.

Remington tossed his charcoal pencil down on the tray of the easel in irritation. He'd worked on this sketch for most of the day, and still hadn't gotten the glimmer in the eyes quite right, much to his frustration. The incessant peeling of the doorbell downstairs did nothing, whatsoever, to appease his mood.

Standing, he stalked towards the door of his bedroom and swung it open.

"Daniel?" he belllowed towards the staircase. "Would you mind answering that?"

The bell peeled, gratingly, again. With a muffled curse, Remington strode down the hall, descended the staircase, then stomped towards the door. He took a moment to run hand through his hair, settling it, and forced a smile on his face, to greet whoever it was on the other side of the door….

A/N: A very happy birthday wish to BB80.