Murder on the Thirteenth Page 11

  “That’s right. But how…”

  “Let me reconstruct.” Tretheway drained his beer. “W and Luke took the other elevator up to the twelfth floor. Luke at the controls. They turned the lights out when they left and closed the door. Don’t forget, Luke wasn’t the brightest but he knew the ins and outs of the hotel. They went up to the Roof Garden. Easy enough for Luke to get a key. Mary came up in the first elevator, remember, and joined them on the roof. Luke locked the door again. Then we arrive. Go through our fire escape bit. Hear the scream.”

  “That was Mary Dearlove then?”

  “I’d say so. Even though no one else heard it. But it was windy. Late at night. There must’ve been a confrontation of sorts. A scuffle. Then over she went.”

  “Gawd,” Jake said. “Clutching the rabbit’s foot.”

  “Yes. That was an oversight on W’s part. But I imagine, in the excitement of the moment, smearing that stuff on her.”

  “Remember what Frank the barber told us? About what Luke said when they found Mary?”

  “Ah…yes. Something about too many.” Jake thought for a moment. “That’s it. “There’s one too many’.”

  “That’s the easy one. Too many gargoyles. That’s how he spotted her. But he said something else.”

  “Can’t recall.”

  “‘She didn’t do it’.”

  “Eh?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “What’s it mean? She didn’t do what?”

  “She didn’t fly.”

  Jake stared at his boss without answering.

  “Witches need a magical energy to fly. It comes from an ointment smeared thickly over their bodies. It usually contains potent herbs used in witchcraft. Monkshood, henbane, mandrake, hemlock. All mixed in a base of fat. Lard.”

  “The lard they found on Mary Dearlove?”

  “Was not from the restaurant exhaust,” Tretheway finished. “I’m also assuming it was regular lard. Not the traditional witches-of-old ointment. Do you know what their base was?”

  Jake had a piece of cheese halfway to his mouth. He stopped.

  “Fat from the bodies of boiled, unbaptized children.”

  Jake put the cheese back.

  “Whether W believed it, or whether W did it to impress Luke, because he sure believed it, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Just another pushaway detail. Didn’t change anything. They still threw her over. Then scampered back to the door. Unlocked it. Went down the stairs, locking the door behind them, to the waiting elevator, back to the ballroom in time to catch the balloons.”

  “By that time we were on the roof,” Jake said.

  “That’s right,” Tretheway said. “How’s your beer?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Tretheway took only one from the ice box. He came back to the easel and flipped the page over the back. “Know what’s next?” he asked Jake.

  “Squire Middleton.”

  “Not so fast.” Tretheway wrote “Apr 13” on the clean sheet.

  “Nothing happened then.”

  “Think about it.”

  “Surely you don’t mean the five lawn bowls the cow swallowed?”

  “No, no.” Tretheway smiled. He wrote “The Great Barber Shop Robbery”.

  “That’s part of it?” Jake asked.

  “Witches use hair and fingernails from an intended victim to transmit a spell to that person.”

  “Then why don’t we make a list…”

  “Really, Jake. Jonathan (Jake) Small, Inspector Tretheway, Geoffrey Beezul, Zoë Plunkitt,” Tretheway recited from memory. “Hell. Our whole office had its hair cut that day. And Frank thinks Garth Dingle and Gum were there too.”

  “You mean, one of those persons is the intended victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, for starters, you can rule out you and me.”

  “Why?”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that you or I…”

  “Jake.” Tretheway held his hand up once more. “Keep an open mind.”

  Jake looked disturbed.

  “Now W did this alone,” Tretheway continued. “An early break-in. But W should’ve taken the money too. And maybe a couple of bay rum bottles. To make it look like an ordinary robbery. W made a mistake.”

  Tretheway turned back to the easel and wrote “Squire Middleton May 12.” “The Squire,” he said.

  “Don’t you mean the thirteenth?” Jake asked.

  “I think not.” Tretheway didn’t explain further. “This was the most interesting murder to look into. I mean, professionally. It was the toughest to figure out. But once you did, it was the easiest. So simple.”

  “Oh?”

  “Number one, the Squire wasn’t murdered. Number two, his death hasn’t a damn thing to do with W. Or our investigation.”

  Jake’s eyes widened.

  “Let me explain.”

  Jake leaned back.

  “Squire Middleton was last seen alive shortly before eleven. The procedure is, at eleven o’clock, the conductor checks his car inside, turns off the lights, takes his bag, goes outside, shuts the door by hand, then goes around to the back, and using the rope, pulls the trolley off the live wire above the car and guides it under a hood on the roof. He lets the rope go and the pulley on the back of the car automatically takes up the slack. Simple. Takes five minutes. Then he goes home. The next day, the morning man reverses the procedure.”

  “I’ve seen them do it,” Jake agreed.

  “The Squire followed the regular routine. But when he pulled the trolley down, it jammed. So he let the rope go and climbed up the permanent ladder on the car’s side to the roof. He put his bag down and examined the trolley. At the roof joint. Guess what he found?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Two dead owls. At least two. Wedged under the trolley.”

  “Is that possible?” Jake asked.

  “The boys at the car barn say so. Over the years they’ve found pigeons, rocks, even squirrels, jammed under the trolley. These were the first owls. That’s why The Squire saved them. He dug them out, laid them down and pushed the trolley under the hood from his position on the roof. This was awkward. Took a little muscle. And you know, he wasn’t in the best of shape.”

  Jake nodded.

  “So there he was, finally, standing on the roof, puffing and panting, a dead owl in each hand, when he simply had a heart attack and died.”

  “Just like that,” Jake said.

  “Just like that.”

  “On the roof,” Jake said.

  Tretheway nodded. “Until the next day when the morning man put the trolley back on the wire. No reason for him to go on the roof. He drove away. First sharp curve they hit at McKittrick bridge…”

  “Where they found the bag.”

  Tretheway nodded. “The Squire’s bag flew off. Second sharp curve?”

  “King and James?” Jake guessed.

  “Where the Squire flew off. Still dark. Very few people around. He lay there, in the shape of a pentacle squeezing the life out of two owls according to our innovative reports, until discovered. The street car long gone.”

  Tretheway put the pencil down and lit a cigar.

  “I’ll be damned,” Jake said.

  “Hm?” Tretheway puffed.

  “It seems so simple the way you explain it. Even obvious.”

  “Have another beer.” Tretheway went to the ice box again. He brought two quarts out with one hand.

  “And W didn’t lift a finger.”

  “No connection at all.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “So now we can push it aside. It’s not part of the picture.” Tretheway laid his cigar across a squashed metal ash tray made from a WW1 artillery shell and picked up the pencil. “But I can’t say the same for June.”

  He scribbled, “T. Warbucks, Jun 13, RFYYC.”

  “That was W,” Jake said.

  “‘The venom’d plants wherewith she kills.

  “Eh?”


  “Something I read.” Tretheway shook himself. “W. Yes. Definitely. I’m convinced W grew the Deadly Nightshade and made the poison from the black berries. Mixed it generously in one of Beezul’s famous Banger milk bottles and marked it with a piece of string. Easy enough to do without getting caught if you were careful and knew the routine.”

  “But why Warbucks?”

  “Mistake.”

  “Eh?”

  Remember how Warbucks rushed into the locker after the race? Shouting for a Banger? He’d been dragged through the bay. Just a little on edge. Grabbed the closest bottle. W must’ve had a fit. Warbucks wasn’t supposed to drink it. But after he downed the first half of the bottle, W had to just sit back and watch.”

  “Who was supposed to drink it?”

  “Beezul.”

  “What?”

  “Geoffrey Beezul.”

  Tretheway turned back to the easel. He exposed a fresh sheet and wrote, “Jul 13, Aug 13, Nothing.” “Nothing happened in July or August because Beezul was up in Muskoka. You know how inaccessible his place is. And W doesn’t have a timetable. W is in no hurry.”

  “How can you be sure?” Jake asked.

  “Jake, I can’t be. Nothing’s sure. But he did get a haircut that day.”

  “We all did.”

  “Beezul was the only one to have a manicure as well.” Tretheway held his hand in front of Jake, fingers outstretched. “Remember fingernails? Small point but they all add up. And he was certainly accessible at the Yacht Club. He was one of the few people who actually liked those foul-tasting Bangers. All W had to do was hand it to him.”

  “It’s starting to sound plausible,” Jake said. “But why Beezul?”

  “I don’t know.” Tretheway pencilled the numbers “1692” on the pad. “But I’m sure it has something to do with the number we found on Hickory Island.”

  “You mean something happened in the year 1692?”

  “I think so.”

  “What?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Hm?”

  “Research it.”

  “But how…”

  “Jake. You’re the Honours History grad. I’m sure you can handle it.”

  Jake looked embarrassed.

  “Sept 13” Tretheway wrote on the pad, “P. Sprong. Fire.” He turned to Jake. “This was pure W. With Luke now back on his feet filling his role as loyal evil assistant. It wasn’t a mistake. W meant to kill Patricia Sprong.”

  “Why her?” Jake asked. “Why not go straight for Beezul?”

  “W’s saving him.”

  “For October.”

  “Yes. Now W has a timetable.”

  “The thirteenth.”

  “No, I don’t think anything will happen on the thirteenth. But let’s get back to your question. Why Patricia?” Tretheway lowered his voice.

  “Let’s climb into the brain of W. Let’s look out at the world through those wide, misty translucent eyes and observe shadowy sisterhood. ‘I am a witch,’ W says, ‘I can cast spells. I can fly backwards on my steed.”

  Jake shivered. Tretheway’s voice returned to normal.

  “How can W best serve Lucifer? Old Nick? The Prince of Darkness?” He wagged his pencil at Jake. “Kill Satan’s enemies. Who better in W’s warped mind than an active hardworking Captain in the Salvation Army? The original devil fighters. Remember her song? “I hate him and he hates me’?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Besides,” Tretheway said half facetiously, “gives W something to do in September.”

  “Because, as you say, October is already planned.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The big one.”

  “The finale.”

  “But…”

  “Let’s clean up the Sprong thing.” Tretheway underlined the word ‘Fire’. “Everybody knew Patricia took evening walks in Cootes’. W knows Cootes’. W, with Luke’s help, grabbed her, probably tied her up, drugged her and waited in the woods for the witching hour. It was late and the weather was on their side. No one around. They carried her up the pile—difficult but not impossible—tied her to the stake, lit the fire and melted back into the woods.”

  “Gawd, that’s cold-blooded!”

  “Not for a witch.”

  “But how about Luke?”

  “He seems to be falling more and more under W’s spell. The loyal, unquestioning sidekick syndrome. He’s no Rhodes Scholar, and don’t forget, I’m sure they’re both using some form of narcotic.”

  “I suppose.”

  “There’s also a very good chance W would light the fire. Maybe even send Luke away first. Anyway, by the time the flames reached poor Patricia, W and Luke were well out of sight.”

  Jake sat quietly for a moment. “Maybe I’ll have that beer now,” Jake decided.

  Tretheway took two more quarts out of the ice box. He handed one to Jake.

  “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

  Tretheway didn’t answer. Jake took the beer.

  Tretheway flipped to a clean sheet on the pad. He wrote, October’. Underneath he printed a large ‘13’.

  “Thirteenth? I thought you said…”

  “New Year’s Eve is probably the big holiday for Scots. For Hebrews it’s Hanukkah. For Christians, maybe Easter.” Tretheway paused. “What’s the biggie for witches?”

  “Eh?”

  “Think about it.”

  “Hallowe’en?”

  Tretheway nodded. “The eve of All Saint’s Day. No question.” He pointed to the pad. “There’s a tradition in the occult of doing things backwards. The Black Mass. The Lord’s Prayer. Witches even ride their broomsticks backwards.”

  “So?” Jake said.

  Tretheway circled the number 13. “Thirteen backwards,” he scrawled ‘31’, “is thirty-one. Last day of the month. Hallowe’en.”

  Tretheway took a long swig of beer. So did Jake. They stared at the scribblings on the pad.

  “Now what do we do?” Jake asked.

  “Stay alert,” Tretheway said. “Keep an eye on Beezul. Especially on the thirty-first.”

  “Can we tell him?”

  “I think not.”

  “What about Luke?”

  “I don’t want Luke. I want W.”

  “And W is?”

  Tretheway shook his head. “I have to be sure.”

  Jake took a cracker and cheese.

  “There’s one more thing,” Tretheway said.

  Jake stopped chewing. “Hm?” He hated Tretheway’s “one more things.”

  “We’ve had dashing to the ground and flying through the air. We’ve had poisoning. We’ve had burning at the stake. All legendary, murderous methods from the Kingdom of Darkness. There are others. But one stands out in my mind.”

  Jake waited.

  “Water,” Tretheway said.

  “Not boiling babies again?”

  “No, no. The water test.”

  “Oh?” Jake swallowed.

  “In the dark days of old, persons accused of witchcraft were often thrown into a deep pond. If they sank and drowned, they were ruled innocent. If they floated and lived, they were found guilty and executed.”

  “A Hobson’s choice.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you think there’ll be some sort of water thing on Hallowe’en?”

  “Possible. This is in the smart guess category.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “No. This is why we watch Beezul.”

  Jake finished off the crackers, drained his Blue and stood up. He could feel the beer. Fat Rollo thumped heavily as he jumped off the bed.

  “So that’s it then,” Jake said.

  “Till All Hallow’s Eve,” Tretheway said.

  Fat Rollo waddled out of Tretheway’s room. Jake concentrated on following the cat.

  Chapter Twelve

  October 13 approached quickly. Although Tretheway believed in his own prediction that nothing would happen, he took no chances. Through A
ddie, he arranged a euchre party. To avoid drawing attention to Beezul, Tretheway suggested two tables and gave a list of eight people to his sister including himself and Jake.

  “You two aren’t planning anything funny, are you?” Addie asked.

  “No, no,” Jake answered quickly.

  “They’re all going to wonder why through the week,” Addie said. “On a Wednesday.”

  “Everything will be all right,” Tretheway reassured.

  “Just a party,” Jake said.

  Addie flounced off to the phone.

  “She’s a good kid,” Tretheway said.

  Jake smiled.

  For the first round of the evening, Tretheway and Jake played opposite Bartholomew Gum and Zoë. The other table held the competent team of Cynthia Moon and Garth Dingle against Doc Nooner and the secret guest of honour, Beezul. Later on, the losers would rotate after rubbers. In the kitchen Addie chatted with Wan Ho, the ninth guest of her own choosing. As she often said, “An extra policeman never hurt anyone.” The two casually served drinks, kibitzed with the players, replenished peanut dishes, substituted for anyone called to the bathroom and generally greased the social wheels of the party.

  The evening went as Tretheway had forecast, except for the cards. He and Jake came second to Cynthia and Garth. Zoë and Gum were a close third, while Doc Nooner and Beezul were a distant last. There was a small scene near eleven o’clock when Beezul, after only one drink, stood up, fidgeted with his pants, and announced that he was tired and wanted to go home. Tretheway and Jake quickly pooh-poohed this.

  “You can’t go home now,” Jake said. “You’ll break up the tourney.”

  “Here. Have one for the other leg.” Tretheway pushed a drink into his hand.

  Beezul grumbled but played on.

  The party broke up about twelve-thirty, which Tretheway felt was safe enough. He saw to it that everyone had a safe way home. Zoë drove Cynthia Moon, Gum was near enough to walk, Wan Ho rode with Doc Nooner and Garth had his own car.

  Tretheway gave Jake an I-told-you-nothing-would-happen wink over Addie’s shoulder before he closed the house up for the night.

  It was close to the end of the month before Jake found out anything meaningful with his 1692 research, and he remained skeptical about all items except one.

  “What have you got, Jake?” Tretheway and Jake sat, once again, in the privacy of Tretheway’s quarters. It was the Thursday evening before Hallowe’en, which this year fell on a Sunday. Jake spread his notes out on Tretheway’s desk and read them aloud.