Murder at the Movies Read online

Lulu giggled nervously. Neil Heavenly sat down, his hands still in his pockets. China and cutlery noises came from the kitchen. Miles Terminus spoke.

  “There’s one thing we haven’t determined.”

  “What’s that, Miles?” Tretheway asked.

  “Are you sure our Fan, as you call him, saw all the movies at the West End?”

  “Good point,” Tretheway said. “We spent a little time last week at the Expo office. Checking the movie ads from January on.”

  Jake smiled at the choice of “we.”

  “All three movies played at different theatres by themselves,” Tretheway explained. “But only at the West End did they all play. Is that likely, Freeman?”

  “Hard to tell without checking,” Thake said. “But it’s possible.”

  “Neil?” Tretheway asked.

  Neil Heavenly nodded in agreement.

  “So let’s assume that our Fan is a West End regular,” Tretheway said.

  “But what about The Wizard of Oz?” Violet asked. “It was all children.”

  “We were all there,” Joshua said.

  “And other adults,” Lulu said.

  “That’s right,” Terminus said. “Parents.”

  “We’re assuming they were parents,” Wan Ho said.

  “For that matter,” Tretheway said, “anyone could’ve slipped in that day.” He let the group simmer down before he went on. “Think about this for a moment. It’s possible that Vi sold our Fan a ticket. That Freeman tore it in half. And Lulu or Joshua ushered him to a seat.” Tretheway paused. “At least three times.”

  Chapter

  6

  April proved to be a wet month; the wettest in twenty-three years, the Fort York meteorologist said. And world events reflected the dismal local weather. Poland mobilized one million men. The Nazis openly boasted that the Allies could do nothing against Germany’s might. Roosevelt said such talk was “a menace to world peace” indicating his support for England and France. And if that weren’t enough, King Zog (a name reminiscent of someone from Oz, Tretheway thought) and his Queen Geraldine fled Albania ahead of Mussolini’s army fanning one more ember in the smouldering fire of European events.

  On the escape side, Hollywood plowed ahead with missiles good and bad such as, Torchy Blane In Panama, Jezebel, Love Finds Andy Hardy, Algiers (Addie went because of Hedy Lamarr’s co-star, Charles Boyer), Yellow Jack, Damaged Goods (“the picture that dares to tell the truth”) and In Old Chicago. Addie also joined Tretheway and Jake for Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife with Claudette Colbert and Gary Cooper, not because of the stars or title, but because it was dish night.

  Over a period of two years, Addie had collected close to a service of eight pale yellow china with a central floral motif similar to the one woven into the West End’s lobby carpet. The theatre gave them away, piece by piece, every other Wednesday as a bonus for attending. At least once every dish night a plate or saucer got away and rolled down the cement floor between the carpeted aisles and the seats, noisily gaining speed until it shattered climactically against the proscenium arch. The crowd customarily cheered. So did Tretheway and Jake. Addie didn’t. She put that type of behaviour in the same class as the public school boys who smuggled plumber’s friends into the theatre to disrupt kissing scenes.

  At different times Tretheway and Jake were accompanied by Wan Ho (Charlie Chan at Treasure Island), Bartholemew Gum, Miles Terminus and once, when Young Doctor Kildare was showing, Doc Nooner. The movie that counted, the one that inspired the Fan, though nobody knew it at the time, was screened on Thursday, April 6. Wan Ho joined Tretheway and Jake on that evening.

  A steady light rain dogged the trio as they walked to the movie house. Tretheway led the way, protected from the elements by his rubber traffic slicker and wet bowler. Jake and Wan Ho followed, huddled under Jake’s oversized golf umbrella. The first movie started sharp at seven.

  An imposing statue of “Victoria Regina Imperatrix” stares haughtily from the screen. An invisible military band plays “God Save The Queen.” The title appears on a huge gong accompanied by spritely Rudyard Kipling music and a deep voice stating dramatically, “The finest man I knew was our regimental bhisti, GUNGA DIN.” Several exciting quick cuts follow: an ugly restless vulture atop a pole/a robed Indian (Thuggee) severing telegraph wires with a wicked-looking pick axe/a British patrol on horseback/Thuggees digging graves/soldiers attacked by night/fade out.

  Then a longer, establishing shot takes form showing the British station at Muri, Northwest India, where the Colonel (Montagu Love) worries aloud in an English public school accent about the telegraph’s ominous silence from Trantapur. In seconds, Tretheway, Jake and Wan Ho are transported back into remote late nineteenth-century British India.

  Two significant events occurred in April, which should have triggered to Tretheway’s mind the possibility of a calamitous third. The first, a break-in and burglary at the Fort York Military Museum, was certainly serious, but not high on the priority list of the FYPD, let alone Tretheway’s traffic division. And the second, he didn’t hear about until too late. In his defence, all divisions, especially traffic, were busy preparing for the momentous visit of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth on June 7. Parade routes had to be drawn out, new traffic patterns plotted, duties rescheduled and overall protocol studied, to say nothing of extensive security measures for their Royal British Majesties.

  Tretheway had little time to worry about the theft of some old uniforms and dusty, antiquated weapons.

  During the War of 1812, a defensive position was hastily constructed on the narrow strip of land that separated Wellington Square Bay from Coote’s Paradise to repel four thousand American invaders advancing from Fort Niagara. History records that a British force of seven hundred under General John Vincent marched from this breastwork to meet the Americans halfway and turn them back at the Battle of Stoney Creek; by world standards a skirmish in a small war. But if the tables had been turned, Southern Ontario would now be called something like Very Upper New York.

  Battery Lodge was built on the original breastwork. Over the years, the sturdy two-storey building housed a gatekeeper, a castle guard during the 1837 rebellion and a gardener’s family until, just after WWI, it became the official Fort York Military Museum. Paintings, etchings, posters, uniforms, weapons and other historic military artifacts graced the interior of the grey building. Two bronze British nine-pounder field guns protected the entrance, then and now.

  When the museum staff turned up on Wednesday morning, April 11, they found the front door ajar, with the lock broken. They called the police. When the detectives arrived, they had unkind words with Basil Horsborough, the museum’s curator, for not installing an alarm system. He lisped his way through excuses from “not in the budget” to “I can’t think of everything.”

  Basil Horsborough had been plucked from the Anglican ministry by well-meaning relatives in high places to head up the Military Museum. He was tall and cadaver thin. Straight black hair, parted in the middle and hanging over his ears, framed his pale face. In good or troubled spirits, his unnaturally red lips turned up at the ends. From opening to closing time, the smiling staff watched his loose-jointed round-shouldered rambles as he checked, re-arranged or just fussed over his precious exhibits. He occasionally visited the Tretheways but never played cards and if he drank anything, it was a small glass of Addie’s lippursing dandelion wine. Basil owned seven black suits.

  The detectives (not including the off-duty Wan Ho) went about their business searching for clues. Except for the hundreds of fingerprints, which said little for the museum cleaning women, they found none. And these prints, one detective said, were probably from tourists or staff. Several glass display cases had been smashed or pried open. Medals, uniforms, small weapons and other personal effects of yesterday’s soldiers were strewn about the rooms, but upon inspection not damaged. An etching of Napoleon and Blucher had been torn, a death-of-Nelson print badly creased and a watercolour of the Royal Field Artille
ry in action at Mons slightly smudged. But what really upset Basil were the pieces no one could find. It took him and his staff two days to put everything back in its place and three more to replace all the glass. The police suggested they take careful inventory. This produced a small but thought-provoking list of missing warrior’s paraphernalia.

  The first item was one of the museum’s prize acquisitions; a dress frock coat of an American Union Army General, 1864, reputed to have been worn by General William Tecumseh Sherman during the Civil War (a noisy political group who had opposed Horsborough’s patronage appointment openly disputed its authenticity). The culprits, curiously, left a Confederate Army officer’s uniform undisturbed.

  A rare pilot’s flying suit had disappeared along with a leather helmet, goggles and mittens that someone had once bravely worn in the unheated cockpit of a Royal Flying Corps aircraft over Flanders.

  Three more uniforms or parts made the list; a WWI Royal Navy Reserve Ordinary Seaman Gunner’s jacket, a Lieutenant’s dress uniform (Nursing Sister) Canadian Medical Corps also from the First War and a scarlet, full dress tunic of a non-commissioned officer, 91st Regiment, Canadian Highlanders, circa 1905.

  Some weapons were missing; an 1853 pattern cavalry sword with scabbard, a Thuggee pickaxe used against British forces in turn-of-the-century India and a 303 calibre Lee-Enfield, Mk-1 rifle, 1888, with bayonet, from the Boer War.

  Two hats could not be found: a colonial pattern helmet, white with a khaki cloth covering for the field, again from the Boer War, and an officer’s rakish cocked hat from the War of 1812.

  A couple of truly miscellaneous items completed the list; a large French tricolour flag, singed and torn in battle (according to Horsborough, once more disputed) and a replica of British King George III’s crown.

  The final listings were dutifully placed in a manilla folder marked “Burglaries, April ’39” and quietly filed away, so Wan Ho didn’t see it. A day later the FY Expositor published a partial list under the colourful heading, “Missing Historic Objet De Guerre” and buried it in the back pages, so Tretheway didn’t see it. Although both men were aware of the incident, a chance meeting with Basil Horsborough brought the picture into brighter focus.

  “Hey, Basil,” Jake shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  Tretheway and Jake, fresh from another Safety Club radio show, stood beside their cruiser in the enclosed courtyard of Central Police Station. Eight days had passed since the Military Museum burglary.

  Basil loped toward them. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

  “You looked troubled,” Tretheway said.

  “I think I’m lost,” Horsborough said.

  “Be careful.” Jake pulled Horsborough gently out of the way as another senior officer’s car entered the courtyard.

  They guided the befuddled curator over to a relatively quiet comer of the yard where grass, mostly crab, grew in untidy clumps. Bushes and flowers struggled to survive in front of the worn concrete steps leading to one of the doors. The fragrance of mock orange blossoms fought with the fumes of exhaust.

  “Now what’s your problem?” Tretheway asked.

  “Where are my things?” Horsborough said.

  “What things?” Tretheway said.

  “My exhibits. From the Museum break-in. Have you recovered them?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “We’re traffic, Basil,” Jake explained. “You need burglary.”

  “What was stolen?” Tretheway asked.

  “Mostly uniforms,” Horsborough said. “Irreplaceable. One was worn by General Sherman.”

  “But nothing to threaten the public,” Tretheway said.

  “There were weapons.”

  “Oh.” Tretheway thought for a moment. “But probably old weapons.”

  “I’m sure they’re valuable,” Jake said. “But hardly dangerous.”

  “How about a rifle?” Horsborough said to Tretheway. “A 303 Lee-Enfield, Mark One.”

  “Was it in working order?” Tretheway asked. “Would it fire?”

  “It had a bayonet,” Horsborough persisted.

  “But you wouldn’t hold up a bank with it.”

  “What about a sword? A cavalry saber?”

  “Same thing.”

  “The pickaxe.” Horsborough wrung his bony hands excitedly. “There’s a dangerous weapon.”

  Tretheway’s patience thinned. “What the hell is a military museum doing with a pickaxe?”

  “It’s not an ordinary pickaxe,” Horsborough said. It’s a Phansigan pickaxe. From northern India. Used by a religious cult. Worshipped the Goddess Kali. They were called Thugs.”

  A bright distinct image flashed into Tretheway’s mind of Sergeant Cutter (Cary Grant) firing his revolver at a horde of white loin-clothed enemies of the crown and brandishing a captured ugly pickaxe in his other hand. “Or Thuggees,” he said.

  “What?” Horsborough knew he had finally said something important but he didn’t know what.

  “Jake,” Tretheway ordered, “take Basil to the burglary division.”

  “Right,” Jake said.

  “And as long as you’re there, get me a copy of the report. And what was stolen.” Tretheway smiled at Horsborough. “It won’t hurt to read it over.”

  For the next couple of evenings, Tretheway, Jake and Wan Ho went over the list until they were bleary eyed. What Tretheway thought would clarify matters did nothing but muddy the waters.

  “We’re no further ahead,” Tretheway said.

  “Not really,” Wan Ho agreed.

  “I thought the list would be more helpful,” Jake said. He shivered despite his heavy tweed jacket. “Shouldn’t we go inside?”

  Although it was balmy for late April, the time of year guaranteed a drop in the temperature at sunset. The three sleuths sat on Tretheways’ back porch, not screened in yet, and watched through the budding branches of black walnuts, maples and white birches as the sun met the horizon. Forty-five degrees registered on the outdoor thermometer.

  “It is getting brisk,” Wan Ho agreed with Jake. He turned up the collar of his topcoat.

  Tretheway pretended not to hear. He sat tranquilly with his arms folded across the colourful crest of a Fort Erie 1923 Police Games sweatshirt. His only concession to the descending mercury was a heavy woolen muffler wrapped several times around his neck.

  “Let’s pin this thing down.” Tretheway looked at Jake. “You’d better take some notes.”

  “Right.” Jake took his hands out of his pockets. Wan Ho handed him a notebook and pencil.

  “Now once more put yourself in the Fan’s head,” Tretheway began. “You’ve seen the movies. Now you break into the Military Museum. To steal a relevant article. Which one? Or ones? Let’s try something new. Work backwards. Match a stolen article to a movie we’ve seen in the last few weeks.”

  “Okay.” Wan Ho spoke first. “The obvious one is the Thuggee pickaxe. Has to be Gunga Din.”

  “That’s right,” Jake said.

  Tretheway nodded. “And only Gunga Din. Just one movie. The others are not so easy.”

  “Like the flying suit,” Wan Ho said.

  “I like Dawn Patrol for that one,” Jake said. “Or maybe Test Pilot.”

  “Don’t forget Tailspin or Men With Wings,” Tretheway said.

  “Or even George Takes to the Air.” Jake smiled remembering the wild George Formby flick.

  “How about the serial they showed with The Wizard of Oz?” Wan Ho said. “Flying G-Men, Episode Eleven.”

  “Lot of movies,” Jake said.

  “Get them down,” Tretheway said.

  Jake scribbled the information in his notebook.

  “Colonial khaki helmet.” Tretheway continued the list of stolen items from memory. “Boer War.”

  “You know,” Wan Ho said. “That could be Gunga Din as well.”

  Tretheway nodded. “But my pick would be Four Feathers. Helluva movie.”

  “How about The Little Princess
?” Jake asked.

  “I didn’t see that one,” Tretheway said.

  “Shirley Temple,” Wan Ho said.

  “It was about the Boer War,” Jake persisted.

  “Write it down.” Tretheway went on. “303 Lee-Enfield rifle and bayonet. That could be from any war movie made about the late eighteen hundreds to now.” He tightened his muffler against a sudden breeze. “Used one myself in ’seventeen.”

  “Four Feathers or Gunga Din again,” Wan Ho said.

  “The Sun Never Sets,” Tretheway added.

  “Even Blockheads,” Jake chuckled.

  “I liked that,” Wan Ho said.

  “All Quiet on the Western Front,” Tretheway suggested.

  “That’s pretty old,” Wan Ho said.

  “But it keeps coming back.” Jake defended his boss’s choice.

  “Let’s call it a maybe,” Tretheway said. He pushed ahead with the list. “Nursing Sister’s uniform. Lieutenant, Canadian Medical Corps.”

  “Four Girls in White?” Jake offered.

  “I’d pick Edith Cavell,” Wan Ho said.

  “Better write down Yellow Jack,” Tretheway said.

  “What about the Dr. Kildare series?” Jake asked.

  “That too,” Tretheway said. “The next one on the list is an ordinary seaman gunner’s jacket.”

  “I like Sailor of the King,” Jake said.

  “So do I,” Wan Ho said.

  “All right,” Tretheway said. “Better add Sons of the Sea.”

  “And Our Fighting Navy,” Wan Ho said.

  Jake’s pencil scratched over the paper.

  Tretheway pictured the list. “Scarlet full dress army tunic, 1905.”

  “Four Feathers again,” Jake said.

  “Or The Drum,” Wan Ho said. “Another great movie.”

  “There’s two more Shirley Temples,” Jake said.

  “How many bloody movies did she make?” Tretheway asked.

  “What are they?” Wan Ho asked.

  “Wee Willie Winkie. About the British army in India. And Susannah of the Mounties. Both have red coats.”