Murder on the Thirteenth Page 6

  Tretheway made out the silhouette of a four-sided pavilion with a peaked roof. The shadows cast by the evenly spaced arches cut into the walls, complicated and confused the image.

  Tretheway started towards it.

  “What’s that?” Jake pointed left.

  In the midst of the garbage bins, ventilator fans and other functional devices on the roof, was a larger structure about the size of a small hut.

  “Must be the stairs.”

  “The door that was locked?” Jake said.

  Tretheway yanked at the handle. “Still is.” He rubbed dirt from his hands. “Not too elegant as entrance.”

  “Must be for the staff.”

  “How do the guests come up?”

  “Elevators,” Jake answered.

  Tretheway looked at the ground. “I wonder who made those footprints.”

  Jake looked down. The footprints led away from the door. It was impossible to tell the old from the new because of the snow and the darkness.

  “Better check them out,” Tretheway said.

  They followed the trail to the pavilion, up the few steps and through one of the arches to the inside. Even though they were out of the wind, it seemed colder. The footprints stopped when the snow did, at the edge of the summertime dance floor.

  “There are the elevators.” Jake pointed.

  “And the bandstand,” Tretheway said.

  Their voices echoed in the hollow interior.

  “Looks bigger than I thought.”

  “And different than I remember,” Jake looked around.

  What he remembered was one balmy summer evening with Addie—music, dancing, a genial crowd, the clink of glasses and pleasant conversation. But now, the interior exuded that disturbed, even forboding, air of mystery that all people places have when they are empty; as though waiting for the next festive event and resenting any intrusion on its privacy. Jake shivered.

  “Let’s see if we can pick up these footprints,” Tretheway said. “You go that way.”

  They split up and began to search the snowy perimeter just outside the walls. It didn’t take long.

  “Jake!” Tretheway shouted.

  Jake’s steps echoed as he ran across the dance floor toward his boss’s voice. Tretheway stood under one of the arches.

  “There.” He pointed down.

  There were enough footprints to confuse their direction and number, but they looked fresh. And they led about ten paces to a chest-high wall at the front edge of the hotel roof. On the flat top of the wall, just above the footprints, the fresh snow had been disturbed.

  “Gawd!”

  “You don’t suppose…”

  Their comments overlapped. They both ran to the wall and peered over.

  “Careful,” Tretheway warned.

  A panorama of Fort York mid-winter night life displayed itself before them thirteen stories below. The few swirling snowflakes did not obscure the view. To their left, the foreshortened statue of Canada’s first Prime Minister stood on the edge of Gore Park. Tiny car headlights probed the darkness. A street car rumbled by, bell clanging. No pedestrians were in sight.

  “Looks quite normal,” Jake said finally.

  “Certainly does.”

  “You surprised?”

  “Would’ve bet my pension someone, maybe Mary Dear-love …”

  Tretheway let the name hang in the cold air. They stepped back form the wall.

  “Maybe she wasn’t here at all.”

  “Then what about the footprints?” Tretheway became agitated. “And the marks on the wall.”

  “Workmen?” Jake knew it sounded lame as soon as he said it.

  “Damn it, Jake, at midnight?”

  “Well, anyway,” Jake tried to direct the conversation into calmer waters, “what do we do now?”

  Tretheway glared at Jake. “We could start by taking off that bloody hat.”

  Except for a few dicey moments when Tretheway slithered back over the ice parapet to the fire escape, the trip downstairs was uneventful. Neither spoke. Tretheway wished to be alone with his dark thoughts while Jake sulked after putting his carefully folded party hat in his tunic pocket. The elevator operator honoured their silence. Back at the table however, they had to speak.

  “Where’ve you been?” Addie began. “You’ve missed the balloons. Look at your uniform. It’s torn.” She looked at Jake. “You don’t look so good either. Where’s your hat?”

  Jake’s mouth opened but Tretheway spoke first. “Now Addie, settle down. It was unavoidable.”

  Jake nodded.

  “Well, everyone was here gathering balloons,” Addie said.

  “I saved you both one,” Garth smiled. “Red or white?”

  “Everyone?” Tretheway said.

  “Yes.” Addie was adamant. “Everyone. Except you two.”

  “We were…” Jake started.

  “On business,” Tretheway finished.

  Addie didn’t answer.

  “Addie,” Tretheway said quietly, “this is important. When the balloons came down. At midnight. You’re sure no one was missing?”

  Tretheway had her attention. He also had the attention of the few others at the table. Beezul, Cynthia Moon and Zoë Plunkitt were listening. Garth stopped smiling. Sergeant Ho materialized beside Tretheway.

  “Can anyone remember?” Tretheway said to the table.

  The band started another set. About half the crowd made their way to the floor. A few had left home after the balloons. Others thought about it. ‘God Save the King’ wouldn’t be played until one a.m., an hour later than usual—a special dispensation to FY’s finest, the war and the liquor laws. But the party was winding down.

  “We were all here.” Beezul spoke first. He indicated everyone at the table. They all bobbed their heads in agreement.

  “Gum was with me,” Garth said. “But I didn’t see Mrs Zulp.”

  “She was in the washroom,” Cynthia Moon said, “throwing up.”

  “What about the Chief?” Tretheway asked.

  “I don’t think he’s moved for over an hour.” Wan Ho glanced at Zulp who was still sitting in front of his gin.

  “Tremaine and Pat Sprong kept me company,” Addie said with an edge to her voice.

  “Doc and the Squire were with me.” Wan Ho said.

  “No one else you can think of?” Tretheway led them.

  “The mayor and his wife were chasing balloons. Together,” Cynthia Moon offered.

  Tretheway waited.

  “Mary Dearlove,” Addie said to the table.

  “What about her?” Tretheway asked.

  “She wasn’t here.”

  Tretheway looked at Jake. “Anybody see her?”

  Everybody exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

  “And where is she now?” Addie looked around.

  “Dancing?” Zoë said.

  “Maybe still gathering news,” Cynthia suggested.

  “Or on a secret tryst,” Garth said.

  Everyone stared at Garth.

  “She’s over twenty-one,” he added defensively.

  “You’re quite right,” Addie said. “Whatever she’s doing, it’s her business.”

  “Anyone for a martini?” Beezul asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Garth accepted.

  Tretheway reached for his Scotch. They began to chat about other things.

  After the last dance and the anthem, everyone was ready to go home. Most were smiling in recognition of another successful Policemen’s Ball. The remaining refreshments were gathered up by their owners. Beezul’s shaker was dry, the Zulps’ gin was long gone and Jake’s rye bottle and Gum’s rum were dead soldiers on the table. Addie packed Tretheway’s half bottle of Scotch and the two untouched bottles of her wine.

  “I see the wine moved slowly again.” Jake winked at Tretheway.

  “I think this is the third year we’ve brought the same bottles,” Tretheway said.

  Addie ignored them.

  As Tr
etheway and Jake struggled into their bulky winter coats, Wan Ho sidled up between them, and spoke quietly.

  “I had my suspicions back there about Mary Dearlove. You two sure you’re not holding back?”

  “Ah,” Jake said. “Good detective like good wine.”

  “Ah,” Tretheway repeated. “Get better with age.”

  “Thank you so much,” Wan Ho bowed.

  Tretheway and Jake smiled.

  “Honestly now,” Wan Ho said. “If I can do anything to help.”

  Tretheway reached out and took Wan Ho’s upper arm, in a firm but friendly grip. “In good time,” he said.

  On Sunday morning Addie vacuumed and dusted the house with the help of two willing student boarders. Jake appeared later. He went straight outside to shovel the four-to-five inches of snow that had fallen overnight. Tretheway slept in longer than anyone, but tidied up his own quarters before he came down for a late substantial breakfast. In the afternoon, he took his customary walk in Coote’s Paradise. This time, Jake, Gum, the Squire and, as usual, Fred the Labrador went with him. Fat Rollo watched disdainfully from his place in front of the fire as the group marched out the front door into the sunny but wintry weather.

  They skirted the university property and entered the woods by the Chegwin trail. At the south shore they headed west toward the beginnings of the old Desjardin Canal. For the next two hours, they saw rabbits, field mice, ground hogs, two chipmunks and countless squirrels which had left their nests to enjoy the March sun. Jake and Gum, former King’s Scouts, identified the tracks of deer and foxes but saw none. Birds were plentiful: they saw starlings, blue jays, crows, circling hawks and had one spectacular sighting of a scarlet male cardinal against a sunlit snowbank. A small number of other congenial hikers shared their woods, but mostly they had the trails and hills to themselves.

  Tretheway set a rigorous pace. Often he had to wait for the others to catch up. And near the end of their walk, they allhad to wait for the Squire’s breath to come back and his stitch to recede. Fred covered four times the distance of everyone else.

  Back at the house, Tretheway pitched into making dinner. Earlier he had put a large roast of beef—a product of their pooled meat ration coupons and a friendly grocer—into the oven. The tantalizing aroma already pervaded the lower floor of the house. Now potatoes were added, large turnips and cabbages set to cooking and a generous dash of Tretheway’s favourite curry for the gravy. It was his custom to cook Sunday dinner. He favored simple fare, English style, competently cooked with large servings—a gourmand’s delight.

  Everybody enjoyed the satisfying meal, except for the Squire. He picked at his food and said he was still recovering from the pain in his side, but Gum more than made up for him. And the student boarders ate as if they were going into hibernation.

  After their guests had left and the students had returned to their studies, the Tretheways and Jake rounded out their day in the quiet of the small parlour. Tretheway sat in his oversized chair, feet stretched out, eyes half closed, puffing contentedly on a large cigar while Jake and Addie enjoyed some tea. Fat Rollo snored in front of the small parlour fire.

  They turned the radio on at eight to laugh with Charlie McCarthy and his country cousins. A half-hour later their mood changed to pleasurable fear with “Inner Sanctum”. They were brought back to reality at nine o’clock by Walter Winchell and the war news, but returned to humorous fantasy when Fred Allen took them on his weekly trip down Allen’s Alley. At ten Jake perked up when the hockey game started. Addie said goodnight and retired. Tretheway turned the game off at eleven to hear “The Hermit’s Cave.” Jake said good night. When a live Benny Goodman show came on, Tretheway lit another cigar and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t like that kind of music but he found it great background for contemplation. For the next while, he blew thinking smoke rings and carefully went over the events of Saturday night.

  At midnight, as usual, he stoked the coal furnace, made the rounds checking windows and doors and patted Fat Rollo on the head hard enough to make him wake up, blinking, and stop snoring. On his way through the kitchen, Tretheway automatically pulled a quart of Molson’s Blue from the ice box. He popped its cap off on the way upstairs to his quarters.

  In the late afternoon, Monday, after an ordinary work day that held no surprises, Tretheway sat at the kitchen table with the Fort York Expositor spread out before him. He still had his uniform trousers on, but had changed into slippers and one of his many emblazoned sweat shirts. This one said, blue on white, “1928 Niagara Falls Police Games. Record Hammer Throw”. Addie busied herself preparing roast beef leftovers while Jake struggled with the full pan of water under the ice box.

  “How’s the war news, boss?” Jake carefully carried the pan over to the sink.

  Tretheway turned back to the first page. “‘Empress of Canada claimed torpedoed again’,” he read the headline.

  “That’s the fourth time she’s been sunk,” Jake chuckled.

  “‘Biggest Battle of Tunisian Campaign’.”

  “I think Monty’s making his move,” Jake said.

  “‘Essen all but destroyed by RAF’.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Albert,” Addie said. “Didn’t anything nice happen?”

  “Not on the front page, Addie,” Tretheway said.

  “Anything on the Policemen’s Ball?” Jake asked.

  “That’s right. It should be in tonight.” Tretheway started leafing through the paper.

  “It’s not there,” Addie bit her tongue.

  “Eh?”

  “There’s no report from Mary Dearlove.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Someone told me,” Addie lied. “I forget who.” She knew Tretheway didn’t like anyone opening the paper before he did.

  “Oh?” Tretheway looked at Addie.

  “Maybe we should call the Expositor” Jake said hastily.

  “Good idea.” Tretheway thought for a moment. “First thing tomorrow.” He turned to the comics.

  They found Mary Dearlove the next morning.

  True to his word, Tretheway was on the phone to the editor of the newspaper when the commotion started. He had just found out that Mary Dearlove hadn’t handed in her column Monday morning, and hadn’t phoned in with any excuse, which was unusual, the editor and Tretheway agreed, because she was just as fussy about punctuality as she was about her appearance.

  “There’s something going on out there,” Jake shouted from the front of the office.

  Tretheway thanked the editor hurriedly and joined Jake at the window almost before Beezul and Zoë did. He looked over the heads of the trio as all four craned to the right. A small crowd had gathered in a ragged circle around someone on the sidewalk close to the main hotel entrance.

  “Someone’s down,” Jake said.

  “A fall?” Beezul asked.

  “I think it’s Luke Dimson,” Zoë said.

  “Let’s get out there.” Tretheway pressed forward. Jake was forced to open the door to relieve the pressure. Outside, although the temperature was rising under a warming sun, a bitter wind made them uncomfortable without their coats. At the scene, Tretheway pushed through the ring of onlookers and squatted down beside the prostrate doorman. He was semi-conscious, arms and legs twitching, eyes rolled back in his head, but breathing. Anything he said, or tried to say, was unintelligible.

  “Is he okay?” Jake peered over Tretheway’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” Tretheway said. “Anybody see what happened?”

  “I did, Inspector.” Frank the barber, who used to be called Francisco but had changed his name because of the war, squatted on the other side of Luke. He wore the white short-sleeved coat of his trade.

  “I was looking out of my window,” Frank pointed over his shoulder unnecessarily—Tretheway and most of his friends were regular customers—“when Luke became upset. Excited. Jumping up and down. Blowing his whistle. And pointing.”

  “Where?”

&nb
sp; “Up. At the sky. Or the hotel.”

  “At what?”

  “I couldn’t tell from where I was. I ran right out. Tried to settle him down. Couldn’t. Then he just went down.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well?” Tretheway asked.

  “I’m trying to remember,” Frank said. “I want to get it right.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. A beat constable arrived.

  “‘She didn’t do it’,” Frank said.

  “That’s it?” Tretheway said.

  “What’s it mean?” Jake asked.

  “‘There’s one too many’,” Frank said.

  “One too many what?” Tretheway became impatient.

  “No,” Frank said. “Luke said that too.”

  “Just a minute.” Tretheway settled down. “Let’s get this straight. Luke said. ‘She didn’t do it’, then, ‘There’s one too many’?”

  Frank nodded. “Then he fell.”

  Tretheway stood up, relieving his leg cramps and moving aside for the ambulance attendants. They checked Luke over quickly, determined no immediate danger and whisked him professionally off to Fort York General. The beat constable moved the crowd along.

  Tretheway stood, arms folded, almost meeting across his girth, staring up at the tall building.

  “He was staring up there, Frank, was he?”

  “That’s about it.” Frank looked over his shoulder. “I got customers.” He disappeared inside his shop.

  “It’s cold. I’m going in.” Beezul left.

  “Me too, “Jake said.

  “Jake,” Tretheway said. “Not just yet.”

  Jake stuck his hands in his pockets and followed his boss’s gaze. Zoë stayed too.

  “‘She didn’t do it’,” Tretheway mused. “What do you suppose that means?”

  The three continued to stare skyward.

  “‘There’s one too many’,” Tretheway went on. “One too many what?”

  “Windows?” Jake suggested.

  “Birds,” Zoë offered. “Maybe nothing to do with the building.”

  “I don’t think so.” Tretheway’s eyes traversed the hotel’s front slowly from left to right; then back again, higher—like a typewriter, Jake thought.

  At a level well above the high-ceilinged mezzanine, where red brick met the grey concrete base of the hotel’s facade, a decorative ledge graced by evenly spaced gargoyles ran around the perimeter. Tretheway stopped suddenly, as though the typewriter had jammed.