Murder on the Thirteenth Page 7

  “See anything?” Jake tried to pinpoint Tretheway’s target.

  “Nip into the office for a pair of binoculars,” Tretheway said without taking his eyes from the building.

  Jake left.

  “What is it?” Zoë asked.

  “Not sure.” Tretheway turned and looked at Zoë Plunkitt. Her eyes were wet and unblinking. She trembled. “Maybe you should go inside.”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “Just cold.”

  Jake reappeared. Tretheway snatched the binoculars from him. Jake felt glad that he hadn’t put the strap around his neck.

  Tretheway wiped the condensation from the eyepieces and snapped them to his eyes. As he slowly swept the grey architectural band, the gargoyles sprang into focus, one after the other. Just enough of the wind-whipped, melting snow had fallen from the ugly mythical creatures to reveal wrinkled misshapen features carved years ago by talented stone masons. Tretheway reached the spot he had been seeking and refocused the binoculars. Except for the snow, Mary Dearlove’s coiffure was as immaculate as when she’d left for the ball. Her wide-open eyes gazed blankly. And her red lips grimaced in a frozen scream as hideous as any of her malformed concrete neighbours.

  Tretheway lowered the binoculars.

  “Gargoyles,” he said. “One too many gargoyles.”

  Feverish activity filled the next two hours. The deceptively simple task of removing Mary Dearlove required a combination of police, medical personnel, hotel staff and a hook and ladder swarming with firemen. With the addition of the Expositor’s photographers and reporters, curious onlookers and Chief Zulp shouting needless commands, the pandemonium continued at fever level.

  The body, stiff from death and hours in below-zero temperatures, proved unwieldy. And the ledge was slippery; practically inaccessible from a window. It had been designed for gargoyles, not for the cumbersome hip boots of the firemen.

  Finally, they freed Mary Dearlove from her resting place. A strange silence fell over the throng as two firemen carried her down the aerial ladder into the dark privacy of the coroner’s vehicle.

  Tretheway watched stiffly; so did Jake and Beezul. Zoë Plunkitt cried.

  “We need a talk,” Tretheway said.

  Everyone waited.

  “Jake. Get hold of Wan Ho. And Doc Nooner. We’ll meet tonight. Eight o’clock. At our place.”

  Jake scribbled in his notebook.

  “Can I help?” Zoë asked.

  “I’m free,” Beezul offered.

  Tretheway shook his head. “Not yet. But thanks, anyway.”

  They met in the parlour. Addie set out a fresh service of tea and several heavy slabs of the yellow cake with yellow icing that Tretheway favoured. She punched up a few cushions, patted Fat Rollo, and left, sliding the double doors closed behind her.

  Tretheway started the meeting, “Thanks for coming. The first thing I should do is tell you two about a conversation I had with Mary Dearlove Saturday night. He looked at Jake. “And then, what we did after that.”

  “Instead of catching balloons,” Wan Ho said.

  “That’s right.” Jake smiled.

  “All I ask is that you hold all your questions until I’m finished,” Tretheway said.

  He gave a concise but adequately detailed account. It began with Mary Dearlove’s early evening innuendoes and ended with the two dishevelled law officers back at the party table.

  When Wan Ho was sure Tretheway had finished, he started the questions.

  “Is that why you wanted to know who was missing? When we were catching the balloons?”

  Tretheway nodded.

  “And no one was missing?”

  Tretheway shrugged.

  “You went up the fire escape? At night?” Doc Nooner said. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”

  “No,” Tretheway said. “A piece of cake.”

  Jake looked straight ahead.

  “That puts a different light on it,” Wan Ho said.

  “In what way?” Tretheway asked.

  “Right now the investigation has Mary Dearlove with too much to drink, going into a room on the twelfth floor, opening the window to clear her head and falling out. An accident. Simple as that.”

  “Which room?”

  “Probably one of the party rooms on the twelfth.”

  “How’d she get in?”

  “Could’ve been open.”

  “And nobody saw her?”

  “Everyone was on the dance floor.”

  “You don’t believe that.” Tretheway shook his head. “But I suppose that’s the official conclusion of the Investigation?” Everyone knew “the Investigation” was a synonym for Zulp.

  “In all fairness,” Wan Ho said, “up until now no one, including Zulp, had any reason to go on the roof. And even now…”

  “What about the tracks?” Jake said.

  “If I remember,” Wan Ho said, “it snowed later that night.”

  “No tracks,” Tretheway admitted.

  “And you really didn’t see anything,” Wan Ho persisted.

  “All right,” Tretheway said. “In that case, let’s keep this meeting unofficial. Just between the four of us.”

  “Or five.” Jake looked at Fat Rollo.

  “More like five and a half.” Doc Nooner poked Fat Rollo’s stomach. Fat Rollo hissed.

  “Your turn, Doc,” Jake said. “Can you add anything?”

  “How about the autopsy? Anything we don’t know?” Tretheway said.

  “There were a couple of things,” Doc Nooner began, “but the body itself held no surprises. Its condition, broken bones, contusions, was consistent with a fall from that height. Killed instantly. No other wounds. However…” He paused. “Her left hand was tightly clenched. Took us a while to open it. To see what was in it.”

  “And?” Tretheway said.

  “A rabbit’s foot.”

  “Eh?”

  “And it wasn’t any cute little key chain. Hacked right off.”

  “Could it be the one from the Gore Park episode?” Tretheway looked at Wan Ho.

  “Could be,” he said.

  “And what did the Investigation make of that?” Jake asked.

  “That Mary Dearlove was very superstitious.”

  “News to me,” Tretheway said.

  “I can’t imagine Mary Dearlove keeping an animal’s dirty leg around,” Jake said.

  “You said two things, Doc,” Tretheway said.

  “Yes,” Doc said. “Probably not important. But,” he pointed at Tretheway, “you asked. She had a substance on her face. And arms, upper chest. Not too much of it. But noticeable.”

  “Substance?” Tretheway repeated.

  They waited.

  “Lard.”

  They waited again.

  “Lard. Shortening. Chicken fat. We haven’t put it under the microscope yet, but we’re pretty sure.”

  “I’m not even going to ask what Zulp said about that one,” Tretheway said.

  “Exhaust fan,” Doc explained. “There’s a kitchen exhaust fan not far from where the body landed. Maybe some…”

  “Oh, come on,” Tretheway scoffed.

  “You got a better explanation?” Doc Nooner looked around. “Anyone?”

  No one answered. Jake scratched Fat Rollo and started him purring. Wan Ho poured tea for everyone. They polished off the yellow cake. Tretheway ate most of it.

  For the rest of the meeting they cleaned up details. Luke was in shock. He was under sedation but would recover, Doc Nooner said. Zulp considered the case closed. He said it was a terrible thing. And that there should be something done about excessive drinking at official occasions, a recommendation that would be long forgotten by the time of the next Policemen’s Ball.

  At the meeting’s end, Tretheway lit a cigar.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve lost a good friend in Mary Dearlove.” He took a few puffs. “But she’s given us something to think about.”

  They adjourned to the kitchen.

  C
hapter Six

  The passing of Mary Dearlove was marked, as it is in most civilized societies, by a funeral that reflected the former existence of a relatively prominent citizen. The Mayor spoke. Senior police officials attended, plus all the ARW’s and most of the prominent families of Fort York. A Baptist minister eulogized Mary Dearlove. He went on at length about the tragic accident, the waste of it, how she would be missed, and dwelt exclusively on her positive qualities, avoiding the official demon rum theory that most people downplayed anyway.

  By the end of March, the event had been pushed into the back of people’s minds by the business of living and the war. It was impossible, and unpatriotic, to forget the conflict, but diversions were necessary. People enjoyed romance on the “Lux Radio Theatre” or” Ma Perkins”. They laughed at Fibber McGee and Molly and shared in the “Adventures of the Falcon”.

  On the silver screen, Red Skelton clowned for everyone in IDood It. People wept at My Friend Flicka or sat through desperate attempts at escapism like Mexican Spitfire’s Elephantwith Lupe Velez.

  People were reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, The Human Comedy or Lloyd C. Douglas’s The Robe. For lighter fare there was always “Popeye the Sailor”, “Moon Mullins” or “The Gumps” in the comic section of the local newspaper. And some found temporary respite in the humour of everyday news items. But you had to search for them.

  “I found one.” Jake was reading a section of the FY Expositor, April fourteenth. He was in the kitchen with Tretheway and Beezul, who was staying for supper. They each had a part of the paper. Addie bustled about preparing the meal.

  “‘Large Gold Painted Cow’s Head Stolen from East End Butcher Shop’.” Jake looked up, smiling. “How’s that?”

  “Not bad,” Tretheway nodded.

  “What on earth will they do with it?” Addie asked.

  “Here’s another.” Beezul read the headline. “‘Shell from British Warship Lands in Boston Graveyard’.”

  “On purpose?” Jake grinned.

  “No,no.” Beezul read on. “Apparently they were cleaning the gun.”

  “And nobody knew it was loaded,” Jake chuckled. Even Addie Smiled.

  “Here’s one,” Tretheway said. “And this is funny. ‘Man Cranks Car. Car Starts and Runs Over Him’.”

  Oh Albert,” Addie said.

  Jake and Beezul laughed.

  “He wasn’t hurt, Addie.”

  “I’ve got one close to home,” Jake said. ‘“Thieves Grab Bag of Hair’.”

  “Close to home?” Tretheway asked.

  “The barber shop in the hotel,” Jake said.

  “Frank’s?”

  “That’s right.

  “I was in there yesterday,” Beezul said.

  “Read on,” Tretheway said.

  “It says,” Jake ran his fingers over the lines of type, “there were two bags. One the day’s receipts. One the sweepings. Someone broke in and, I guess, stole the wrong bag.”

  “With the hair?” Tretheway asked.

  Jake nodded.

  “I’ll bet they were surprised when they got it home.” Addie said.

  “I think I’ve got the winner,” Beezul announced. He smoothed the paper out in front of him on the kitchen table. “ ‘Set of Five Heavy Lawn Bowls Found In Stomach of Cow’.”

  “Good Lord,” Addie said.

  “But how could a cow…” Jake began.

  “That’s what it says,” Beezul said.

  “How did they find them?” Addie asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Beezul said.

  Addie didn’t press her point.

  “That’s the winner then.” Tretheway folded up his section.

  Beezul smiled as he collected the pieces of paper and took them into the family room. Addie disappeared downstairs to the root cellar for more spuds. Tretheway gazed out the back window. The snow had all melted away. There was a hint of gold in the willow trees and the grass was greener now than it had been a week ago. A black crow swaggered across the flagstone path cawing raucously.

  “Something bothering you?” Jake asked his boss.

  “The barber shop item,” Tretheway said. “Doesn’t sit right.”

  “Why not?”

  “The two bags. They’d feel different. Why wouldn’t they look inside? And take the right one?”

  Jake thought for a moment. “Then it wouldn’t be funny.”

  “You’re right.” Tretheway smiled. “Not as funny as the lawn bowls.” He stood up and headed for the ice box.

  Chapter Seven

  An incident occurred on Thursday, May thirteenth, that definitely steered the thoughts of the Fort York populace away from the war. Unlike the radio shows or movies, the incident was not funny.

  A beat constable discovered Squire Middleton at dawn in the centre of the city’s main downtown intersection, King and James. He lay flat on his back, quite dead. According to the FY Expositor, “His outstretched arms and legs formed (if you included his head as the fifth point) a crude but obvious pentacle. In each clutching hand rested a pop-eyed owl. Both had been squeezed to death in the last paroxysms of a dying man. The horrible expression on the decease’s face matched that of Mary Dearlove and her grinning gargoyle companions of mid-March. And both mysterious deaths occurred on the thirteenth of the month.”

  Beneath the Expo’s purple prose lay a basic truth: Squire Middleton was dead; had been found in most unusual circumstances, at dawn, on the thirteenth, with the dead owls. No one could argue against these facts. But people began to believe conjecture. Rumours flooded the city. Mass hysteria was fueled by tales of everything from satanic Nazi paratroopers to extraterrestrial beings. Everyone had a wild theory—or almost everyone.

  “I can’t swallow it.” Tretheway sat in his office with Jake, Beezul and Zoë Plunkitt. Wan Ho had provoked the impromptu meeting when he had walked in to bring them up to date. It was late afternoon, Friday.

  “Can’t swallow what?” Jake said.

  “The mumbo jumbo. The owls. Thepentacle. The whole witchcraft thing. It just doesn’t fit in with the Squire.” Tretheway looked at Wan Ho. “Do you know the cause of death yet?”

  “Heart attack,” Wan Ho answered. “Doc Nooner says it could’ve been caused by fright. Zulp suggested some sort of ceremony. Or ritual.”

  “At King and James?”

  Wan Ho shrugged.

  “How’d he get there?”

  “We’re working on it. There’s a blank from eleven to dawn. We don’t know where he was.”

  “Where was he at eleven?”

  “Finishing his shift.” Wan Ho explained. “At eleven o’clock, the Squire presumably locked up his street car. At the west end of the line. The loop. Then walked home. But he never arrived.”

  “Who saw him?”

  Wan Ho consulted his notebook. “A police cruiser. At ten-fifty-five. They waved at each other. That would be just before he parked his street car.”

  “And after that?”

  “No one. “ Wan Ho checked his book again. “At five-thirty a.m. the day conductor opened up the car. It was empty. Nothing amiss. He drove it right through the city. Eventually to the east end. About five miles.”

  “Past King and James?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Just before the sun came up.”

  “And you say,” Tretheway persisted, “still nothing amiss?”

  “Correct. He picked up some early shift workers at different stops, but saw nothing unusual along the way. Even at King and James.”

  “There must be something else.”

  “What about his bag?” Jake asked. “The old school bag he kept his stuff in?”

  “I’m coming to that,” Wan Ho said defensively. “A passerby found it. At the end of the McKittrick Bridge curve. On the sidewalk. At first light.”

  “That’s about a mile before King and James?”

  “That’s right,” Wan Ho said. “Still on the streetcar line.”

>   Tretheway ran out of questions.

  “What now?” Jake asked.

  “As Inspector Renault said in Casablanca, “Round up the usual suspects’.” Wan Ho looked tired.

  “And who might that be?” Zoë Plunkitt said, with a smile.

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Eh?”

  “Zulp has a new theory.” Wan Ho had their attention. “One of the Air Raid Wardens is a spy. A Nazi. He or she is knocking off the other ARW’s. A plot against the Canadian Civil Defense. Starting in Fort York.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Tretheway said.

  “He’s outdone himself,” Jake said.

  Zoë was speechless.

  “I said you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Surely you don’t believe it,” Tretheway said.

  “The Nazi spy thing, no. But in fairness to Zulp, Mary Dearlove and the Squire were ARW’s.”

  “But so am I,” Beezul said.

  “Me too,” Zoë said.

  “So tell me where you were Wednesday night,” Wan Ho said; then more softly, “just for the record.”

  “You asked the others?” Jake said.

  “Yep. Garth Dingle, Gum, Pat Sprong, Cynthia, Tremaine. Even Doc Nooner.”

  “And?” Tretheway said.

  “They all say they were in bed,” Wan Ho said. “And can’t prove it.”

  “You didn’t ask me,” Beezul said.

  “Okay. Where were you?”

  Beezul smiled sheepishly. “In bed.”

  “Anybody see you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Join the club.”

  “What about me?” Zoë Plunkitt asked.

  “You were away,” Wan Ho.said.

  “You know?” Zoë went pale. “And I suppose you know where I went?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know you weren’t here.”

  “I was in New England. I always go there.” Her lips pressed tightly together. “A town called Danvers.”

  “Take it easy, Zoë” Wan Ho said soothingly. “Look at it this way. You’re the only one with an iron-clad alibi.”

  “Well…” The colour returned to her cheeks.