The Lady Burns Bright

by Warren Court

  “No need to stop on my account,” he said. “Man’s gotta eat.”

  “What floor, sir?” the teenager said.

  “Top floor, please.”

  “Right. Top floor.” He slid the gate closed.

  “It’s bad out there,” Armour said to him as the elevator slowly ground its way up the tracks.

  “It sure is, sir. They lit into us good. My friend Arnold, he works in the mail room and as a security guard on the weekends. He got hit by one of those signs, and then a policeman laid him out with his club. Some of the men who work here rescued us before they got me.”

  “Terrible.”

  “It’s heating up. Word has it, though, that the commissioner is going to give in, give the contracts to the union. They should go away then.”

  “I bet they will,” Armour said as they reached the top floor.

  Armour had a nickel ready and tipped the young man.

  The commissioner’s reception was empty. In his office, Armour saw Chambers and another man standing at the windows looking down at the battle below. Armour noticed that the word “Acting” had been removed from the frosted glass door to Chambers’ office.

  “Would you look at that? Jesus. Brutal,” Chambers said.

  “You sure you want to give in to this mob?” the man next to him said.

  “I’m not giving in. That is just a violent section of the group. Most are decent people.”

  “Ahem,” Armour said, and both men spun around quickly.

  “Who are you?”

  “Armour Black. We met a few days ago. I helped you with your desk. I’m investigating Mr. Holt’s disappearance.”

  “Oh, right. This is a heck of a time. How did you get through all that?”

  “I slipped through the lines. I have it in with the cops.”

  “Do you indeed? Harry, I’ll talk to you later.”

  Harry glared at Armour as he left.

  “So, how do you have it in with the cops?”

  “I used to be one. It helps open doors.”

  “And get through picket lines,” the commissioner said. He sat down and started going through some papers on his desk.

  “I see you’ve been confirmed.”

  “Yes. It hasn’t been made public yet.”

  “Congratulations. Big responsibility. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. You’re going to give those contracts to the union?”

  “In a limited capacity to start. Despite what’s going on outside. Look, I am a busy man—"

  “What about the Pappanillos?”

  The blood drained from Chambers’ face. “Who?”

  “The mob that was paying off your predecessor. Keeping the unions out, giving the contracts to their firms.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Don’t you? You’d better. They’re not a very pleasant crowd. They may have killed Holt.”

  The commissioner scoffed. “He was no threat to them.”

  “So, you admit your predecessor was in cahoots with them?”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “The money – that’s all I want to know about. The missing money. Where did it come from? Where did it go? I’ve been hired to retrieve it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

  “Did you take it? There. I’m not insinuating anything. I’m asking.”

  There was a commotion outside the office. Armour turned and in the doorway was Inspector Tomkins. There were two red-faced constables backing him up.

  “We should have them cleared out of here soon, Fred,” Tomkins said before he saw Armour standing there. “Armour, what the hell are you doing up here?”

  “You came in just in time,” Chambers said.

  “If you took that money, I can’t protect you,” Armour said under his breath.

  “Get him out of here, would you, Tomkins?”

  Armour felt the strong arms of the two constables on him.

  “A girl’s life depends on it. Give them back the money,” Armour said.

  The constables dragged Armour to the elevator. It was still at the top; the cops pulled the attendant out and stuffed Armour in. Chambers followed after them. The cops hurled the attendant down the hallway, where he collided with Chambers.

  “Get off me, you black bastard,” Chambers said, and he pushed the young kid out of the way. Armour made to lunge off the elevator and get at Chambers, but Tomkins shoved him back into the elevator car and closed the doors.

  “You’re poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Armour,” Tomkins said.

  “I’m on a case. I have a licence.”

  “Not for long. Going to get that pulled the minute I get back to my desk. Going to throw you in jail, too, if you insist on harassing that man.”

  “You always do Chambers’ bidding? What else has he gotten you to do?”

  Tomkins bristled but said nothing.

  Outside, Armour was hustled through the police line and through the wooden barriers. The police had overcome the strikers, and the only union members left were lying on the ground, unconscious. He could see a group of mounted officers in the distance harassing the retreating men. Two police officers were being treated for injuries, their blood splattered on the ground before them.

  Armour parked across the street from his office and backtracked to Billy’s newsstand for a copy of the Globe. On the front page was a small article about the shootout in Kingston. It did not have many details – Armour could have written a better description of the mayhem – but it had a photo of Foley. This photo looked more like a mug shot than the one Armour had stolen from the speakeasy. Maybe this was the only type of picture this man had been capable of taking.

  The article said the dead man was known to police and a suspected sympathizer with rebel elements in Toronto. He’d had over nine hundred dollars in cash on him. Nine hundred – maybe that was part of the missing fifty grand, Armour thought as he mounted the steps to his office building.

  He was pleased to see Olive had returned.

  “You survived,” she said. “I’m so glad.”

  “Olive,” he said.

  “I’m quitting, Mr. Black. I just came back to get my things and leave you a note.”

  “I’ll give you severance.”

  “That would be appreciated. And a reference, if you could.”

  “Of course. There is one thing you could do for me.” She looked at him reluctantly. “Could you phone somebody at precisely six o’clock this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It would help me a great deal. Hold on. I’ll get the number.”

  She sat back down and put her purse on her desk. Armour came back with a slip of paper.

  “Call this number precisely at six pm. You don’t even have to make the call from here. Ask the woman who answers about subscriptions to newspapers or buying a new furnace – anything to keep her talking.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Best you don’t know. And don’t ask for her name. Just keep her on for a minute; that’s all I’ll need. But precisely at six tonight.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Black. This sounds kind of fishy.”

  “It’s very fishy, but I need to catch a break.”

  “Okay. What about that severance?”

  “Right – petty cash. Take all of it. It’s yours.”

  “Geez, that’s swell.” Her eyes widened. “Six o’clock. Okay. I guess I can make the call from the diner next to my apartment.”

  Chapter 28

  The Holt residence looked even larger from around the back. There was a gravel laneway bordered with high wooden fences. He peered through the slats and saw the back door to the house. He tried the gate; it was open.

  The lawn was well manicured with a stone bird bath and cherubs. Hanging on the fence was a metal decoration about the size of a trash can lid. It was a depiction of the solar system with a smiling sun i
n the centre surrounded by the planets: beaming Venus and smiling Earth and frowning Mars. There was a potting shed and a glassed-in sun porch coming off the rear of the house. Armour held his head high and walked across the lawn like he belonged there, in case anyone was watching him from the neighbouring houses. Instead of rapping on the back door, he stood in the shadow of the potting shed, pretending to study its contents through a dusty side window. He was glad that the apparently super-strong Belmont, Holt’s gardener, was not around.

  Armour checked his watch; it was ten minutes to six. He had made sure to synchronize his pocket watch with Olive’s slender silver wristwatch, a gift from her fiancé. Armour wished he had met the young man.

  He heard a car coming down the laneway. Then there were voices on the other side of the back door to the house. Panicking, Armour ducked into the potting shed. He heard the back door open.

  “Farewell, Elizabeth,” said a man’s voice. “Never stop praying for your husband.”

  “Thank you, Monsignor.”

  The monsignor, accompanied by two priests, crossed the yard and went through the gate. Armour waited until he heard the car, which had come to get them, drive off before emerging from his hiding spot.

  He made it to the back door just as the phone started to ring. He hoped that Mrs. Holt had only the one phone, the elegant pink model he’d seen in her sitting room. The ringing did sound significantly muffled, indicating it was at the front of the house.

  He entered through the back door just as Mrs. Holt got to it. He counted to five while she spoke with Olive.

  “No, sorry. What number were you trying to ring?”

  Perfect. Armour closed the door behind him and made it down into the basement with barely a sound. Though he couldn’t make out what she was saying, he could hear an increasingly agitated Mrs. Holt speaking with Olive. Then there was the slam of the phone down onto its stand.

  He heard her walk across the floor, then nothing. She was either standing there quietly – maybe she had heard him – or she had gone upstairs.

  Armour felt his way around the fruit cellar. His hands touched the wooden crates along the side of the wall and he slid his feet slowly along the cement floor, trying not to knock anything over.

  There was only sparse light, coming from a few slit windows along one wall at ground level and shielded by window wells with boards over them. His eyes did adjust eventually, and he made it to the altar room. The smell of burnt candle wax was still strong. There were no windows in this room, so he turned on the overhead light and was shocked yet again to see the statue of Jesus staring down at him. It was so lifelike. Giving him that watchful eye. Or, as Gim had said, the protecting eye. It didn’t look like it was protecting Armour at the moment, though; just casting scorn and suspicion on him. He was desecrating a grave. A secret grave, but a grave nonetheless.

  He crouched down and felt the concrete. It was such a poor job it was already peeling away. And he could see where the patch job ended and older concrete near the walls surrounded it. The patch of new concrete was just a bit larger than the size of a coffin, Armour thought. Not that he believed they had gone to the trouble of putting Holt into a casket before they’d buried him here.

  What was he going to do here, start digging it up? With what? How much noise would that make? No, he just wanted to confirm his suspicions. This floor had recently been laid and it was a rush job. What could have necessitated that other than a body being buried here in a hurry? She wouldn’t be able to hide this, and the police would be very interested in it.

  Goddamn her, Armour muttered. Goddamn me. He was ashamed of himself for having thought about Elizabeth Holt in anything other than a professional manner, never mind that she was Bess’s lookalike. And not to mention his feelings for Melanie…

  Then realization hit him: Elizabeth Holt couldn’t have done it alone; nor could it have been done without her knowing about it. There must have been help. He would have to find who that was if he was going to go to the police.

  He thought some more. The fifty grand – maybe her friend Foley? Had he been in on it? Had his price been the fifty G’s?

  He heard the door to the basement open and he pulled on the lightbulb’s cord, plunging the shrine room into darkness. There were multiple people on the steps down to the basement now, and he heard Elizabeth Holt say, “They’re down here.”

  Armour was trapped like a rat, caught in a subterranean church. He flattened himself against the wall beside the doorway and could see the glinting outlines of a large candlestick on a shelf. It was brass and damn heavy. He picked it up and held it ready.

  There was another voice, but he couldn’t hear what was being said, only Mrs. Holt’s reply.

  “There are six cases,” she said, and switched on the bare bulb in the fruit cellar.

  “There were supposed to be eight,” the man said. Armour recognized the Irish accent but not the voice; it bounced off the damp stone walls of the cold cellar.

  “I don’t know anything about eight. He brought six in, then left.”

  “Where’s the rest of the money? We paid for eight; we’re expecting eight,” the man said.

  “I don’t know anything about it. He asked for a favour. This was it.”

  “He blew that money at the track, but he couldn’t have blown all of it,” the man said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Holt said.

  “Can you keep these for a few more days? Till things cool down.”

  “I want them out of here. I’m afraid to ask what’s in them. I want them gone.”

  “A few more days. That’s all the struggle asks.”

  The cold cellar was plunged into darkness once more, and Holt and her guest ascended the stairs. Armour waited another ten minutes until the floor above him was silent again.

  He needed to know what was in those crates but he didn’t dare turn on the light in the fruit cellar. He took the sharp edge of the candlestick he’d been holding and, by the dim light coming in the dusty windows, used it to pry up the lid on the closest box. It was filled to the brim with wood shavings; he pulled some of them up and smelled gun grease. He plunged his hands in deeper and came up with the cold steel of a M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle.

  Chapter 29

  It was dark by the time Armour got back to his office. Olive had cleared out her things. From his window Armour could see the glow of the lights from the Pegasus Theatre. He could almost hear the music; it was eight o’clock, show time. He wondered if their breakup might affect her performance. No, he told himself. She’s a pro and the show must go on.

  He toyed with the idea of getting a ticket and hiding up near the rafters like he’d done that first time, just to keep an eye on her. He shook that idea out of his head. She was in danger because of this missing money. His time would be better spent trying to find it.

  The Irish Association Hall in Cabbagetown was packed with people. There was a dance on. A band on stage was playing a jig.

  Armour paid two bits to enter. It was for a worthy cause, the girl at the door said, and she looped a paper shamrock through his lapel buttonhole. Armour had a good idea what that cause might be. He had been following the uprising in Ireland sporadically. He couldn’t avoid it; every time he looked at a paper there was a headline about it.

  The music stopped and a man ascended the stage and grabbed the microphone. He started in on a political speech about the Brits and the boys back home. It didn’t take long for the crowd to break into applause and hoots and hollers.

  “And I tell ya, brothers,” he said, “the fight will go on until we have our own country and we drive the Brits out of Ireland, back to where they came from.”

  The crowd erupted in more applause and shouts. Armour saw Reagan, up against a wall near the stage with two other men. Armour was certain one of them had been the trigger man in Kingston. The cheering reached a crescendo and the speaker left the stage to be swarmed by men trying to pat his back and shake his hand.

  T
here was food and drink laid on, and Reagan’s men went over to it to load up some paper plates. Reagan stayed put, watching, always watching. He spied Armour coming at him from across the floor.

  “You come for the cabbage rolls and coffee, boyo?”

  “No,” Armour said. “I was hoping to see you here.”

  “Cabbage rolls, best in the city. Mrs. Dennie makes ’em.”

  “You know this man?” Armour showed him the clipping of Foley.

  “Careful, boyo.”

  “Were you there when your cause took him down in Kingston? I didn’t see you. Were you in another car? Controlling things?”

  Armour felt the presence of the two men on either side of him. They put their plates down on a desk and stood ready.

  “Why don’t we talk somewhere quiet, friend?” Reagan said.

  Armour followed Reagan into a back room. He had wisely left the revolver in his car, afraid something like this might happen. When they were alone, one of Reagan’s goons frisked him but came up with nothing, just his wallet. The man doing the frisking was strong, and he flipped the wallet open so Reagan could see it.

  “Private investigator. You were telling the truth. That name – Black, Armour Black. You Irish, Mr. Black?” Reagan said.

  “My mother can trace her roots back to the old country, yes.”

  “Isn’t that nice. What do you want with Foley?”

  “I was hired to locate him.”

  “You found him, in Kingston. A little aired out.” The men on either side of him laughed.

  “Now I’m looking for the fifty grand he stole from Holt.” Armour didn’t mention the source of the money, though he suspected Reagan’s mob knew of the connection to Pappanillo.

  “Lot of money. Boys overseas could use that kind of money.”

  “Buy a lot of machine guns with that?”

  “Sure – machine guns, Bren guns, maxim guns, hand grenades. All sorts of nasty things. I bet they’d love to get their hands on a war surplus flame thrower.” Again, Reagan’s men laughed.

  “You stole the money the Italians were paying the commissioner, had your associate there, Foley, steal it and give it to you. But he took some for himself. Spent it at the track. And on his women.”