The Lady Burns Bright

by Warren Court

  “You found the yacht where?”

  “That direction.” He pointed east of the marina.” Other side of the Islands. About two miles offshore, rolling in the chop. She would have washed up onshore eventually. A real blow was picking up. She would have been damaged quite a bit. That would have been a shame. Damn fine vessel.”

  “Could the dory have washed up on the island?”

  “I know that members of the RC searched the southern shore of the island looking for the body. No one ever reported finding a body, of course, or any small boats.”

  “RC?”

  “Royal Canadian Yacht Club. Their clubhouse is on Ward’s Island. Snooty lot. I worked there one summer. That was enough for me.”

  “Begs the question, though, why Holt didn’t keep his yacht with the rest of society’s best.”

  “Because to get to it he would have had to cross the water.” Garrison laughed.

  “He was that afraid of the water?”

  “Oh, yes. He went out on the dock over there to inspect the dredgers one day.” Garrison nodded at the area where the first battle with the strikers and their breakers had occurred, where Armour had met Reagan. Things were calm over there now.

  “He was green by the time the inspection ended. Couldn’t get off that dock fast enough.”

  Armour thanked Garrison and left.

  Chapter 39

  The water taxi was a low-slung affair, and Armour was nervous when a rather plump woman and two small kids climbed into the craft with him. The fare was five cents over to the Island with a return ticket.

  The operator of the fifteen-foot craft showed no distress as his gunwales sank perilously close to the waterline. Armour tried to calm himself. Much like Holt, he was not a water person. It was just a minute’s ride over to Ward’s Island; he could steel himself for this epic journey. He was on a quest, he told himself. Suck it up.

  A boy on the dock untied the water taxi’s bow line and the operator pushed off against the greasy pier. The temperature had changed quickly. A foghorn sounded and there was the churning of a water wheel as a larger ferry chugged its way back to its mainland moorings. Armour could have waited for it, but the water taxi operator had sold him on the convenience of dropping him off right at the club.

  Boats somewhere in the fog hooted and honked. The operator put the small motor on his craft to full throttle and plowed through the choppy waters of the channel.

  The white mist gave way to the outline of land and then the jutting piers of Ward’s Island. A large shape rose out of the mist: the RC’s clubhouse, a two-story affair with a balcony running around the entire structure. Dark wooden beams. Flags of empire and the province hung lazily.

  The boys were excited and rushed to the bow of the craft. Their mother was peeling an apple and ignored them. The soiled and sodden kapok life preservers were left unused under the water taxi’s benches.

  A man came out to help. The taxi operator asked Armour to toss the bow line to him. When the taxi was tied off, Armour couldn’t have been happier to disembark. He would definitely be taking the ferry home.

  The club was set back from the shore. A cool breeze from the east had picked up, and the fog was diminished here. There were several docks jutting out immediately in front of the clubhouse, surrounded by beautiful yachts and sailboats, motor cruisers like Holt’s. Then, to the left and out of the way, were a string of dinghies with several teenagers getting them sorted for a sail if the fog lifted. They paid him no mind, as their conversations were about girls.

  There was one last jetty far from the others. It was unused; no boats were tied to it and the wood was greyed and breaking apart. It ran out into the lake for forty feet. Beyond it was a stand of birch trees.

  Being thorough, Armour walked over and checked the jetty out. He was about to turn around and head back to the clubhouse when he noticed the sleek, uniform shape of a small boat jammed up under the dock. Armour boarded the dock; it was tippy and he steadied himself. He could see that the pilings at the end of it were completely rotten and the end of the dock was floating free.

  He got to where the small craft was and squatted down. It was the size of a rowboat. He waited for the dock to settle before leaning over to look at it. There was gold flashing along one side of it. He grabbed the skiff’s gunwale and pulled hard. The boat would not budge. He rocked back on his heels to shift the weight on the dock and tried again. Nothing.

  He looked around. No one was watching him. He got down into the water. It came up to his hips. With his weight off the dock, the boat came out with a screech of wood on wood. He could read the gold lettering now: Rosalie. He moved to the transom and saw the name Madison. Armour pulled himself back onto the rickety dock and sat looking down at the boat. There was a foot of water in it and half a dozen stones the size of bowling balls to weigh it down so it could go under the dock.

  After some contemplation, Armour jumped back down into the water and jammed the dinghy back into its spot. The boys meddling with their sailboats gave him funny looks as he walked, soaking wet from the waist down, back to the clubhouse and down the path to the ferry.

  Chapter 40

  Police headquarters was filled with people. Armour could barely get in the door. In the centre of the lobby was a man hunched over a camera on a tripod with a shroud over his head. He was holding up a flash bar. The camera was pointed at a group of twenty young men in two rows, the front row kneeling and the back one standing. All of them were in dark suits, with their hair cut close and serious but proud looks on their faces. In the middle of the rear row was a police officer in dress uniform. Armour figured him for the chief. At the end of that back row stood Inspector Tomkins. He was too busy to notice Armour.

  “What’s this?” Armour asked a man standing next to him.

  “New recruit class. Just got sworn in. My son is second from the left, front row.”

  The photographer triggered the flash bar and the room lit up with bright light. Then the group of men broke up and formed a single line in front of the chief. He addressed the new recruits in a short speech about the pride of the force continuing, the expectations of the city and the people who lived here depending on them. Then there was applause. There were some older couples in the audience, mothers and fathers of the young men.

  The chief shook hands with each of the new recruits and then departed. Tomkins took over. Armour remained hidden at the back of the crowd.

  “Okay, boys. Sergeant Cunnel here is going to take you downstairs to the quartermaster, where you’ll get outfitted with your uniforms and badges. Well done.”

  Tomkins shook every man’s hand as they walked past him, and they formed another line. Another officer came up to Tomkins and he was led away.

  Armour skirted around the crowd that was already dispersing. The press started to pack up. Armour joined the line of recruits. More of them fell in behind him after speaking briefly with their families.

  “All right, pipe down,” Sergeant Cunnel said. “Say goodbye to your mothers, boys. You belong to me now,” he said, laughing. One woman scoffed and the recruits and Armour marched through a door to the basement.

  The sergeant caught Armour’s arm.

  “Wait a second. Your haircut – that’s not regulation.”

  “No, Sergeant. I’ll attend to it first thing.”

  The sergeant gave him a funny look, bordering on recognition, and then let him go. “See that you do.”

  Armour resumed the march into headquarters’ basement. Just before he went through the door, he heard the sergeant say,” Come on, Tyler. You’ll see your sweetheart soon enough. It’s just an eight-hour shift, not like we’re shipping you off to war, for heaven’s sake.”

  Armour followed the recruits down into the dusty basement. The ceiling was low and along one wall of the corridor was a line of tables piled with clothing and other kit.

  There was a constable behind a short desk at the front of the supplies. When Armour got up to him, the constab
le, without looking up, asked for his name.

  “Tyler,” Armour said.

  The constable scratched the name off and Armour moved down the line to another constable who looked through a pile of clothes and handed Armour a bundle. Then on top of it went a British-style bobby hat, a billy club, heavy steel handcuffs and a little paper envelope marked Keys. A leather belt with a couple of pouches fixed to it was piled onto Armour’s outstretched hands. Finally, Armour was handed a canvas bag with something weighty in it.

  “Don’t get too fond of that,” the constable said. “It’ll be locked up until you muster out.”

  Armour, now loaded down, followed the recruit class down the hallway, where they were turning left into a change room. Armour said a silent apology to Police Cadet Tyler and kept right on going, back up a flight of stairs at the end of the hall and out a rear exit.

  Armour could not believe his luck when he dumped his ill-gotten booty into the passenger seat of his car. What daring. What would Melanie say? With a large grin on his face, he drove away.

  He pulled over two blocks away from the station to inspect the one item he most wanted. The police special revolver felt good in his hands. There were a dozen stubby bullets in the satchel as well, and he loaded the weapon and put it into the empty holster he still wore. It fit nicely.

  His original intent on going to headquarters had been to beg a firearm from Tomkins, as he felt decidedly naked without one. He hadn’t been sure if he was going to mention the missing dory that he’d found stashed under that pier on the island.

  But having seen Tomkins in the headquarters lobby, he’d realized that would have been a fool’s errand that probably would have landed him in jail. Not that he wasn’t well on his way there after pulling that stunt in the basement.

  Armour parked in front of his office and left the stolen uniform and other kit tucked in the footwell. He noticed a man on a ladder working on the Pegasus’ sign. The man climbed down and went in the theatre, then suddenly, in the quickening twilight of that fall night, the lights of the marquee came alive. Armour had to shield his eyes, and when he looked back at the sign, he saw the change the man had made. Last Two Nights had been added in bulbs below The Adorable Saucettes Review. The show was ending earlier than expected.

  Billy was manoeuvring the wooden slats down over his newsstand as Armour approached. “What’s the matter, Armour? You eating over in Chinatown again? Told you to lay off that.”

  “They’re closing the show.”

  “What, that?” Billy nodded at the Pegasus. “Yeah, there’ll be another show in next week. They move ’em in and move ’em out quick over there. The customers get tired of seeing the same girls.”

  “She’s leaving in two days,” Armour muttered. He remembered his deadline: the clock was ticking on his forty-eight hours to find Holt’s body and claim the reward. He figured that Pappanillo hadn’t actually made note of the time when Armour had negotiated that extension out of him. And if Melanie’s last show was tomorrow night, that would mean that Pappanillo’s boys would make good on their threat when she finished.

  Armour went back to his car, his mood sour now, and saw the police uniform lying there on the floorboards.

  He changed in his office. The uniform was tight, a little short in the legs, but he didn’t intend to wear it long. He put his overcoat over it and carried the helmet and belt in a paper bag.

  It was a quick drive over to the hospital. He removed the overcoat, placed the helmet on his head and strode in.

  “Project confidence,” he told himself. “You were a cop once. Be one again.”

  He made his inquiry at the admitting desk and was directed to the third floor. When he got up there, he saw a cop, a real one, protecting O’Rourke’s door. He was standing in a lazy “at ease” position, but he straightened up when he saw Armour coming towards him.

  “Here to relieve you,” Armour said.

  “I’m on till nine.”

  “They’re shortening the shifts,” Armour said. “Besides, I think this guy is ready to be discharged, isn’t he? Just spoke with the doctor.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Here.” He handed Armour a paper bag of bagels. “We’re not supposed to eat in public while on duty, but you’re not supposed to leave your post either. Tomkins said it was okay.”

  “Thanks, pal. Have a good night.”

  It was a quarter to seven. That meant that the real replacement was coming on duty soon. Armour would not be successful with this subterfuge twice in a row. He pushed the door to O’Rourke’s room open a crack.

  Chapter 41

  There was a weak nightlight on. A trolley cart with a basin in it was next to the bed. O’Rourke was on his back raised in a semi-sitting position. His head was bandaged and his eyes and jaw were swollen. There was a cast on his forearm. His eyes fluttered when Armour approached.

  “O’Rourke,” Armour whispered. He shook the man gently until he started to moan and opened his puffy eyes.

  O’Rourke was dazed at first, and then he took in who had woken him. Then he saw that Armour was in uniform.

  “Armour?” O’Rourke said.

  “I wanted to check on you.”

  O’Rourke swallowed and Armour saw a half-empty jug of water and a glass on the table next to the bed. He filled the glass and carefully put it to the stricken man’s lips. His thirst temporarily slaked, O’Rourke took in Armour again.

  “Why are you dressed like that? Are you on duty?”

  Armour realized that O’Rourke wasn’t lucid. He thought Armour was still on the job.

  “Yeah, they called me in. I’m investigating Holt’s disappearance. You remember the harbour commissioner? We think he was murdered. Did the Italians do it after Foley stole the payoff money?”

  “How would I know?” O’Rourke said quietly, his eyes still shut.

  “Foley stole the money to buy machine guns. For the Irish cause. Did you infiltrate Reagan’s crew because of the machine guns?”

  “He didn’t steal it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I was there when Holt gave him the money. He was blackmailing him.”

  “With what?”

  “His women. It’s all in the report.”

  “The report on Holt’s disappearance?”

  “What? No, my operational reports. I filed them every week. Tomkins has them.”

  So that was why Tomkins had suspected Mrs. Holt and her friend Foley. But he’d cleared Holt by digging up her basement, and he’d cleared Foley when he confirmed the hooligan was in the drunk tank the night of Holt’s disappearance.

  “Did Reagan kill Holt?”

  “Why would he? Foley got the money out of him.”

  “That makes sense,” Armour said. “They got the money to buy the guns. They’re probably halfway to Ireland by now.”

  O’Rourke said, “You don’t believe that, do you? Those bums don’t give a goddamn for Ireland. They needed the firepower if they were going to move against the Italians.”

  “Did the Italians kill Holt for giving in to the unions?”

  “I have no idea,” O’Rourke said.

  Armour poured O’Rourke another glass of water and helped him drink.

  “I can’t stay. Gotta get back to work,” Armour said.

  “They’ll roast you if they catch you in that uniform,” O’Rourke said.

  Armour put his hand on O’Rourke’s chest. “Get well soon, friend. And forget we talked, okay? For your own protection.”

  Armour was stopped at an intersection, tugging off the police jacket, when an ambulance came roaring by. A young man in a white coat was hanging out the passenger door cranking a roof-mounted siren. It was a converted depot hack painted white with a red cross on it.

  Chapter 42

  Armour could hear other sirens as he got closer to his office. Closer to the Pegasus Theatre. He could see a plume of black smoke curling up to the sky in the distance.

  Armour didn’t remember drivi
ng the last couple of miles back to his office. He knew he’d been driving fast, but time had stopped. It wasn’t until he got near his office that he realized the fire wasn’t at the Pegasus. Nevertheless, he rushed across the street and banged on the theatre door. Two blocks down, firefighters were battling a blaze. People were being brought out on stretchers.

  “Grease fire at the diner,” someone said, as police tried to keep the gawkers at bay.

  Again, Armour banged, then slumped against the door. Finally, the stage manager opened it. Armour tried to push past him into the theatre. The man was skeleton thin but strong, and he kept Armour at bay.

  “Armour, what are you doing?” Melanie said from behind him. She was in her overcoat, surrounded by the other girls from the show. They were on the sidewalk watching the fire.

  Armour pulled her into a bear hug. “My god, I was so worried,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “The Pegasus. I thought it was on fire.”

  “We heard the sirens. Just a grease fire. I think they have it under control.” She pulled back from him a bit, then relented and came back into his arms. All forgiven.

  Armour and Melanie walked in the opposite direction from the fire.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Somewhere we can talk.”

  “Armour, I’m not dressed.” She flashed her coat open. She was in a corset and stockings and underwear; that was it.

  “Keep that closed. We’ll be okay.”

  He took her up the block to Tim’s. Once their coffee and doughnuts had been brought to them, Armour loosened up.

  “Wow, you were really shook up,” Melanie said.

  “It’s this feeling I have. I can’t explain it.”

  “You have premonitions? My aunt Harriet got those. No one believed her until the one she had about her dying in a car crash came true.”

  “It’s more than that. There’s a certainty to it, but it’s fuzzy. I know that I don’t belong here. I know things are going to happen, bad things. But they’re fuzzy as well.”