by Chris Laing
“They’re still showing Miracle on 34th Street. There’s a little girl in the movie – I think the young actress is Natalie Woods, or some name like that, and she was so sweet. I saw it last week with a couple of my school friends from Loretto Academy days – we keep in touch from time to time.”
“Even after all these years?”
She delivered an elbow to my ribs. “Watch your step, Mister. It wasn’t that long ago.”
I was scanning King Street for our cab, listening to Iz with one ear; the taxi stand across the street at the Royal Connaught Hotel was empty, due to the weather I supposed.
“My friends, Greta and Frankie, both married well,” she was saying. “And they keep reminding me that I’m not getting any younger.”
“What’s that mean, ‘they married well’?”
She turned to face me and our eyes locked. “You know, their husbands are rich and they’re able to live in comfort.”
I let that sink in; it didn’t fit my profile. “So their husbands aren’t daring and adventurous like me?”
She puckered her lips as though she doubted my Errol Flynn attributes.
The wind picked up and I stood closer, sliding my arm around her waist. “Are you jealous of your friends for marrying well?”
“Certainly not, Max. I’m holding out for someone daring and adventurous.”
A Veterans’ Cab pulled to the curb and the driver jumped out to open the door. I saw it was Dave again. I’d met him last summer and when he’d learned we’d both seen action at Dieppe, he’d more or less adopted me as my regular driver. He fussed over Isabel, saying what a pleasure it was to finally meet her, he’d heard so much about her from Max. Of course, I hadn’t told him a damn thing other than her name. “Let’s get this show on the road, Dave. We don’t want to be late for lunch.”
During the short drive to Fischer’s Hotel on York Street it seemed he couldn’t shut up. We heard all about the “snow storm of the century” in 1944. “Shoulda seen it, Max. It was a week or two before Christmas, just like now. And it snowed so much that downtown traffic was snarled for nearly a week. Isn’t that right, Isabel?”
It was a relief when we stopped at the entrance to the hotel. Dave leapt out to hold the door for Isabel, bowing as if she were Princess Elizabeth. And I wondered why some guys were reduced to Jell-O in the presence of a beautiful woman.
Fischer’s was a swanky place, all dressed up for the season – the dining room was to the left of a spacious lobby dominated by a floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree which had been sprayed pink and decorated with oversized silver bulbs. I’d never seen a pink tree and it wasn’t as bad as I might’ve thought. A colourful poster near the entrance read: THIS FRIDAY NITE ONLY: Dance to the rhythmic stylings of CBC Radio Star, Bert Niosi and his Trio.
Our waiter showed us to a table in a quiet corner of the cozy room, past the long smorgasbord spread where the competing aromas of a wide variety of foods I couldn’t even identify added an international flavour. We’d just begun reading our menus when a good-looking gent approached; he wore a snazzy blue double-breasted suit with a red rose in his lapel.
“Wonderful to have you back again, Miss O’Brien. Long time no see.”
Isabel smiled at him, then turned to me. “This is Bud Fischer, Max. He’s the owner of this hotel.”
He extended his hand and I reached for it. “And you must be Max Dexter. Saw your picture in the paper last night. I’ll bet it was quite a shock for you, finding that body.”
When he’d finished pumping my hand, I agreed that it was a shock and, yes, I’d just about recovered now, and yes again, I was trying to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on. Then he clamped a big mitt on my shoulder and bent closer. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir. You’re a brave man indeed.”
He turned toward my partner. “Now, would you like to enjoy the smorgasbord or would you prefer me to send a waiter over to take your order?”
During lunch we chit-chatted about everything except that phone call from Diane Black and her summons to dinner. I was reluctant to bring it up and spoil our Christmassy lunch but I finally gave Iz a full report, such as it was.
She set down her coffee cup and leaned in close. “I know it’s a difficult decision for you. I understand completely.”
“No, I don’t think you do. Our backgrounds are miles apart.”
“Not as much as you might think, Max. Not in the things which are really important in life. Listen, my mother left me when I was a child, too. Not voluntarily … she died of pneumonia when I was six years old. I think I missed her as much as you must have missed your mother and we both had inadequate fathers. At least you inherited Frank’s family who welcomed you and loved you. But I’ve never felt the closeness of a warm and caring family.
“I grew up with no mother and a father who spent all his time at the office or travelling on business. In his place, there was a long procession of nannies who treated me like the family pet – I was fed and watered and cleaned and taught to know my place. I ran away twice and was returned both times by the police. I finally settled down when it dawned upon me that I’d have to take charge of my own life and plan for my own future. I did well at school and moved away to university as soon as I could.”
Iz hadn’t told me much about her childhood and I felt guilty for having assumed she’d had a happy life just because she came from money. “But after you got your accounting degree you went to work in your father’s company.”
“I needed to get some work experience under my belt before I could go out on my own. And I hoped my father had improved with age – but he hadn’t. And now I’ve changed my plans since meeting you, Max. I like the detective business – it’s challenging and it feels good to help people solve their problems.” She extended her right hand and gripped mine. “And when I have a family of my own, I hope I’ll find the love I haven’t known since my mother died.”
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. I loved this woman. She took my breath away.
“But I still think you should meet your mother, Max. She’s the only one you’ll ever have. You could at least listen to what she has to say.”
She swivelled in her chair and signaled the waiter for more coffee. I watched her busying herself with her napkin, folding and refolding it. Her little speech nudged me to reconsider my own self-centred position: I had to admit that many people had worked their way through difficult situations, some of them much worse than mine. And I now realized that Isabel was one of those people.
I drew in a couple of deep breaths and submerged my second thoughts before I spoke. “I believe I’m falling in love with you, Isabel O’Brien.”
Just then the waiter arrived and refilled our cups, giving us time to consider what I’d just blurted out.
Her smile gleamed like sunlight breaking through the clouds on a bleak November afternoon. “Did you just say ‘falling in love’, Max?”
“I can’t believe I said it either.”
She reached across the table with both hands and gripped mine. “I want to give you a great big smooch on the lips.”
“I don’t think Mr. Fischer would approve.”
Iz turned quickly as the owner arrived at our table. He picked up the bill that the waiter had left and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Lunch is on me, folks. I hope you come back again soon. And a Merry Christmas to you both.”
I was impressed by his generosity. Then I figured he might have seen it as a form of advertising; leaving us with a good feeling, hoping we’d become regular customers. And who knew? Maybe we would.
In the cab on the way back to the office, Iz clutched my hand and nestled her head on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear, “He said he’s falling in love with me.”
I whispered back. “And what does she think about that?”
“She thinks the feeling’
s mutual.”
“You’ll have to speak up,” Dave said. “I can’t hear you.”
CHAPTER NINE
Dave dropped Isabel at the office, then drove me to James Street South near the corner of Main, where Mr. Neatby’s office was located in the eighteen-storey Pigott Building, Hamilton’s one and only skyscraper. On my last visit to this building about six months ago, I met with Mr. H.B. Myers – a greedy little businessman who’d met the fate he deserved.
A perky young woman poked her head out from the first in a row of elevators and sent me a bright smile. “Going up?”
She was wearing what looked like a Women’s Army Corps uniform, but it was smartly tailored in a vivid shade of blue with a matching wedge cap set at a jaunty angle, and on her hands, a pair of white gloves. As I entered the car I noticed her name was etched on a small brass plate pinned to the pocket over her heart: ‘Noretta’. She touched two fingers to her cap in a mock salute, “Which floor, Handsome?”
I gave her a nod and played along. “Just drive. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”
“Oh, my. A wise-guy.” She drew the polished brass gate closed, then the elevator doors, and cranked the lever to move us skyward. She half-turned to face me, the feminine fragrance of lavender soap following her motion. “But I don’t mind joking with my passengers because it relieves the monotony of this job. Are we close yet?”
“Fifteenth floor.”
“Boy, I’m glad you said that. Usually when I say this job’s monotonous, most guys think they’re comedians and they come out with, ‘Yeah, but I bet it has its ups and downs.’ If I hear that corny line one more time I think I’ll scream.” The car came to a smooth stop and she winked at me over her left shoulder. “Here’s your floor, Big Boy.”
Mr. Neatby’s office was on the south side of the building and would have afforded a sweeping view up the mountain if it weren’t for the misty fog settling over the escarpment. I was ushered in by a smartly-dressed woman of a certain age who welcomed me with a warm smile. The lawyer rose from his chair: a tall man with a military bearing whose usual good humour seemed muted today.
He extended his hand to greet me and indicated a pair of comfy-looking armchairs near the windows and we settled in. “Before we start, may I offer you some coffee or tea, Mr. Dexter?”
“Not for me, thanks. I just had lunch.”
He glanced toward his secretary waiting near the doorway. “That’ll be all, thank you, Mrs. Neatby.”
Her smile reappeared and she left the office, closing the door behind her. I turned to face him, “Not to be impertinent, but was that your wife?”
“Yes, it was.”
“But you called her Mrs. Neatby.”
The merest trace of a grin quivered at the corners of his mouth. “We like to observe a certain amount of business decorum here in the office.”
I thought about that. Maybe it was just a lawyerly thing but it seemed old-fashioned to me. Then again, maybe he was pulling my leg and the little act I’d just witnessed was a refined example of lawyer humour. You never knew with these legal eagles.
I withdrew my notebook and flipped to a blank page. “So … the Humane Society.”
“Let me give you a little background first. The Hamilton branch of the SPCA was founded in 1887 by a small group of private citizens and the main concern back then was the humane treatment of working animals. It wasn’t as common for people to keep animals as pets in those early years, so the Society’s efforts were focused on preventing the abuse of horses for deliveries of all kinds, including the Hamilton Street Railway, as well as farm animals that were often overworked or maltreated. With the introduction of trucks and motor cars, of course, we’re seeing fewer large animals in the city but many more stray cats and dogs and other pets.
“Early on, our committee was able to convince the City to appoint a part-time constable from the Police Department to enforce the laws against cruelty to animals. In addition, the City provided a small annual grant to hire a part-time inspector to issue fines to offenders; he also inspected animals sold at the Hamilton Market for human consumption to ensure they were free of illness. And that remains the situation today.”
I stopped him there. “So the Society’s still a volunteer organization?”
“That’s right. We have a Board of Directors composed of local people and there are several active committees – educational activities, fund-raising and so forth. Raising awareness among the public remains one of our most important objectives and we’ve done very well in that regard, if I may say so. For example, our Women’s Committee has encouraged teachers and principals to include humane education in the classroom. At the end of 1946 our adult membership was over a thousand and the junior members numbered 14,000.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, allowing me time to be impressed by the Society’s success. And I was. “I didn’t know there are so many members, especially kids. It’s a great idea to spark their interest when they’re young.”
Mr. Neatby accepted my praise with a nod and continued. “But we can’t afford to rest on our laurels. We’re in desperate need of a proper shelter for abused animals and, of course, the personnel to operate it. Right now, the City Works Department staff picks up stray or abandoned animals and keeps them for a short time at the equipment yards on Elgin Street, just beside the Barton Street Jail.”
“Then what happens to them?”
“They’re only kept for a day or so. Then they’re ‘put to sleep’.”
I read the frustration in his eyes and we didn’t speak for a moment; it seemed as if we’d somehow agreed to observe a moment of silence for the abused, sick and stray animals that had been euthanized.
“I wish you well in your campaign to build a shelter,” I said. “But what did you want to see me about today?”
“Well, I mentioned earlier that we rely upon the police to carry out investigations in cases of serious abuse. But they’re busy with their regular duties and the assignment of a part-time constable just isn’t enough to satisfy the need. So our campaign will also raise funds to hire a full-time manager for the shelter who’ll have the authority to investigate and lay charges under the Criminal Code of Canada.”
He paused for a moment to take a sip of water from a glass on a small tray beside him and the fussy way he put down the glass, placing it just so on the tray, told me we were finally coming to the point of this meeting. I leaned forward in my chair.
“Recently we’ve received a complaint about the abuse of dogs on a property on Parkdale Avenue, out by the Municipal Airport. It appears to be a criminal matter and since I provide legal services to the Society’s Board, it’s been referred to me.”
“What kind of criminal matter?”
“The property owner is suspected of staging dog fights. I don’t know how much you know about this so-called blood sport, but it’s a nasty business, Mr. Dexter.”
While he took another sip of water, I asked him, “What kind of dogs are used in these fights?”
He set down his glass. “They’re commonly known as ‘pit bulls’ – a result of crossbreeding bulldogs, mastiffs and terriers over many years so that now they’re a heavily muscled breed and they’re trained to fight to the death.
“As far as we know, there are only a few breeders and trainers in the Hamilton area but we do hear about these fights from time to time. It’s an illegal, underground activity, pitting dog against dog, and the results are truly horrifying. Gamblers are usually in attendance to bet on these fights; drugs and alcohol are common and, according to the police, the entire enterprise is controlled by the Mafia.”
“So why don’t they raid the fights and arrest the offenders?”
“I wish it were that simple. These fights are usually held late at night in out-of-the-way locations like the one we’re talking about, an
d local residents don’t always report them because they fear reprisal from the landowner or even the gangsters. And if the police show up after the event, as they did in this case, there’s not much they can do about it. You see, it’s not illegal in Ontario to raise and train these fighting dogs.”
“Well, that sounds stupid. Why else would someone train the dogs if it weren’t to fight them?”
“You’re right – it does not make sense. That’s why the Ontario SPCA and its affiliates have been lobbying the government to change the law.”
He paused for a moment or two, giving me some time to think about it. “What would you like me to do?” I finally asked him.
“I believe you’re a very good detective, Mr. Dexter, and I appreciated the sensitive way in which you handled the interests of my client, Grace Clark, when her employer was murdered a few months ago. So I hope you’ll agree to look into this matter for us – perhaps talk to some of the neighbours out there, maybe even speak with the owner under some pretext. We need some evidence in order to stop these vicious fights.”
His dark eyes held mine as he absently tapped the fingers of his right hand on a brown envelope beside his desk blotter. But what could I do if even the cops were stymied because of the inadequate laws? So I waited him out. He looked at me, and I looked at that envelope.
Lawyers are better at this game than I am and I folded first. “I presume I’d be paid my usual daily rate?”
“We’d both be paid the same.”
I was afraid of that and I braced myself. “Which is?”
“As a member of the board, my services are pro bono.”
Shit, just as I’d thought. “Jeez, I don’t know if I’d have the time and I’m kind of busy right now –”
He held up his right hand to cut me off and withdrew a red file folder from that brown envelope on his desk and passed it to me. “Before you decide, please take a look at these photographs.”