“Back to the other side.”
“Other side of what?”
Yarmolovich looked at Campbell like the detective was someone who had never heard of canned peaches before. “To the spirit world.”
Campbell looked over the edge of his notebook and tipped his bowler back a little farther. “I’m sorry, but when you said Mrs. Kaufman was here, you actually meant …” With his pencil he pointed at the stars on the ceiling.
Without looking at each other, the Yarmoloviches nodded. Campbell closed his notebook and told them to sit tight; he was going to speak with Madame Zahra. But first he approached the constable, who had finished hanging the tapestry and was now positioned between the window and the entrance to the apartment.
“Bickerstaff.”
“Sir?”
“Keep an eye on things for me here,” he said, nodding back toward the Yarmoloviches. “I’m going to have a few words with Madame Zahra in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Campbell entered the cooking area and found Zahra using a Bunsen burner to light what he thought to be one of those Turkish cigarettes. She was tilting her head toward it while holding back her waves of jet-black hair. She straightened up when she got it going. “The Yarmoloviches, they were helpful?”
“No, the Yarmoloviches were not helpful. Let’s forget them for a moment. You started telling me something about being in a trance.”
“Yes.” She went on to explain how she had been conducting a séance with the couple and Kaufman, and was in a trance when the incident occurred. She claimed she saw nothing. Campbell knew the Yarmoloviches were listening; they started whispering to each other as soon as they heard their name.
“I step outside of myself,” Zahra explained to the layman, “and become door through which spirits may pass into this world.”
“Ghosts?”
She smiled. “I know what you are thinking — glowing apparitions, floating in air at end of your bed at night, making voo-ooo sounds. Tales told by ignorant peasants.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess that’s what I was thinking.”
Madame Zahra closed her eyes. “One cannot see them, but one can feel their presence. Sometimes they are confused and frightened, like lost children. Other times, like this evening, they want to be heard and they will speak through me.”
Campbell removed his cigar. “Who was speaking through you this evening?”
She opened her eyes. “Rose Kaufman.”
Bickerstaff knocked on the doorframe. “Sir, the wagon’s arrived.”
“Laforet too?”
“It looks that way.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Campbell, “don’t move,” and he stepped out of the kitchen. “Bickerstaff, stay here and keep watch on these three; make sure they remain separated.” Campbell galloped back down the stairs to meet Laforet.
A small crowd had gathered, unfazed by the still-blowing snow and frigid temperatures, fascinated at the sight of a dead body. The doctor, dressed in his Donegal tweed overcoat, cashmere muffler, and a lambswool wedge, was leaning over the victim.
“All right, everyone clear out,” said Campbell. “Go back to your nice warm beds.”
“Detective,” said the doctor.
“Is this how you normally dress for a suicide? Did you stop at Wickham’s on the way over?”
“I always try to look a little livelier than the corpse,” said Laforet, giving Campbell the once-over. He stood up. “So is that what this is? A suicide?”
“I saw him hit the pavement.”
“And he didn’t have any help?”
“What makes you think he might have?”
“I don’t know,” said Laforet, looking down and pointing. “The twist to his body is rather curious. As if he turned, or tried to turn, mid-flight.”
“Too late to change his mind.”
“Did you see him go through the window?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And yet you’re certain he wasn’t pushed?”
“No one up there could have pushed him, and so far there’s no evidence of anyone else having been in the room at the time. I’m sorry; go on.”
“Well, the twist in the body and the position of the arms suggests to me that he went out the window backwards, and then turned, perhaps instinctively bracing himself for the fall.”
“Possibly. Or, like I said, maybe he changed his mind. It would have all happened in a matter of seconds.” Campbell took one last good look up and down and around the scene and then said, “All right, let’s go upstairs and I’ll introduce you to the cast. Top floor. I can fill you in along the way.”
Laforet turned his gaze up to the third-floor gable.
“You might even have time to read me the city directory.”
In the apartment they found Bickerstaff straddling what had been Kaufman’s chair, now positioned in the middle of the floor, and eyeing the Yarmoloviches, who were still seated at the table. Campbell called in the direction of the beaded curtain. “Madame Zahra, would you come out here please?”
She made her entrance.
“Madame Zahra, Mr. and Mrs. Yarmolovich, this is Dr. Laforet, our city’s coroner and a colleague of mine.”
The doctor removed his hat, walked over to Zahra, took her hand, which she had already extended, and gently grasped her fingers. He then nodded at the Yarmoloviches as he placed his hat on the table and unbuttoned his coat.
Campbell turned to the constable. “Bickerstaff — go down and make sure they don’t need help with the body and then station yourself inside the vestibule. Give me a shout if there’s a problem.”
Bickerstaff touched his hat and made his way back down through the opening in the floor.
Campbell faced the trio but was speaking to Laforet. “Where we left off is with a domestic argument between the late Kaufman and his even later wife, Rose. But,” he said, glancing at the doctor, “there is evidence that Kaufman may have been pushed.”
Madame Zahra remained stoic but the Yarmoloviches vehemently shook their heads. Campbell continued. “Was there anyone else — physically, that is — in this room this evening?” More head shakes. “Madame Zahra, who else lives in this building?”
“Second floor is vacant; main floor is landlord.”
“His name?”
“Old Gravy.”
“Come again?”
“That’s what it sounds like. Old Gravy.”
“O’Grady?” Campbell had no idea where he pulled that one from.
Zahra’s eyes widened and she aimed a finger at Campbell. “Yes, O’Grady. That is his name.”
“He must be a heavy sleeper.”
“He is away. Visiting to Chicago, I think it was.”
“All right,” said Campbell. He sighed and pocketed his pad and pencil. “Speaking of sleep, I think we all could use some.” They all seemed to be losing focus, even the medium.
Laforet donned his wedge and began fastening the long row of buttons on his overcoat.
“Madame Zahra,” said Campbell, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Mr. and Mrs. Yarmolovich, I’ll have Constable Bickerstaff escort you home. You can expect to hear from me tomorrow as well. Good night.”
It was an abrupt ending to an abrupt start. Campbell and Laforet left Zahra’s first. Once back on the street, Campbell took a moment to re-examine the scene of Kaufman’s death. Snow was accumulating and the blood that had pooled was now covered in white.
“Any further thoughts?” Campbell asked the doctor.
Laforet was wrapping his muffler around his neck. “I agree that none of them could have propelled him, willingly or not, out of that window. It has to have been a suicide.”
“I need to know more about this man,” said Campbell, looking up at the window. “Do sane people normally do things like this?”
“In my experience, it’s always been sane people who do things like this.”
“And what about this stuff about the spirit world?”
“I’m all right. I just need to finish my walk.”
— Chapter 7 —
PERSONA NON GRATA
Morning
‘PURITY’ MAN IS ARRESTED
Church Worker Charged With Rum-Running
Constable John Smith, of River Rouge, church worker and a leading spirit in the movement to make River Rouge ‘pure,’ was arrested last night in his alleged house of ill-fame and booze joint, at 274 Kleinlow Street, by a squad of police raiders. Two girl inmates and six men habitués were said to have been engaged in a scene of gay revelry when raiders descended upon the place.
Two cases of Canadian beer and a quantity of whisky were seized, it was reported.
Smith was brought to the River Rouge police station and released on bond. He will come up this morning for hearing on the charge of violating the disorderly ordinance. The case will be heard before Justice Samuel Barron of River Rouge. Both offenses of keeping a bawdy house and selling liquor come under the disorderly ordinance, hence a double charge was not preferred against the peace officer, police explained.
While the new police headquarters could accommodate a drill hall, a fully equipped gym, a police museum, and an identification branch, it could only afford Detective Henry Fields a broom closet of a room with a single window, one with bars on it no less, overlooking the parking lot in the rear. Apparently the room had been meant for some other purpose, but no one could remember what. Now it was all his.
He was pinning an article he had just clipped from this morning’s Border Cities Star to a corkboard that he had to stand sideways on the floor because it was too big to fit on the wall. When the office manager had shown him the room, Fields looked around and asked the fellow if it had been built around the desk or if the desk was assembled in the room. He was only half-joking.
“The top comes off and the legs are detachable. My advice is, don’t lean on it too hard.”
The corkboard was covered with newspaper clippings. This newest addition was of particular interest to Fields because he had learned from one of the girls at the switchboard — one of his best sources — about how yesterday morning a gang of bootleggers tried to send a jalopy, likely filled with booze, across the frozen river near LaSalle. Their mission was unsuccessful. A farmer who had spotted the group while he was out doing a bit of hunting reported the incident. Fields’s gut told him there was a connection between these suspected rumrunners and the event in River Rouge.
All of the articles on the board had to do with law enforcement on both sides of the river coming down on bootleggers, moonshiners, and other such cross-border violators of the Prohibition Act. It was his way of keeping tabs, of seeing the whole picture. It was also inspiring. To him, these law enforcement people were the real crusaders, the real heroes fighting the war. Not people like him. It was no secret that his promotion last summer to detective was politically motivated. But where did it leave him? Having to rely on a junior police officer and switchboard operator for his information gathering. He had recently walked in on a conversation in the kitchen area where he thought he heard the words “lame duck detective” come from one of the constables sitting around a table, but put it off to his bad ear and poured himself another coffee. They started talking again as soon as he walked out of the room, though he couldn’t make anything out.
Fields stepped back to consider this mosaic of crime and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned abruptly.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was Corbishdale. “I knocked … but you must have been deep in thought.”
“Yes … just thinking about these arrests in Rouge. You wanted to see me about something?”
“You asked me to keep you posted in the event we were able to glean anything else out in LaSalle.” Corbishdale took a small pad of paper out of the hip pocket of his uniform jacket.
“Right.” Fields returned to the chair behind his desk.
“The farmer confirmed seeing two vehicles and six men. He didn’t recognize any of them, but he was also too far away to get a good look at any of their faces. He said three of them were dressed like they could have been locals — from the county — as opposed to the others who were in suits and overcoats. But he figured they were rumrunners, all of them, and held back because he didn’t want any trouble. The vehicles appeared to be a newer-model Studebaker and an old Model T.”
“And the T was the transporter. Was there any sign of it?”
“No, sir. It was definitely lost, along with its contents.”
“They’ll be looking for it after the first thaw. Anything else?”
“We’re still trying to figure something out.”
“Like what?”
“The farmer said that when he saw the car stall on the ice, one of the rumrunners ran out to try and either retrieve it or get it going again. When it broke through the ice, the rumrunner went down with it,” Corbishdale was eyeballing his pad, “and the others managed to save him … and …”
The young officer was still trying to imagine all of this.
“Yes, and?”
“Well, the farmer said that the man they saved surfaced from the water holding on to what looked like a body.”
Fields pivoted his good ear toward Corbishdale, who had a habit of letting his voice fade.
“Come again?” said the detective.
“He said the man surfaced with what looked to be a body, and that as the others dragged the man ashore, he dragged the body. That was when the farmer ran back home, got in his car, drove to the general store in LaSalle, and made the phone call. By the time he got back to Turkey Creek — where the rumrunners had been launching from — everyone was gone. Staff at the general store corroborated the farmer’s statement and confirmed the time. Also, his wife verified the time he left and the time he finally arrived back at their house.”
“And this body, where is it? Surely they wouldn’t have taken it back to the city with them,” said Fields.
“We don’t know; that’s what everyone is trying to figure out. The ground is too hard for them to be able to have buried it.”
“Could they have hidden it somewhere nearby?”
“The provincial officer I spoke to said that other than the tracks they left in the snow to and from their vehicles and the nearby cabin, no other tracks lead out of the perimeter.”
“Cabin?”
“Oh — that’s something else. It appears the rumrunners were making use of a small fishing cabin near the shore, closer to the creek. The officer found a stove inside, still warm, containing pieces of a man’s overcoat and suit, some burned, some just wet, as if it they had been thawing it out after pulling the body from the river. Strange.”
“Destroying evidence, perhaps. But evidence of what?” Fields glanced over at his corkboard. “This is bizarre, Corbishdale. Why did they feel the need to drag the body out of the river? They couldn’t have even known it was down there.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense, sir.”
“Maybe they did take it with them,” speculated Fields, “and they disposed of it somewhere between LaSalle and Windsor.”
Fields looked at his watch and then flipped back through a notepad on his desk until he got to blank pages.
“Are you thinking of going out there, sir?”
“Maybe. I have a lot on the go right now. Continue to keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fields waited until Corbishdale was down the hall before he got up to close his door. Back at his desk, he reached in a bottom drawer for the bottle of pills meant to keeping his head from feeling like it was going to split open. He shook two into the palm of his hand and washed them down with what was left of his coffee, now cold. Sometimes the pills worked, sometimes they didn’t. He then pressed the palm of his hand gently against his left ear. The ringing went louder, like he was holding the ringing inside his head, let
ting it reverberate. He pulled his hand away. There was no doubt about it; it was getting worse.
It’s been months now. Maybe there’s more to it.
He got up from his desk and opened the door again. The hum of the police station dulled the ringing, or at least distracted him a little from it. Maybe he would drive out to the county and have a look around. There was nothing else for him to do here.
— Chapter 8 —
COPELAND’S BOOK STORE
Very Maude was seated, or rather wedged between passengers, on a bench on a streetcar slowly rolling toward the downtown. A big difference from last night’s train ride, she thought. Time was patient now, like the big flakes casually falling right now on London Street. It was a refreshing pace. The last several months had been a whirlwind for her. She hadn’t come home for Christmas like she said she would; she had become caught up in her new life in New York. It had started with looking for steady work and a place to stay, and then, once settled, she tried to focus at least some of her energies on finding her writing voice. But then she found herself in a relationship, which she always seemed to be trying to salvage before it ever seemed to really get started. Strangely, she felt free again. She wondered how long that feeling would last. Probably only as long as that feeling you get when you’re really escaping something. It fades shortly after you arrive.
There was a low drone of conversation throughout the streetcar. She felt out of touch. What were they talking about? The horrible weather? The price of butter? Most of the women seemed to be going to do their shopping, carrying empty bags and baskets. The men, presumably all off to work, whether to a factory or a desk, carried the smell of stale tobacco smoke. And the smell of wood fires seemed to hang from everyone’s clothes. It was the common denominator. Feeling snug inside her coat, Vera Maude lowered her chin inside her muffler and closed her eyes.
Her uncle had contacted her after New Year’s to tell her that her father had been ill for some time and, yes, he was sorry he had been keeping that a secret from her but he had been sworn to secrecy. He was writing her to tell her that her father had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Apparently not seeing his dear Maudie at Christmas had affected him badly. Her father had asked his other children to keep their mouths shut about it too, but he needn’t have worried. None of them had kept in touch with Vera Maude after she left Windsor.
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