Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  She hated lying to Uncle Fred. Sometimes it felt like that was all she had been doing since she arrived back in the Border Cities. But she hadn’t last night when she told him at the hockey game that she wouldn’t be returning to New York. She handed McCloskey back the phone and started pacing around the apartment.

  “So when’s Campbell getting here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. They had to try to reach him at home.”

  “You got anything to eat in this place?” She wandered into the little kitchen and he heard her open the icebox. “There’s nothing in here, just a fridge full of condiments and some bottles of beer.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Want me to see if Campbell delivers?”

  “Somehow I doubt it.”

  “Maybe we can go out after he gets here.”

  She re-entered the living room.

  “You know some decent places around here open on a Sunday?”

  “I might,” he said.

  “You want to split a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  She went back into the kitchen and popped open the icebox. She came back with two bottles.

  “I thought you said split one?”

  “I lost count. Here — one for me and one for you.”

  “You didn’t bring an opener.”

  “I was trying to stay out of your drawers.”

  “Give me that.” McCloskey used his teeth.

  “Thanks,” she said, then took a sip and started pacing around the apartment again. “Nice place. A little spartan, but kind of nice.”

  “Spartan?”

  “A simple décor.”

  “I don’t do much entertaining.”

  She took another swig from the bottle. “So, when you were in the bookstore the other day with Campbell, and I approached you, did you really not know who I was?”

  “No, not really. At least I didn’t remember.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I guess it was a while ago.”

  “It’s not like that, Maudie.”

  Maudie. That surprised the both of them, like it came from somewhere else.

  “You wouldn’t know,” McCloskey continued. “It’s really got nothing to do with you.”

  “Jack, before the detective gets here with more questions, can I get a few more in?”

  He knew that didn’t sound right.

  “Only if I can too.”

  “Okay, you first,” she said.

  He took another sip of his beer. “Last summer …”

  And he proceeded to explain to her, as best as he could understand, the situation with the key, Davies’s lost fortune, and the Guard. He also told her about Madame Zahra.

  — Chapter 40 —

  SNOW ANGELS

  Fields woke with his cheek pressed against the bathroom floor. He reached for the edge of the sink and leveraged himself up. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he noticed how closely his pallor resembled the tile on the wall. And the howling was returning to his ear again. He tried to focus and centre himself by staring down the drain but it did little good. He opened the door to the medicine cabinet and found the brown bottle of painkillers between his safety razor and the box of cotton balls. He unscrewed the top and shook it over his cupped hand. It was empty.

  “I’m getting cheated on these,” he muttered. “I should have a word with the chemist.”

  And then he remembered. The Guard had visited him again, in his sleep.

  The Guard — that’s what everyone was calling them. There was talk. Word was getting around.

  But he was the only one he knew who had actually met them. He touched his fingers against his temple and considered vomiting. Unable to recall the last time he ate solid food, he decided to put it off.

  Some fresh air might do some good, he thought, might clear my head. He dressed and ventured out.

  Campbell arrived at Maiden Lane about the same time as McCloskey and Vera Maude, shortly after nine. They stood on the snow-covered sidewalk and gazed up for a moment at the window of Madame Zahra’s before heading through the front door and up the stairs.

  Campbell told Zahra to cancel any appointments she might have had. In turn, he assured her that he would not be bringing any constables to her door. He was trying to control the situation as best he could. His plan was simple but still difficult for him to accept since it ignored all the basic rules of policing, not to mention the laws of physics: have Zahra “call” the Guard through one of her séances. He rationalized it by telling himself it might be an opportunity to better understand what had happened to Kaufman. His death continued to haunt him.

  McCloskey had not heard back from Shorty, and according to Mud, Gorski was still nowhere to be found. McCloskey was trying not to overthink all of that. He was going to assume they were both safe and sound and leave it at that. What he couldn’t seem to avoid thinking about, however, was how much he didn’t like dragging Vera Maude into all of this. The Guard had some pretty good tricks, and he wished he could study their game more, better them at it, and then make them pay for what they did to Three Fingers and Lapointe.

  Vera Maude kicked off her boots at the landing just below Zahra’s apartment. She hadn’t uttered a word since she and McCloskey left her uncle’s place. She felt all talked out after the stickhandling she’d had to do through this evening’s dinner conversation: avoiding subjects, dodging questions, and equivocating her answers. Stickhandling, she thought. My gawd, I’m beginning to sound like Uncle Fred. She was quiet also because she was feeling not just a little bit nervous about tonight’s program. She was remembering conversations she had had at the bookstore in the Village with people who followed all of this stuff: these disciples of Blavatsky, occultists, and theosophists who bet their money on invisible horses. They always had this look in their eyes, and for some reason they always seemed to gravitate toward her. She looked up at the space in the floor. The phrase “etheric plane” suddenly popped into her head. “This way?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Campbell.

  She took the stairs slowly, stopped near the top, touched the edge of the opening, and poked her head up.

  “Come, come,” said Zahra with her arms outstretched to Vera Maude.

  The medium embraced her like she was a long-lost relative and then gave her the tour. She could have done it from the middle of the floor, but she insisted on pointing out and describing to Vera Maude every detail of her studio. Meanwhile, McCloskey and Campbell stood in a corner, occupying themselves with an argument over their proposed strategies. The only thing they could seem to agree upon was that there might have to be some improvising.

  McCloskey kept glancing over at Vera Maude and Madame Zahra. The two were sitting at the table now and really seemed to be hitting it off, connecting on some level. While they spoke, Zahra would occasionally touch Vera Maude’s hand. And then they would lean close, like they were exchanging secrets. McCloskey couldn’t even begin to guess.

  None of this escaped Campbell’s attention, though he was seeing it a little differently. He thought Vera Maude might be just the right ingredient in his experiment. Her mind seemed open, receptive, and she had already encountered the Guard. He wondered why they might be drawn to her. Is she some kind of conductor? Laforet would say that he was letting his curiosity get the better of him. “Let’s start,” he said to McCloskey and they approached the table.

  “Is now a good time?” the detective asked Zahra.

  “Yes,” she said.

  The two men sat, and Campbell reached in his pocket for the talisman and set it down in the middle of the table.

  “What should I be doing?” said McCloskey.

  “Take a deep breath,” said Zahra, “and relax your body. Now touch fingertips. Good.” She then asked for silence and closed her eyes.

  Vera Maude closed her eyes too. The three waited patiently while Zahra hummed and swayed a little. McCloskey and Campbell let their eyes wander the room, an
xious for a sign.

  Footsteps could be heard coming up the stairwell. McCloskey and Campbell watched a shadow enter. It was followed by another, and then two more. Pitch-black silhouettes of hats, coats, and shoes, and profiles that seemed to melt in the darkness.

  Campbell thought he could hear them speak, but it wasn’t exactly a voice. It couldn’t be real. He told himself it was just his imagination assembling and twisting the anecdotal information he had been hearing about the Guard. The voices — yes, they were indeed voices now — were becoming louder in his head, more insistent, demanding. He struggled to block them.

  The quartet moved swiftly about the room, and yet nothing seemed disturbed by them. Candles did not flicker, curtains did not flutter, and there was no creak in the floorboards. They were there, and yet they weren’t.

  McCloskey saw that the ladies still had their eyes closed. Zahra was breathing heavily, her teeth slightly clenched, and she appeared to be concentrating very hard. It was getting colder in the room but there were beads of sweat forming on her knitted brow. Vera Maude was sitting stiff and upright yet somehow seemed calm, almost serene. McCloskey got Campbell’s attention again.

  “Wait,” Campbell mouthed.

  “For what?” whispered McCloskey.

  Campbell saw him reach into his jacket. “Not here,” he said, “not now.”

  “Then when,” demanded McCloskey, growing impatient, “and where else?”

  “You’re not alone here,” said Campbell. “Look around you.”

  McCloskey glanced over at Vera Maude and then stood up and pulled his revolver. He wondered if the others would back off if he took one down. He tried to aim it at the intruders but they kept drifting together and then moving apart.

  “Don’t!” shouted Campbell. “Let’s just give them what they want.”

  Zahra remained in her trance but Vera Maude’s eyes popped wide open and she suddenly found herself in the here and now.

  “Jack?”

  “Don’t move, Maudie.” McCloskey kept his revolver fixed on the Guard.

  Footsteps could again be heard coming up the stairwell, and another figure appeared.

  “Henry?” said McCloskey.

  “Fields? What are you …?”

  “I know what they want,” said Fields. “They told me.”

  “He’s delirious,” said Campbell.

  The room started to hum. The Guard was standing near the front window. Campbell grabbed the talisman off the table and moved past Fields. He held it out to the Guard. They hesitated. His weapon still drawn, McCloskey took a step back and the Guard took a step forward.

  “All right, come and get it,” said Campbell. He was remembering what Zahra had said, that the talisman had to be handed to them by a living soul.

  Fields flinched; McCloskey could see him out of the corner of his eye.

  “Henry,” he said, “stay there.” McCloskey took another step back and the Guard took another step forward.

  Vera Maude stood frozen next to the table, her hands over her mouth.

  Campbell held the talisman out further. Fields noticed it for the first time and leaned forward.

  “Henry!” said McCloskey.

  “No, Jack, I have to do this.”

  Fields then dashed and grabbed the talisman out of Campbell’s hand. Continuing to hold it up high, he threw himself at the Guard, which tried to take it from him, but they were all propelled through the window and down onto the street.

  Vera Maude screamed. Zahra’s eyes opened and she began to bring herself slowly out of her trance.

  Campbell led the charge down the stairs and out onto Maiden Lane. Fields was lying dead on the packed snow, a pool of blood forming round his head, glass and window frame everywhere. It was a familiar scene, except for the silhouettes of four figures surrounding Fields, arms and legs askew, melted through the snow straight down to the cobblestone. There was no other trace of the Guard. Before a crowd had a chance to gather, Campbell searched the white drifts, raking them frantically, but the talisman was nowhere to be found.

  “It must be here somewhere,” he said.

  McCloskey looked down at Henry, wondering how he would ever explain this to Clara. Maybe she could have seen it coming, just not exactly like this. He put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out the charm he had discovered there earlier. He suddenly noticed Vera Maude was standing beside him. He turned her away from the scene and held her close.

  A constable came running in from the Avenue.

  “Call Laforet,” said Campbell.

  The officer was having trouble pulling his eyes off the body. “It must take a certain madness,” he finally said.

  “Make that call, please, Constable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A certain madness,” repeated Campbell.

  Snow was falling again, blanketing Henry Fields as well as the dark silhouettes. People were coming out of their houses, shaking their heads and pointing up at the attic window.

  Later the following week, after leaving her to sort herself out once again, Campbell decided he should probably check in on Zahra. He also wanted to tell her that there was nothing he could charge her with in the death of Kaufman. The case would be left open for now, a mystery like so many of the events that had occurred lately on Maiden Lane.

  Heading up the Avenue to her apartment, he found himself pausing in front of Grinnell Bros. music house and noticed a placard advertising this month’s newest record releases. He scanned the list and, seeing something he thought Zahra might like, he entered the store.

  A sales clerk tracked down the recording for him. It was a Rachmaninoff serenade. Campbell hoped she didn’t already have it. It wasn’t much, but he reminded himself it’s the thought that counts. He tucked the parcel under his arm and continued his walk. It was a clear sky for a change, and there was even a hint of spring in the air.

  He climbed the few steps up to the front door. It was locked. He gave it a hard rap to make sure she heard him from upstairs. A burly, red-faced man answered.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Madame Zahra.”

  “She’s gone,” said the man.

  “She stepped out?”

  “I mean I came home to find her apartment empty. She’s gone.”

  Campbell’s face fell. “Gone where?”

  “How should I know?” The man was squinting sideways at Campbell now. “And who might you be?”

  “The name’s Campbell. Are you Mr. O’Grady?”

  “Yes,” said the landlord.

  “I’m Detective Campbell of the Windsor Police Department. May we talk?”

  O’Grady scratched his head. “Haven’t even unpacked yet. And the wife’s still asleep. Mind if we go upstairs?”

  “I was going to suggest that.”

  Campbell followed him up to the attic.

  Apart from the table and chairs, which presumably belonged to O’Grady, the place was indeed empty. Campbell looked around. The only evidence of Madame Zahra Ostrovskaya having lived here were the stars on the ceiling.

  “I’m gonna to have that painted over. Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “We should sit down, Mr. O’Grady.”

  O’Grady looked up again at the stars. “She put on quite a show, didn’t she?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Campbell. “What do you mean?”

  — Chapter 41 —

  RETURN TICKET

  “How can you see anything?” asked Shorty.

  “I got good night vision,” said Mud. “Runs in the family. I used to watch my ma practise signatures by candlelight and I helped my dad strip parts off trucks in factory lots after dark. Sometimes he needed a small pair of hands. It beat husking corn, which was what my older brothers were doing.”

  It was dark now, or near dark. A thin veil of starlight hung from the quarter moon.

  “You were a born criminal,” said Shorty.

  “I was bored,” said Mud.

  “Pick it
up, you two.” McCloskey was behind them, marching the boys along.

  The trio had just finished putting away the day’s leftover chicken and frog legs, usually promised to the dogs that hung around behind the kitchen at the Westwood. With their bellies full, the bootleggers were now making their way down Prospect Avenue toward the river, trying not to kick up too much dust. It had ben a dry summer.

  Prospect Avenue might have sounded like a clear path to Yukon gold, but it was really nothing more than a tar and gravel drag servicing the salt mines that drilled deep under the Detroit River. And from the foot of Prospect it was a nothing more than a path worn through the tall grass along the shore. They were here to see off a small boat laden with about a dozen cases of rye.

  “Wait — listen. Mud, what’s that motor?”

  Mud turned his ear. “It isn’t cops,” he said. “Maybe the competition.”

  “Shorty, are we on time?”

  Shorty checked the glowing green dial of his fancy new wristwatch. “Right on the money.”

  McCloskey gave a whistle and immediately got a whistle back. Thinking they were a safe distance from the roadhouse now, Mud clicked on his flashlight and aimed the lens slowly up and down the water’s edge. When Shorty tsked, Mud shot the light directly in his eye. McCloskey was enjoying seeing his boys taking these pokes at each other. He felt like they were finally back on form.

  But they remained vigilant. The Westwood had been raided the other night and one of the licence inspector’s new tricks was to raid the same establishment again a few days later after the proprietor had paid his fine and assumed he’d be left alone for a while. But one couldn’t be too careful. Mud kept the light aimed down low, catching weeds and driftwood until he netted some well-heeled civilian feet in motion.

  “Groesbeck?”

  “Drury?”

  The figure halted just a few feet away. Mud fixed his flashlight on the polished shoes while Shorty hung back in the shadows, his hand tucked in his coat pocket. The two leaders, the Honourable Premier of Ontario and the Honorable Governor of the State of Michigan, shook hands.