“Okay. I also might want to get him some papers.”
“We will work on that. For the time being, a tailored suit will be his papers.”
“I can’t speak for him, Chung. I hope you understand.”
“I understand. Right now I will speak for him.”
McCloskey stood and gave a short bow, which was closer to a nod. “Thank you, both. I think I’d like to take him over to the club. May I use your phone to gather my troops?”
“Li-Ling will show you.”
Li-Ling entered the house first, followed by Qingzhao and then McCloskey. Qingzhao directed McCloskey to the phone. He rang up the club.
“Claude? … Jack … Yeah, I’m bringing someone by and I’m putting him to work in the kitchen … No … No, nothing like that … Just hold on until we get there … Yeah, we’re on our way.” McCloskey hung up the phone, thanked Qingzhao and Li-Ling, turned to Quan and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
“Let’s go?”
“Yeah, let’s go to the club.”
— Chapter 6 —
ON BENDED KNEE, NO LESS
“Jack, where’ve you been?”
McCloskey let out a sigh of relief and took his hand out of the inside of his jacket. “Jesus, Maudie.” She had been banging on his door as if she was none other than the provincial licence inspector. But no, it was Vera Maude, a young bohemian, sometimes-librarian and now oftentimes bookseller, a woman with whom he — as they say in the magazines — had been slowly but steadily becoming entangled. Fierce, attractive, and bewildering, he had been trying to hold her at bay … but he had always been drawn toward complications, hers in particular. McCloskey thought it might be time to invest in a peephole.
“Well?”
“Out, I was out,” he said. Thinking back on Hong’s words, McCloskey added, “I got businesses to run, remember?” He was trying to remember the names of some of his newer, smaller front operations but for some reason was drawing a blank. He tended to leave those details to his accountant.
Vera Maude folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. “In the morning? Business in the morning? Since when? Or did Thursday night somehow spill into Friday morning? And you —”
“Last night ended right on time,” said McCloskey.
“And you never answer your phone.”
“I answer it when I’m expecting a call. Is this about something besides my work schedule?” He knew he had to defuse this, whatever it was, before he could get on with his day.
She unfolded her arms and started to relax a little. “Yeah, something besides.”
“Then c’mon in.”
Vera Maude ducked under his arm and wiggled into the room. McCloskey checked the hallway before closing the door.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
“Oh — Maudie, this is Quan; Quan, this is Maudie.”
“Really? A house boy, Jack?” She threw her purse on the loveseat and straightened her headscarf in the mirror that hung outside the bedroom.
“No, I’m helping Quan find his feet here. He’s new in town. Do you want a coffee?”
“Sure.”
McCloskey disappeared into the kitchen and left Vera Maude and Quan standing in the middle of the room, staring and smiling at each other. Quan was wearing an ill-fitting suit that had been offered to him by Hong’s brother. It had been thirty days unclaimed at the laundry, so it was up for grabs, and Quan could have it fitted tomorrow.
“So, Quan, what line of work are you in?”
Silence.
“Jack?” said Maudie.
“What?” Jack shouted from the kitchen.
“Does Quan speak English?”
“He had his first real lesson today.”
A pause. “Do you need any help in there?”
McCloskey emerged with two mugs and handed one to Vera Maude.
“Course not.”
“Really? Whenever you get to work on something in the kitchen it sounds like a chandelier just fell from the ceiling.”
The two sat in separate chairs and Quan followed their cue, sitting between them on the loveseat next to Vera Maude’s purse. He clutched the cup of tea that McCloskey had poured him earlier.
“Okay, so what’s up?”
Vera Maude took a second to remember. “Oh — you won’t believe it! It’s Uncle Fred.”
“Is he all right?”
Vera Maude’s Uncle Fred wasn’t getting any younger and he had the occasional bad spell, usually attributed to his chronic indigestion. McCloskey had met him a few times and they got along just fine. He did, however, keep noticing the old man tended to look a little sideways at him, and he didn’t always put it down to gas. He always wondered how much Uncle Fred knew about him, and about him and Vera Maude.
“It’s serious.”
“What is it?”
“Get this: he proposed to Mrs. Cattanach.”
“Well … that’s swell.” McCloskey shifted to the edge of his seat, and then noticed Vera Maude’s reaction. “Isn’t it?”
“She accepted.”
“Good news.” He was still trying to get a read on Vera Maude, wishing he had a program to follow the performance.
“Of course it’s good news,” she said, “and they’ll be wonderful for each other, but …” She looked around as if the chorus might be hanging over her shoulders.
“But what?”
“Don’t you think they’re a bit old for this? I mean a bit past …”
“They weren’t planning on starting a family … were they?”
“Jack!”
“Well, I don’t know.” McCloskey was a bit surprised to hear this coming from a person who was usually so much more open-minded. He suspected there might be something more to it. He blindly veered into, “So they want to get married; what’s age got to do with it? Do they love each other? Are they a good match?” He had no idea what he was getting himself into and he was regretting it already. Right now he was just wishing Vera Maude would get up and walk around the room some more — he’d feel much better about everything if he could just watch her move around in her new skirt — new to him, at least. Sometimes he just wanted to let himself be distracted.
“Well, yes,” said Vera Maude, “on all counts.”
“I’ve seen them together and I’d have to agree.” McCloskey glanced over at Quan, sitting there like he was watching a tennis match, and then McCloskey wondered if they had anything like tennis in China. “I think it’s fine.”
“Oh, and another thing,” said Vera Maude, “they’re planning to kick me out. Can you believe it?”
McCloskey leaned back in his chair. He was going to try and let that one drift for now. All he could think right now was, Let’s get a grip; I got guns pointed at me before I button my suspenders in the morning.
“So when’s the wedding?” he said.
“Labour Day weekend … stop staring at my ankles! It isn’t like you’ve never seen them before.”
“Actually, I was looking at the tan line around your ankles from the straps on your shoes — wait, why the rush? Are you sure she’s not —”
“Jack! Stop it with that.” She paused and took a sip from her mug and Quan followed suit. “Actually … I asked him the same thing.”
“If she was with child?”
Vera Maude rolled her eyes. “No, I asked, Why the hurry?”
“And what did he say?”
Vera Maude did her best Uncle Fred imitation. “What? Wait until next June? We’re ancient by anyone’s measure. One of us might be dead by Christmas.”
“Would make a hell of a funeral.”
“Jack, I need a place.”
Is that what this is really about?
“I’m not boarding at some old spinster’s doily palace again,” she said, “or rooming with some fool shop girl.”
“But you’re —”
Vera Maude almost spat. “Don’t say it! Don’t say it! I’m a bookseller!”
> Actually, McCloskey wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Quan grabbed the arm of the loveseat, waiting for the next volley.
“All right, you’re relocating,” said McCloskey. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Vera Maude paused. Even though Quan barely understood a word, he was obviously in suspense.
“Maudie, you can’t be thinking —”
“What?” She sat up. “You think … no … that’s not what I was thinking.”
McCloskey was wishing for that theatre program again. “Okay, so what were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. What were you thinking?”
Quan’s neck must have been getting sore.
“I like the location and the building,” said Vera Maude. “I could walk to work from here. A place anywhere in here would be nice. I don’t care if it’s on the Dougall or Chatham side, first or second floor. Is there anything you can do?”
“You mean apart from throwing someone out onto the street?”
“No, no, I don’t want you to do that.” She had to be careful what she wished for around McCloskey. They had been out for a stroll on the Avenue one evening last month and she said she had a hankering for a float. They were approaching the Andros Brothers’ Confectionary. McCloskey walked in, peeled some bills off the roll he always kept in his pocket, and whispered something in the ear of one of the brothers. He had the place evacuated while the other brother played soda jerk.
“There’s more, Jack.”
McCloskey put his mug on the floor and cupped the sides of his face in his hands. “What?”
“They want me to plan the wedding.”
He looked up. “You?”
“What? You don’t think I could do it?”
“No … I mean why not Dorothy or Jennie?”
“You know they’re not living in the city. And you know we’re not all that close. Oh, they’ll come to the wedding, all right.” She paused and looked around the room. Olive drab walls and mismatched furniture. “Jack …”
“What?”
“I don’t know anything about planning a wedding.”
“It’s a church wedding?”
“Yes, it’s a church wedding.”
“Where?”
“St. Andrew’s.” She glanced toward the window. “Of course I should be flattered … but …”
“But what?”
“Jack … I haven’t set foot in a church since the funeral back in February, and before that I can’t even remember.”
“Don’t worry about it. Maybe start with a conversation with Mrs. Cattanach.” He paused. “You know, she really does like you, Maudie.”
“And here I thought she was trying to get back at me for something.”
Yes, this was a good start. He was wishing right now he could finish something, and not have it be by accident.
“Maudie, can we talk about this later? I gotta take Quan to the club to meet with some of the staff. It’s Friday so most of them, Pearl included, should be there.” He thought for a moment. “They better be there. Anyway, I got some ideas and I want to make sure everyone’s on board with them.”
“Oh,” said Vera Maude, “speaking of ideas for the club, you still need to talk to that sketch writer I was telling you about, the one who works at the store.”
McCloskey had been putting that off, but now that he was looking to make some serious changes at the club, it might be the right time to meet with this guy and hear what he had to say for himself.
“What was his name again?”
“Bernie, Bernie Lipinski. He’s working tomorrow if you want to drop by. Maybe you two could go for a coffee.”
“All right. I just might do that,” he said, still talking himself into it. “And then you can do something for me.”
“What?”
“Take Quan here to get a library card.”
Quan perked up again.
“No, Jack, no.” Vera Maude hadn’t set foot in the library since she abandoned that ship last summer.
“Yes, Maudie, yes.”
“They hate me there.”
“No they don’t. You don’t know that. Do you want me to go with you?”
“No! No,” she said, her palms held out like a traffic cop at Ferry Hill.
“This afternoon,” said McCloskey.
“I thought you were taking him to the club.”
“I am.”
“What? Did you think all I had to do was buy him one? He’s going to have to fill out a form.”
“Forms?”
“Yeah, forms.”
McCloskey didn’t like the sound of that. He had to think this through. “All right, then. I’ll bring him to the front steps of the library in one hour. You’ll be there?”
“Yeah,” she said, “with bells on.”
He watched her walk out.
— Chapter 7 —
GRACE HOSPITAL WRECKING AND SALVAGE
“We thought you might be interested,” said the constable.
Campbell tilted his flashlight in the direction of the voice. He was making his way down a section of alleyway east off Ferry Street, just a shade this side of the Drive.
“Is that you, Bickerstaff?”
“Yes, sir.”
The detective pivoted the light. “And Dr. Laforet.”
“Damn the telephone.”
“Yes,” said Campbell, “damn the telephone. Is that a smoking jacket?”
It was indeed a smoking jacket: maroon and black brocade with quilted lapels.
“They caught me at a bad time.”
“I’ll reserve comment. What do we have here?”
The two steered the detective’s attention toward the wooden crate they were standing over. The container was about two feet tall and just as wide, with Chinese characters painted on the sides. An address label for Hong’s Oriental Dry Goods was stuck on front.
“Not a body,” surmised Campbell.
“Not as much,” said Laforet.
“Okay. What’s in it?”
“Well, it’s not rice,” said Bickerstaff, and he raised the lid. “Heavens,” said Campbell.
“To Betsy.”
The crate appeared to contain three human arms loosely packed in straw.
“Here,” said Campbell, “point your flashlights in here.”
The doctor and the constable did just that, trying to avoid casting too many shadows.
“Clean cuts.”
“Yes,” said Laforet. “Either they sat very still for it or —”
“Or they were already dead?”
“Isn’t this the worst thing you’ve ever seen?” asked Bickerstaff, still coming to grips with the crate’s contents.
“No,” said Laforet. He didn’t elaborate.
“Left arms,” said Campbell.
“Right on all counts.”
Campbell gently lifted one of them by the wrist, examining it with his magnifying glass while the other two continued to cast some light.
“There’s something else, sir,” said Bickerstaff. “Have a look at this.” Bickerstaff was pointing his light on the side of the crate, where stenciled over the red Chinese markings was BORDER CITIES WRECKING AND SALVAGE.
“You just happened to come across the crate, Bickerstaff? You weren’t responding to a telephone call?”
“I’ve been getting into the routine of walking this particular stretch; it’s lately become known as a drop-off point for illegal liquor —” he cleared his throat “— and for other sordid activities.”
Campbell was now pointing his flashlight beam up and down the alley, and up and down the backs of the buildings. He checked a few of the nearest doors. The Murray Building was on the south side, and to the north was the Imperial Hotel. The rear entrances were all locked.
“Does this location mean anything to you?” said Laforet.
“No,” said Campbell.
“Something a constable was meant to stumble across perhaps.”
“Yes, perhaps,” said Campbell.
“How long could the crate have been sitting here do you think?”
Campbell examined the crate more closely. “There was a light shower late in the afternoon, wasn’t there?”
“Yes,” said Laforet. “About four o’clock, as I recall.”
“The crate is dry.” He looked at the ground in the immediate area. “Not much puddling, but look, look at this bit of mud splatter, just a little on the corner here. Dry, but not bone dry, not cracked.” Campbell stood up. “Still room enough in the alleyway to let an auto pass.” He kneeled down again. “And no chaffing or splintering noticeable at the bottom of the crate, so it wasn’t dragged. More like it was deposited here by someone in a vehicle, around sundown.”
“But they could have dropped it anywhere,” said Laforet. “Why here?”
“Back to your conjecture of it being meant to be found. But by whom?”
Campbell pulled his notepad out of his coat pocket.
“I’d like to get to this right away,” said Laforet.
“Of course,” said Campbell, writing. “I assume you have your car.”
“Just around the corner.”
“Bickerstaff, would you help the doctor get this to Grace?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Shall I drop by in the morning?” asked Campbell.
“Nine-ish,” said Laforet.
Campbell set his hat on Laforet’s desk and headed straight for the crate. It was on a table at the end of the long room, the cool end.
“The front of the hospital looks like a used car lot.”
“These automobiles are becoming contagious.”
“Contagious? I was going to ask if they were being handed out in the maternity ward as part of a welcome package.”
Laforet looked a little more than preoccupied.
“Did I come at a bad time?” asked Campbell.
“No.” Laforet was standing between the crate and another table with a sheet covering half of it, something — or things — underneath. Laforet gently pulled the sheet back. “Male; no distinguishing markings; each no more than a few days apart.”
“Between the time they were severed?” said Campbell.
“Yes.”
“Give me your thoughts on the cuts.”
“Not crude, but not quite surgical either; a skilled hand. In all three cases, the ulna and radius appear intact, along with the complete elbow joint.”
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