by Howard Engel
Sitting in my regular golden-stained booth and sipping deeply of the stuff that makes the world go around, I couldn’t keep from thinking of the report: small omissions, connections, suspicions. All in all, it was a peculiar case. Abe Wise was the spider in the middle of his web. All of the other people were ranged about him in some way. Whatever they did outside of their association with Wise was irrelevant to my inquiry. I’d talked to a lot of people. In fact this case was almost all talk. Questions and answers. Q and A. Then on to the next. Although I’d talked to lots of people about Wise, Wise wasn’t coming to life in a different way for me because of what I’d learned. Wise was the same guy to everybody. There wasn’t anything devious about him, which is a peculiar thing to say about a master crook. He had the system beat. He hadn’t changed much over the years. The Wise that Rogers had described to me was the Wise that Paulette used to wait on back in the 1950s, at this very table maybe.
I walked back to the office. The first stage of the case was over. I would get a call from Wise, or from Mickey, telling me that there was a cheque coming of these days: payment to date for services described in the report, or maybe offering to let me live untroubled for a few years in lieu of payment. This was reaction time. Time for Wise to read and think of what to do next. Time for me to tidy my desk, remove the hair and fuzz from the mass of paper-clips, get my ring fixed, try to think of what I was going to do next to earn the second instalment of Abe Wise’s bounty. I thought of the coming weekend with Anna listening to paper after paper up at Secord at a conference. I thought of Hart and Julie, or Mickey and Vicky, Paulette and Lily, of Neustadt and Mary Tatarski. It was a rich cast, but they weren’t up to anything very interesting. Well, Neustadt had entered upon eternity and someone had seen to it that it looked like an accident. Staziak was going to phone me one of these days and tell me that person or persons unknown had turned the valve on the jack that was supporting Neustadt’s Buick. That made it murder. A murder, he’ll tell me without clues or witnesses, a murder without a future as far as he was concerned.
But what kind of murder was it? A murder that is committed without a weapon? Was it premeditated? How could it be? The victim was lying under his car, not in conflict with his killer. The killer could have come and seized the opportunity. This was a strange killing from any way you looked at it. I tried to imagine the picture. The killer came up the driveway where Neustadt was under his car with his tools around him. It was a quiet spot, a neighbourhood of houses. If the season had been summer, it could have been a set for “Leave It to Beaver.” The old man and his car. Small-town values. Do it yourself.
Neustadt didn’t talk to his killer, or if he did, he did it from under the car. If he sensed any danger, he would have run himself out on the creeper board he was lying on. It had casters in my picture and it would only have taken a moment to get out from under. No, this seemed to be a crime without conversation. The killer came up the walk, turned the valve and walked away without attracting any attention from the house or along the street.
And how did the murderer know about Neustadt’s practice of servicing his own car? Did he know that he changed his own oil? Must have. The major said he was a man of established habits. Then, it becomes clear, unless I’ve lost my way in this thing, the murder of Ed Neustadt was a well-plotted and well-researched act. The murderer knew where Neustadt lived, and that he would be under his car changing his oil on the first Sunday in March. He also knew that his jack was hydraulic.
And who was this murderer? One of the many people he sent away to Kingston for a nice long term? Somebody who felt that Neustadt’s zeal as a law officer was exaggerated? Someone with a long-standing grudge? This was not your usual murderer. Such a crime might have been hanging in the air for a long time waiting for all of the circumstances to be right. He had to be alone. There could not be any witnesses. It had to be the day of the oil change. Neustadt was a man of regular habits. Even on that chilly Sunday.
When the phone interrupted my reverie it was Whitey York, the lawyer who had been dunning Hart Wise. “Mr. Cooperman, I said I would be in touch with you.”
“That was a few days ago. But thanks for remembering. What’s the verdict?”
“I have talked to my client and he has decided not to deal. We intend to carry the matter through normal procedures and let the courts decide.”
“You’re really going to stick it to him?”
“That calls for interpretation, Mr. Cooperman. I just called to let you know.”
“Damn! When did you last speak with your client?”
“Early last evening. We discussed it thoroughly. I—”
“You haven’t talked to him today?”
“I left a message at his office just after nine-thirty, but—”
That’s where I hung up the phone and left the office in a hurry. In less than ten minutes I was parked down the street from Brighton Motors on Niagara Street. Inside, the salesmen, who were flying a paper airplane, told me that Gordon Shaw hadn’t been in since early morning. He had had a call and then left the office abruptly without leaving word where he might be reached.
Standing outside, I tried to imagine where he had gone. For him to have taken on Abe Wise in this direct way was foolish beyond belief. It would have been like me telling him to shove his proposition to me last Monday up the nearest city councillor’s drainpipe.
Yesterday’s overnight snow was already fading away. In spite of the cold, the snow couldn’t manage under the bright sun. The cars in Shaw’s lot, at the back where the old jail used to be, were still covered, blanketed for the most part, in white, but patches had melted or slipped off, heavy with moisture. One of the cars had lost more snow than the others. It was a stunning red Alfa Romeo. I went over to have a look. Through a line of big zeros written on the windshield, slumped in the driver’s seat, I saw Gordon Sawchuck, who did business under the name Shaw. Without opening the door, I could tell that he was dead, an opinion supported by the handle of a knife I could see a few inches away from that dirty old school tie he liked to wear. In the snow by the passenger side, I stepped on a piece of dark metal in the shape of an Indian’s head. I moved away from the car to do some private dry retching.
TWENTY-ONE
As a good citizen normally, I would have let the salesmen in on what I had found in the lot out back, and then I would have telephoned 911 to inform the authorities. But I did neither one. I didn’t know how long I could keep my client’s name out of an investigation. Technically, I wasn’t being a good Boy Scout, but any investigation that didn’t trip over Abe Wise’s name in the first half-hour wasn’t going anywhere with or without me. I knew that I would tell Pete Staziak as soon as I ethically could, but there is an unwritten law about snitching on your employer. Even when he’s the biggest crook in the country. Especially when he has just received your invoice.
I got back to my car without walking by the show windows. To anyone keeping track of my movements, and who knows, it could happen, I must have looked as guilty as hell as I crossed and recrossed Niagara Street.
In the Olds, I began rehearsing a speech to be addressed to Abe Wise. It reviewed the circumstances of my coming to work for him and went on to ask how he hoped to get away first with the murder of Ed Neustadt and then with the stabbing of Gordon Shaw. He would deny it, of course, and I would … what? Resign? Hello, Cooperman! Resigning isn’t an option. Remember? “We’re not talking ‘ifs’ here,” he said that night.
So, what was I going to do? Sit tight? Keep on looking for people who wanted to see Abe’s blood on the floor? It seemed a little distant and abstract for me. I needed to talk to somebody. Where was Anna when I needed her? Off hobnobbing with her fellow historians for the whole damned weekend. This was leading nowhere. Cooperman, don’t whine! Gordon Shaw is dead, not you. You don’t even come into this. Not directly. You went to see Shaw earlier this week and again today. The post mortem examination will show that he was dead some time before your second visit to the showr
oom. Again I could see Shaw’s eyes. They already had the dead look. He could have been killed a short time after he left his office. A call comes in: “Will you show me that Alfa Romeo in your yard? Give me a personal demonstration?”
I parked the Olds behind the Murray Hotel and went in for a haircut. It wouldn’t hurt being seen downtown and nowhere near Niagara Street. There were two men waiting for Bill Hall’s chair. I picked up a magazine and waited.
* * *
On Chestnut Street there is a phone booth that can hardly be seen from St. Andrew. It was from there that I called 911 and told the dispatcher where to look for Shaw. I didn’t hang around to chat, but even slinking guiltily back to my office, I felt better than I had been feeling. And to hell with Wise! I wasn’t snitching on him, just telling the cops where to find the cold meat. When the phone began to ring as soon as I got behind my desk, I wondered how they had traced me so fast. But it wasn’t a call-back from 911, it was Victoria Armstrong saying that Mickey was on his way over to pick me up. I tried to ask her what was up, but she said she didn’t know.
“Mickey was waiting for me in the Volvo this time. It was parked in front of the Russell House or the Sniper’s Roost, as I liked to call it. I asked Mickey the same question I asked his wife. “Mr. Wise doesn’t send out press releases. He just told me to fetch you.” I liked the word ‘fetch’; it implied a return to where he picked me up. But I wasn’t thinking too clearly. We drove in silence out of the city and over the route I’d first travelled last Monday morning. It was prettier with the sun shining on the farms. Once or twice, I caught a glimpse of the old canal. The snow was in retreat.
Victoria was waiting at the door when we arrived. She took my coat and shrugged when I asked with a look if she knew any more about what was going on. She was wearing one of her dark peasanty woollen skirts. When I was ushered into Wise’s august presence it was into the same room where our first interview had taken place. The pine hutch, the big partners desk, the arrow-backed chairs and the little terracotta figures that pre-dated Columbus.
Wise was sitting when I came in, but quickly got up and came towards me with a wide smile and an outstretched hand. “Thank you for coming at such short notice, Mr. Cooperman.” We shook hands and he kept walking past me to the liquor cabinet. “Will you take a drink at this time of day?” He made a Scotch and water for himself and a rye and ginger ale for me. I wondered where he found that out. “I’ve read your report, Mr. Cooperman. A very impressive piece of work, given the short time I’ve given you.”
“It’s just an interim report. It doesn’t include the fact, for instance, that Gordon Shaw was murdered this morning sometime. He was the car dealer who was pressing charges against your son. You remember that Hart bought a Triumph sports car from Shaw.” I could hear the mounting anger in my voice, so I was glad when Wise broke in.
“A Triumph! You think this is about a Triumph, Mr. Cooperman? How naïve you are. But you are right to tell me. Of course, you think I’m behind it. Well, maybe I am and maybe I’m not. But we both know that Hart is involved in this and I don’t want to see any harm come to that boy!”
“That boy is nearly forty. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll begin getting through to Hart.”
“I warned you last time about your free advice for troubled families. Let’s hear no more of it. I insist!”
“Why didn’t you wait until I was asleep before calling this meeting?”
“Cooperman, I’ve no time for your hurt feelings. Now shut up and listen to what I have to say.” I sat down in a chair near the liquor cabinet next to a particularly ugly Central American mask. My sitting reminded Wise that he had been left standing in the middle of the room. He pulled a chair towards me, leaving tracks in the broadloom.
“I want you to continue on this assignment. I need my head examined for this decision, but you’re the best available. Keep at it. I also want to know what you can discover about Julie’s new suitor, Santerre. I understand that you met him last night. How did he strike you?”
“That whole crowd is out of my league, Mr. Wise. I don’t understand the gaudy talk. I don’t know what they are on about to be honest. They have enough cocaine when they need it. You may know where they got it.”
“Was Julie …? Was she …?” We both got to our feet.
“I didn’t see her, Mr. Wise. But you know, better than most of us, the stuff is around for people who know who to ask.” Wise rubbed his forehead with a white handkerchief, thinking. I don’t know how long I stood there waiting for him to look up. When he did: “Phil Green will drive you back to town, Mr. Cooperman. I have a job for Mickey to do this afternoon. I hope that I needn’t remind you that it would be in your interest not to involve me in the investigation into this terrible murder of Mr. Shaw.”
“Then why remind me?”
There was a knock at the door, and I heard Victoria’s voice informing Wise that the car was just coming around to the back door. He repeated the message to me, while I was thinking of all the things I would like to put to my client before he again slipped out of reach.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Cooperman,” he said. I didn’t see him say it, since it was addressed to my back as I was being hurried through the door in the rear. I was a back-door kind of fellow, I thought. I had the feeling that I was being frog-marched away from the facts, being returned to a life in black and white after a delicious flirtation with Technicolor.
Back home again, I soaked in a tub for half an hour, hoping that the phone would ring with some good news. It didn’t. My only consolation for the whole day was the contents of the envelope that Phil Green handed me as I got out of the car. It contained a fat cheque.
Friday-night dinner at my parents’ went off as usual. I ate an over-broiled steak that had been cooked fifteen minutes per side because Ma puts them into the broiler frozen solid. I treated myself to a movie afterwards. I was still anxious, both about the murder and about my meeting with Wise. I base this on the fact that I ate two Kit Kat chocolate bars before the feature was well started.
The Saturday paper brought the news of the discovery of Gordon Shaw’s body behind his sports car showroom on Niagara Street. Pete Staziak was in charge of the investigation and he said that he had several leads which he was following up and when there were developments he would keep the public informed. The story mentioned details of Shaw’s education, marital status, and a few of the cups and trophies he had won in races and rallies in the Niagara district during the last ten years or so.
Other news in the papers looked peculiar and irrelevant, like news from a distant country. European events were on the front page of the Beacon while The Globe’s dealt with domestic matters that formerly stayed in the closet. I went through both papers without skipping, eating up everything from the ads to the editorials. I needed all this as a spring tonic to get me up and moving again. I was spread out with the papers on the rug when the phone rang. I felt a stitch in my hip as I got up to answer it. I was feeling my years.
“Hello?”
“Benny? Pete. What are you doing?”
“I’m goofing off while Anna is spending the weekend with visiting historians up at Secord. And I’ve been reading in the papers all about my friend Pete Staziak and his latest investigation.”
“Tell you a little secret, Benny. I get help from the public. You couldn’t guess how many anonymous tips cross my desk.”
“You got a description from the salesmen?”
“Why can’t you play by the rules?”
“Sometimes, Pete, you stumble across things and you can’t wait, or get involved right then. It’s a nasty part of my business.”
“Until you lose your damned licence, Benny!”
“Sorry, Pete. Would you rather I just tiptoed away?”
“Isn’t that what you did?” he said, letting his anger show in his voice. Before I could respond, he had caught his breath and came back at me on a totally new tack. “How are you anyway, Benny?”
“Considering. Oh, you’ve heard, then?”
“What? I was hoping that my client, Abram Wise, might call me to answer some of the questions he keeps sidestepping whenever I see him.”
“He’s not going to phone, Benny.”
“You always were a pessimist, Pete?’
“Benny, he’s not going to call, he’s not going to write and he’s not gong to fax anybody any more The spring will come at last, Benny, but not for Abe Wise. He’s finished buttoning and unbuttoning forever. Do you get my meaning, Benny?”
“I don’t like this, Pete. I haven’t even cashed his cheque yet. Will the bank honour it, or is everything on hold?”
“Slow down. You aren’t denying that you were working for Abe Wise?”
“I’m not ashamed of work, Pete. I didn’t like the threats he gave me to take the job, but once he had my attention, he treated me fair enough. What is it you are telling me?”
“What you’ve already guessed. Your client is, even as we speak, being moved downtown where he is going to a new address in a refrigerator drawer. Wise is booked to have a post mortem first thing Monday morning. Any other questions?”
“When did all this happen? I was over there yesterday! Friday. He didn’t just sicken and die, right?”
“Right. He took a nine-millimetre slug between the eyes. That is if the piece that was on the floor did the shooting, which is the handiest possibility.”
“How did you learn about me?”
“Not from you, damn it! You might have mentioned the fact when I was talking to you on Tuesday. The housekeeper, Victoria Armstrong, gave me a list of the people in and out for the last couple of days. Not informing the authorities is getting to be a habit with you, Benny. Watch it!”
“Are you in charge of the case?”
“Until I hear I ain’t, I am. You think we should have a little talk?”