by Howard Engel
I paid for my drink, pocketed the rest of the peanuts against the unknown situation in Room 614 and walked through the darkened lounge to the door connected to the hotel lobby. I pushed the button and waited for the elevator.
The ride up to the sixth floor was in itself uneventful, but it reminded me that there was such a thing as an “elevator feeling.” I can’t describe it, but it happens all the time. Room 614 was on the side of the narrow corridor facing and looking down on St. Andrew Street. Julie opened the door. It was a big room, placed a few floors above the rooms set aside for salesmen showing their lines. The place was a mess with clothes strewn everywhere. I couldn’t help thinking that the pantyhose on the chair and the three or four blouses on the bed and hanging on doorknobs was a glimpse into an untidy mind. Then I remembered my own room and swallowed the thought.
“Oh Benny, I’m so glad you could come!” She carefully closed, bolted and chained the door. She was wearing a sheer something-or-other covered by another semi-see-through wrap. They were both the colour of milky coffee. She may have sounded distraught, but her make-up was intact, which is always a good sign. I moved a few peanuts to my mouth, while she turned to clear a space for me to sit down. In the end, I shared a love-seat with an intimate garment, which she hadn’t thought enough of to move out of sight. Across the room near the bathroom door was a room-service trolley with the remains of a meal on it. I was thinking that “at least her appetite is healthy,” when it hit me that she might have been planning on me for dessert.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” I said, by way of opening. She couldn’t pounce on me after that.
“He’s to blame for this!” she said. “Daddy, Daddy. It’s always been Daddy!”
“Why don’t you tell me the whole story from the beginning?”
“Would you like a drink? I can get anything you want from the bar.” I accepted a Coke and watched her pour Scotch into a glass and smother it with soda. “There’s a whole basket of fruit if you want something to eat, Benny. Cashews the size of kittens.”
“No thanks, Julie. What you can do is tell me what this is all about. Is it your father’s death?”
“It’s Didier!” she said. “He’s gone off! Just like that. He checked out of his hotel and left no forwarding number. I can’t believe it! Could he have been kidnapped?”
“Anything is possible. When did you see him last? And have you talked with his regular cronies? What about that model, Morna McGuire? He’s not likely to go very far from her, is he?”
“Didier and Morna? What are you talking about? Morna’s got a boyfriend in Hollywood. The actor Byron Aslin, you know? You didn’t think …? No, it’s been Didier and me. And now I can’t find him!”
“Where does he edit this magazine of his?”
“Why in Paris! What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, how much work can he do on the banks of the Welland Canal? He had to go back to work eventually, hadn’t he?”
“But why not tell me? Why just … just … vanish?”
“You said that your father was behind this. How?”
“He didn’t like Didier. He never liked any of my friends. He jinxed it. He always does!”
“Did,” I corrected, not meaning to hurt, but not wanting to shut out the real world either from this room with its imitation French furniture and luxurious cashews, which I had found and had been working my way through.
Julie, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned towards me. “Benny, I need to find him.” She was crying now, and the make-up around her eyes was being put to the test. Her outer wrap had fallen open and it left a good deal of Julie on display through the diaphanous other thing. Usually, I’m a pushover for a cheap thrill, but there was something about Julie that made me feel detached and reserved. The hand of the stage manager was all but tangible. She was faintly comic and consequently what was bothering her was comic as well. She was an attractive woman; I had to give her that, but it wasn’t working on me. It was a note too high for me to hear, or, maybe, too low. Anyway, what I’m saying is that all these see-through layers, the tears and the pleading voice had the emotional appeal of a block of orange Cheddar. Anna would have been proud of me. But this didn’t have anything to do with my feelings for Anna. I was totally committed to Anna, but I recognized that my maleness was not totally under my control. I remembered Pia Morley and Helen Blackwood from a few years ago. And I mustn’t forget the beautiful Cath Bracken. No, Julie was never in their class.
“Tell me about your last meeting with your father,” I said.
“What has that got to do with anything?” She seemed shocked at the change of subject.
“I need to know. How did you get to the house?”
“Didier,” she said.
“A red Le Baron with one headlight broken?”
“I did that near Stowe. We were driving back from skiing in Vermont. He was awfully nice about it.”
“So, he waited for you in the car?”
“I think so. I guess he could have followed me. The back door was open.”
“What happened next?”
“I talked to Daddy and then I left. That’s all.”
“Not so fast. You came in the door. Who did you see?”
“I remember now. I could smell baking in the kitchen, so I went in to talk to Victoria, who had been making pies. Her husband, that Mickey, was there, but he went out as soon as he had tugged the old forelock. Mickey is always very deferential. Victoria and I don’t have a lot to say to one another. I don’t think she approves of me. She’s very judgmental, I think, although she hardly opens her mouth.”
“Did you see your brother?”
“My half-brother, you mean. No.”
“Okay, go on. You went from the kitchen into the big office to see your father?”
“That’s right. Then we talked. He gave me a lecture, not one of his better ones, and then he gave me some money to take away the bad taste and I left the same way I came in.”
“See anyone on your way out?”
“No, just Victoria. But Didier wasn’t in the car. I had to wait for a few minutes.”
“How long? This could be important.”
“It wasn’t more than five minutes. Maybe longer. I had my fur coat, so I wasn’t cold. The car was open, and I just sat and waited.”
“What did Didier say when he came back?”
“Nothing. He was in a mood.”
“How convenient,”
“You have no right to say that! You take a cheap, cynical view of artistic people, Benny. Didier’s an exceptionally talented artist. How could you appreciate him?”
“How much money did your father give you?”
“Thirty-five thousand dollars.”
“That would take away quite a lot of bad taste. Did he give you cash?”
“No, it was a cheque. He never keeps large amounts of cash in the house. He didn’t used to anyway.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Is that any of your business?”
“I’m no gossip, Julie. I’m just vacuuming as much information as I can in the hope that some of it might tell me something I don’t already know. I think I can make a good guess about the cheque. You endorsed it and gave it to your friend. Right?”
“What if I did?”
“Well, Julie, you might have given him his airfare back to Paris. Ever think of it that way?”
TWENTY-SIX
I was sitting in my office trying to sort the files that had taken the bullet meant for me. They were in shreds, partly because of the bullet, that had run around inside the filing drawer and partly because of the forensic man’s efforts at finding the bullet amid the confetti they both had created. It was the morning of the following day, St. Patrick’s Day, and I was feeling virtuous about having extricated myself from Julie’s hotel room with my dignity intact. She hadn’t seriously intended to seduce me; it was just a reflex. When she calmed down we took a walk to the end of St. Andrew Street and back
again. I suggested to her that she might invest some of her inheritance in putting some life back into the closed-up stores on both sides of the street. It got her mind off Didier for a few minutes, which was what I was trying to do.
My housekeeping was cut short by a phone call from a Professor Hardy in Hamilton. “Who?” I asked, and he repeated his name: “Lee Hardy, of Napier McNabb University.”
“Oh!” I said, suddenly remembering that line of inquiry. “Yes, Professor. Thanks for calling back. I’m trying to track down one of your former first-year English students from a few years ago: Alexandrina Tait. Ring any bells?”
“The bells have been ringing, Mr. Cooperman. You see, I had an earlier call from Mrs. Wood at the college, who told me about your inquiry.”
“A thorough and responsible woman, Mrs. Wood. I remember our conversation well.”
“About Drina, though, even with the off-stage prompting, I can’t come up with much. She was a disturbed young woman—we aren’t allowed to say ‘girl’ any more, Mr. Cooperman; the thought police are at our backs. The new political correctness is the old prudery, if you ask me. But you were asking about Drina, weren’t you? I said ‘disturbed.’ ‘Preoccupied’ might be another word. I don’t mean busy with undergraduate things—from what I remember, Drina was almost a loner. There was something, well, something that makes it easy for me to remember her, while other faces have all drifted out to sea. I guess ‘memorable’ is the word I’ve been searching for. Memorable. And there was an oddness about her, a slate in her machinery somewhere, although she was bright enough.”
“What became of her?”
“Ah, that’s the big question. She wrote to me from New York that she had met and married a businessman of some sort, a man who dealt in trader bonds, whatever they are. That, and a few postcards from Connecticut, represent the latest news I have of her.”
“Did you know her apart from your classes with her, Professor?”
“Ah, well, she was part of a group that used to come and drink beer and listen to Bach at my house.”
“Is there anything else you can remember?”
“She had a great capacity for concentration when she wanted to focus on a project. She would work things out very methodically. Oh, another thing: she knew everything there was to know about cars and engines of all sorts. She fixed an MG sports car for me that a garage rejected! She was quite a remarkable g—young woman.”
I thanked Professor Hardy and jotted down the gist of what he had said.
Over lunch at the Di, which had been decorated with green flags and balloons in honour of the great Irish saint, I talked with Ned Evans about his plans to restage the old chestnut, Disraeli. He had once done it with my brother, Sam, playing the prime minister and I think he still got us confused. He drew attention to our table when he acted out the scene where Disraeli threatens the governor of the Bank of England. At the climax of the scene, Ned yelled “I will smash the bank!” at the top of his voice. I tried to pretend I was a set of initials carved into the wood of our booth.
From the pay-phone outside, I called Pete Staziak. “What can I do for you today, Benny? Have you found another case to work on? Or are you still waiting for handouts from me about Wise? I know you have to make a living.”
“Pete; when you went over the room—”
“What room?”
“Where Wise was shot, Pete. This is serious. What did you find on the floor besides the body and the gun?”
“Nothing that wasn’t supposed to be there. Dust mites, paperclips, Wise’s hair, about three cents in change. Canadian. And some traces of flour from Victoria when she used the phone to call us.”
“Is that all?”
“Sure. Except for the blood. I forgot the blood.”
“Is there some way I can meet you later at the Wise place? Can you fix it up? I’d like to talk to all of your suspects, if you can round them up.”
“Benny have you departed from your sanity? Are you still with us or are you playing Ellery Queen again?”
“I’m serious, Pete. I think I can prove who killed Abe Wise and how it happened. And I think I know who killed Ed Neustadt and Shaw too. Can’t you ask your suspects and witnesses to assist you at the house? You often get them to come into your office.”
“Why don’t you whisper the name to me over the phone?” he asked in a doubting voice that tried to sound humorous. I whispered the name over the phone.
“Holy shit!” Pete said. “And you can prove it?”
“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” I said in imitation of a storybook I once read to Sam’s kids in Toronto.
“Where will you be this evening?” he asked.
“I’ll be at home waiting for your call.”
“I’ll call, I’ll call!” he said. And he repeated the name.
TWENTY-SEVEN
From the outside, Abe Wise’s two houses at the end of Dorset Crescent looked like they always had, only now they held less terror than the first time I was driven there. Several passenger cars of various sorts were parked along the street nearest the crescent. A couple of police cruisers were parked too, with a large grey police van sheltering around the back next to Pete Staziak’s own car. I parked close to the official party to gain status.
The inside of the main house was also unchanged with the exception of the yellow plastic barrier that the police had hung around the scene of the crime: it may have been drooping more, like it had been hanging there a long time. Chairs from the TV room had been moved into the office and some of the people I had met since that early Monday morning awakening were talking in a group with Pete Staziak when I came into the room. Pete hadn’t really filled the hall for me. Unless the law has a hold on you, it can’t tell you to drive to Dorset Crescent, just like that, even to help them in their investigation. Paulette and Lily hadn’t come. Neither had Dave Rogers, Whitey York or Major Patrick. Duncan Harvey was nowhere to be seen, and of the Three Stooges, only Syl Ryan was there, seated beside a uniformed officer. Didier Santerre, looking sorry for himself, stood apart from the group, near another uniformed officer. It didn’t look like the last reel of The Thin Man. The rafters were not bulging with suspicious characters. I wasn’t going to have to shout to be heard above the din of crosstalk. I should have looked on the bright side. Both of Abe Wise’s kids and the Armstrongs were in attendance. And, of course, McStu. I’d invited him myself, since he knew all of the fine print of the Tatarski case.
For a few minutes I stood examining an early American terracotta figure with a broken ear, then Pete called on everybody, all eight of us, to be seated. He reviewed what was already known about the death of Abram Wise—stealing my thunder—and introduced me as a friend of the investigation. He mentioned a couple of my successful cases, not all of them, then pulled me to the front of Wise’s old desk.
“The answer to why Abe Wise was killed is obvious,” I began. “He was killed because he was hated. ‘Hated’ is strong language, but when you think about it, it fills the bill.”
“Are you going to give a lecture, Benny?” McStu asked, innocently. “Why don’t you sit down and join the party?” He gave me a big grin, giving me a fine view of the space between his two front teeth. I found a chair, and we all moved our chairs into a circle, except for the Armstrongs who were sitting on a velvet couch.
“Look, all of you.” It was Mickey. “Nobody says Mr. Wise was an angel, but, given his … his … ”
“Questionable activities,” prompted McStu.
“Criminal past and present,” suggested Pete.
“Whatever,” said Mickey, shaking his head. “Mr. Wise was well respected inside the community he worked among. I can’t believe that he was killed by another … by somebody he did business with. Because he always played fair. He told me that it was the only way to play when you couldn’t write down the rules.” Victoria took his hand when he stopped talking.
“Fair enough,” I said. “I agree with Mickey. What happened to Mr. Wise
had nothing to do with his criminal activities. He was killed because of something that happened many years ago.”
“I should have brought a sandwich,” Syl Ryan whispered to Victoria.
“When Abe Wise was still a young burglar, back in 1952, he was picked up, caught with the goods and arrested one night by probational patrolman Michael Prescott of Niagara Regional. It was a fair cop. Wise had been under surveillance for some time and he was caught with enough evidence to have sent him to Kingston for a few years or at least to a reformatory. But, Ed Neustadt, Prescott’s senior officer, let Wise walk. Why? We’ll have subpoena Prescott up in Muskoka. All we know right now is that Wise hated Neustadt. He went to his funeral, he told me, expressly to dance on his grave and to tarnish Neustadt’s reputation just by showing up. The only conclusion we can draw from this is that there was something between them: a guilty secret, perhaps. Let’s suppose that it was a secret. Something known to the young burglar and the ambitious policeman. What could it have been?
“Nineteen fifty-two was the year of the Tatarski case. I’ve checked the date of Wise’s arrest and the trial date. The trial was in its eighth day. It went to the jury on the following afternoon. For those of you old enough to remember, it was a major story around here and it made national headlines because it was a capital case involving a young unwed mother. Ed Neustadt was in charge of the investigation and I suggest to you that the secret had to do with this case. What could a young punk like Wise know about the Tatarskis? Did he live near them? No. Did he go to school with them? No. Did he know their house because he had gone into it during the commission of a robbery? Possibly, very possibly. Wasn’t he caught in the act in that same neighbourhood while the trial was in progress?
“But Mary Tatarski was convicted of killing her mother and then making the scene look like a burglary had been interrupted. Remember that Mary was old enough to remember the break-in five years earlier when her father was killed. A young impressionable girl like Mary, with a grievance against her mother, the Crown argued, wouldn’t have forgotten that.