Murder on the Thirteenth

by A. E. Eddenden

  “In 1692, Louis XIV of France attempted an invasion of England. The French fleet under Admiral de Tourville was defeated in a decisive engagement off ‘La Hogue’—that’s near Cherbourg —’and the invasion was turned back. After this victory, England remained mistress of the seas until almost our time’.” Jake looked pleased with himself.

  Tretheway shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What could that possibly have to do with our W?”

  “But you said…”

  “Do you have anything else?”

  Jake reshuffled his notes. “‘The Battle of Steinkirk. Victory of Luxembourg over William III’.”

  Tretheway shook his head again.

  “How about Port Royal, Jamaica? ‘Thousands killed in earthquake while tsunami obliterates private haven’.”

  “What’s a tsunami?”

  “A tidal wave.”

  “Then why didn’t you say a tidal wave?”

  Jake didn’t say anything.

  “I hope you’re saving something.”

  “Well, there’s one more. It’s my favourite.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “The Salem witch trials.”

  “Ah.” Tretheway’s expression was the same as when he scratched his massive back against a door jamb.

  “‘1692, Salem Village.’” Jake read. ‘“Largest witch hunt in North America. Young girls met at the minister’s house. Minister’s slave, Tituba, filled their heads with tales of magic. Two of the girls lapsed into hysterical illness. Moaned, writhed on ground. Symptoms spread through child population of settlement. Thought to be bewitched. Finally girls accused others of witchcraft, including Tituba. Sir William Phipps appointed special commission of judges. Many more accusations. Village in grip of hysteria. Eventually two hundred arrested and nineteen executed’.” Jake stopped reading. “Hard to believe. Nineteen people hanged.”

  “I think the total across the colony was twenty-four,” Tretheway said.

  “You know?”

  “Jake. You can’t research witchcraft without reading about Salem Village.”

  “Then why did I…”

  “I had to know if anything else relevant happened that year. Someone had to come in through the back door.” Tretheway pointed at Jake. “Through the year 1692. I came in through witchcraft. And we both met in Salem Village.”

  “But,” Jake persisted, “how is that related exactly to our W?”

  “Don’t know. But it wouldn’t hurt to make a few inquiries.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sir William Phipps. I’d like to know the names of the judges he appointed. And the names of the ones they found guilty. We might get lucky.”

  “I should call Salem Village, I guess. Maybe the City Hall.”

  “I’d be inclined to call the local police. I’m sure they’ll cooperate. This is business. Even though it may be unnecessary.”

  “Unnecessary?”

  “There’s only three days left till Hallowe’en. I doubt if we’d hear anything back before the thirty-first.”

  “So?”

  “We might have the answers by then.”

  “Hm?”

  “From W.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Everyone said that when Hallowe’en fell on a Sunday, fewer children went from door to door. Add to this bad weather, in the form of a thick bone-chilling fog and, they said, fewer still will show up. This didn’t happen at the Tretheways’ where Addie had the reputation of packing a toothsome Hallowe’en bag. She had spent the day baking miniature butter tarts. Wan Ho and Gum were in the kitchen inserting two tarts into each small bag, along with assorted candies and one chocolate BB bat. Zoë and Beezul shared the task of carrying them on a large tray to the front hall where Addie handed them out. Fat Rollo, looking like a fearsome ornament bought especially for the occasion, watched all the proceedings inside and out from the high hall window sill. Cynthia Moon had been invited but stayed home, she said, with a head cold. Doc Nooner was still at his office and Garth Dingle had to close up his pro shop, so neither was at Tretheways’ to help. By seven-thirty they were about halfway through two hundred bags.

  “I don’t know about you,” Tretheway said quietly to Jake, “but I’ve noticed more witches than anything else this year.”

  “You’re right,” Jake said. “Where are all the clowns? And funny faces?”

  “Soldiers and tin men?”

  “Knights of old? Princesses?”

  Tretheway shook his head. “Sign of the times.”

  The hunchback dwarf appeared close to nine o’clock. Addie had the screen door open offering a tray to bigger boys who were probably trick-or-treating for the last time. An impish creature suddenly pushed the boys roughly aside and grabbed several bags from the tray, almost knocking it from Addie’s hands. A low growl came from its hideous, upturned mask. Addie screamed. The dwarf turned and ran awkwardly, as though crippled, down the sidewalk. Its long black cloak, misshapen by the huge hunch, swept across the wet grass. The older boys dropped their bags and ran the other way. Jake got there just in time to see the dwarf disappear into the fog.

  “You okay?” Jake asked.

  “Yes, yes.” Addie had recovered. “Gave me such a start.”

  “What was it?”

  “It looked like a gnome. A very ugly, rude, garden gnome.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Tretheway appeared on the porch.

  “Everything’s okay,” Jake said. “A kid scared Addie. Dressed up as a dwarf. Hunchback and everything.”

  “He growled,” Addie said. “And he looked awful. He had this horrible mask. Fuzzy hair. And a long cloak.”

  “You’re supposed to look awful on Hallowe’en,” Tretheway said. “It would be unusual if he had on a three-piece business suit.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  Tretheway didn’t answer.

  “And he didn’t say thank you either.” Addie went back into the kitchen for the last few bags.

  By nine-thirty all was quiet. At ten, Zoë Plunkitt left for home, dropping Gum on her way. Tretheway and Jake sat at the kitchen table sampling Addie’s butter tarts.

  “How many of those have you had?” she asked her brother.

  “Two,” Tretheway answered. Jake had counted eleven but, he thought, they were quite small. Addie disappeared with her goodies into the common room where Wan Ho and Beezul were chatting with several student boarders.

  “I had to tell Wan Ho,” Tretheway said.

  “That’s good,” Jake said.

  “Not the whole story. Just enough so he’ll keep an eye on Beezul. And be ready to help if he’s needed.”

  “I feel better.”

  “With two squad cars.”

  “Eh?”

  “At Central. Waiting for his call.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me the whole plan,” Jake said.

  “Simplicity itself,” Tretheway answered. “We follow Beezul tonight.”

  “We?”

  “You and me.”

  “I thought maybe Wan Ho would come along.”

  “No. I want him here. To watch the house. And to call in the police officially.”

  “That’s why we’re using the Pontiac?”

  “Right. Remember I asked you to double-check the car. I’d hate to have anything go wrong.”

  “Not to worry. Full of gas.” Jake reassured. “And I tuned it up myself.”

  Tretheway nodded. “Okay. We follow Beezul to his house. Wait maybe five minutes. Then you run down the block. There’s a pay phone. Make sure you have change. Call Wan Ho.”

  Jake wondered to himself why he always had to do the leg work.

  “He’ll send the cars in. They’ll wait with us. Until W comes.”

  “Is W going to do the deed there?”

  “Probably not.” Tretheway paused. “Although there’s a couple of swimming pools in that neighbourhood. And there’s a dammed-up creek just under th
e mountain. But it’s not too practical. Not too private. No.” Tretheway tossed another butter tart into his mouth. “They intend to kidnap Beezul. Take him somewhere. But it doesn’t matter. By that time we’ll have W.”

  “You’re not going to wait and see?”

  “No point. Too dangerous, for one thing. W will be there. With all the paraphernalia. Caught red-handed. With Luke. Hard for W to explain. Break in. Abduction. I’m sure W will break down when confronted. Simple as that.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What could go wrong?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “Certainly not your car.”

  Jake didn’t answer.

  At quarter after ten, Beezul announced he was going home. Tretheway didn’t protest.

  “Be careful, Geoffrey,” Addie warned. “It’s still foggy.”

  “Stick to the main streets,” Tretheway suggested.

  “Don’t worry.” Beezul put his coat on. “Straight to Main Street, then right on Dundurn. And just about follow it home.”

  Tretheway and Jake exchanged smiles.

  The minute Beezul went out the door, Tretheway and Jake grabbed their coats from the front closet. Jake ran down the hall and out the back door.

  “Where’s he going?” Addie asked.

  “To start the car,” Tretheway said.

  “At this hour?”

  “It’s not late, Addie,” Wan Ho said.

  “Something funny’s going on.”

  “Addie,” Tretheway explained, “We’re just looking after Beezul. Wan Ho will stay here till we get back. There’s nothing funny going on.”

  “Then why did Jake borrow a nickel from me?”

  Tretheway shook his head and went out the front door.

  They followed as close as they dared behind Beezul’s sedan. If anything, the fog was thicker. Jake had the wipers on and the inadequate defroster set at full. The leather seats were cold to the touch.

  “Great night for Hallowe’en.” Jake peered through a small area of clear windshield.

  “Not the best.” Tretheway’s cigar didn’t help the visibility problem.

  Jake turned carefully onto Main Street well behind Beezul. There were no other cars in sight.

  “Good of him to give us directions,” Jake commented.

  “That was a break,” Tretheway said.

  “Is this close enough?”

  “Just about right”.

  It took them about ten minutes to reach the Dundurn intersection where Beezul said he would turn right. Beezul swerved suddenly and turned left.

  “Hey!” Jake shouted. Beezul sped up. “He’s turned the wrong way.”

  “Damn!” Tretheway cursed.

  Jake jerked the Pontiac left in pursuit. The straight eight engine had little trouble in reaching their spot again, a discreet distance behind the sedan.

  “What’s going on?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tretheway said, “but I don’t like it.”

  A huge tractor trailer came toward them out of the fog. The blazing lights of the rig almost blinded them as it rumbled by.

  Jake squinted through the windshield, now mostly clear. “Did you see that?” he said.

  “What?”

  “No! It couldn’t be!”

  “Couldn’t be what?”

  “Another head. A passenger. When those truck lights went by. I thought I saw someone else in Beezul’s car.”

  “Impossible.” Now Tretheway did his best to lean forward and peer through the windshield. “Wait for another car.”

  “Here comes one.”

  The two strained their eyes into the fog. Beezul was clearly illuminated against the oncoming headlights. The car passed by quickly.

  “See anything,” Jake asked.

  “No.”

  “Must’ve been my imagination.”

  “I hope so,” Tretheway said, “although it would explain Beezul’s behaviour.”

  “You mean someone…”

  “C’mon,” Tretheway said. “We’re falling behind.”

  They followed Beezul along the four-lane thoroughfare that led out of Fort York. Once past the city limits, fewer homes appeared, most with no lights. And only an occasional car passed them going in the opposite direction. The road became two tortuous hilly lanes.

  “Where are we?” Tretheway asked.

  “King’s Highway Two. Heading east.”

  “This isn’t working out. Something has to happen before twelve.”

  “He’s gone!” Jake shouted.

  “What?” Tretheway leaned dangerously close to the windshield.

  “He must’ve turned off.”

  “Slow down.”

  Jake hit the brakes at the concealed intersection. Tretheway saw tail lights out of his side window.

  “There he is!” Tretheway shouted. “Turn right.”

  Jake reacted immediately but the long-nosed Pontiac roadster was never considered nimble. He made a much wider turn than anticipated, crossed a corner of someone’s front lawn and splashed through a gigantic puddle on the left side of the road. A wall of water hit the windshield. Enough came through the convertible top joint to put out Tretheway’s cigar. The car sputtered to a stop.

  “Why did you stop?” Tretheway shouted.

  “I didn’t stop. The car stopped.”

  Jake pushed the starter button. The starting engine whined but the motor stubbornly refused to turn over.

  “Make it go!” Tretheway shouted.

  “It’s flooded.”

  “So much for your tune-up.”

  Jake didn’t wait to explain. He jumped out of the driver’s seat into the ankle-deep water. Splashing his way to the rumble seat for dry rags, then back to the front of the car, he wrenched open one side of the engine cover and frantically tried to dry the hot, perspiring engine and wires. Tretheway watched helplessly as the red lights of Beezul’s car grew fainter.

  “He’s going!” Tretheway shouted.

  Jake fastened the engine cover and jumped back in the car. He floored the accelerator and turned the key.

  “He’s gone,” Tretheway shouted.

  Jake closed his eyes and took a few precious seconds to pray silently to whichever patron saint guided the fortunes of first-class constables. He pressed the starter button. A muffled explosion blew the exhaust system, but the car lurched into life.

  “What was that?” Tretheway said.

  “Backfire.”

  “What’s the noise?”

  “Blew the muffler.” Jake smiled at his boss. “But it’s going.”

  Tretheway shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  They bored noisily into the fog in the direction Beezul’s tail lights had gone. There were no decisions to be made because there was only one road—until the intersection.

  “What now?” Jake idled the rumbling engine.

  “What’s ahead?” Tretheway asked.

  “Dead end.”

  “And right?”

  “Back to Fort York.”

  Tretheway pointed left and looked a question.

  “Spotty residential, small farms. Golf Club. Then the Village of Wellington Square. And eventually, Toronto.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Toronto?”

  “No. The Golf Club.”

  “My Golf Club?”

  “Think about it.” Tretheway struck the fingers of his substantial left hand one at a time to list his points. “Has to be nearby. Time is pressing. Eighteen holes all neatly numbered. Right?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Tretheway ignored Jake’s question. “Private. No one around. And I’ll bet there’s water on the course. A small pond maybe.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Let’s go.” Tretheway pointed left.

  Because of the fog, heavier by the bay, it took them fifteen minutes to reach the WSGCC; normally it would’ve taken five. They pulled into the empty parking lot. Jake switched off the full-throated engine. Tretheway ro
lled down his window and listened. Moisture from the trees dripped onto the fabric of Jake’s car. Every few moments the sonorous bleat of a fog horn swept across the distant wartime shipping lanes. Night lights from the nearby pro shop were barely discernible; the clubhouse across the road appeared only as a dim shadow.

  “Great night for a murder,” Jake said.

  “What’s the time?” Tretheway asked.

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  Tretheway opened the door.

  “Where are you going?” Jake asked.

  “We can’t sneak up on anyone in this tractor.”

  Jake ignored his boss’s remark. “I’ve been thinking. Why couldn’t we borrow Garth’s cart?”

  “What?”

  “Garth Dingle has a golf cart. Made it himself. For driving around the course.”

  “Is it quiet?”

  “Electric.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At his house.” Jake anticipated the next question. “This time of year, he lives on the course.”

  “Let’s get it.” Tretheway slammed the door.

  The car broke the night’s silence again as Jake maneuvered the Pontiac across the parking lot to where the service road started. They followed the narrow dirt track around the perimeter of the golf course to the Pro’s summer home. Garth stood on the verandah.

  “I came out to see the four-engined bomber,” he said as soon as Jake shut off the engine.

  “Muffler blew,” Jake said.

  “We need your car,” Tretheway said without preamble.

  “Now?” Garth smiled. “You taking up golf, Inspector?”

  Tretheway explained what was going on as much as he could, as quickly as he could, with Jake filling in the odd detail.

  Garth understood the urgency.

  “The cart’s plugged in around back.”

  They went around the house at a fast walk.

  “I hope there’s enough juice.” Garth pulled the cart’s plug from the wall and coiled up the wire.

  “What do you mean?” Tretheway asked.

  “I usually charge the batteries overnight.”

  “Can we all fit in?” Jake asked.

  Garth checked himself before he automatically answered yes. He eyed Tretheway who was towering over the cart: big uncovered head, huge shoulders supporting the tentlike rubber slicker hanging only inches above his king-size boots.