by Medora Sale
“Female company?” He paused. Lucas could see the battle raging within him. Between honesty and loyalty? Between discretion and disapproval? More likely the latter. “You understand, gentlemen, it is not my job to monitor the actions of the chairman of the corporation. And in addition, all the apartments are on the second and third floors, so that the residents, if they wish, may come and go as they please. Without taking the elevator. The stairs, as you no doubt have observed already, take you directly outside or to a section of the lobby that is not particularly visible from the desk. Deliberately. All that aside, however,” he said even more gravely than before, “from time to time I believe that Mr. Neilson may have had female companions staying with him. I would not be able to swear to that,” he added with emphasis. “But it has come to my attention now and again.”
“Ah,” said Lucas in tones of triumph. “Wait right there.” And he dashed out of the apartment, returning seconds later with a protesting Jennifer Wilson. “This one?”
The manager shook his head. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. His tone expressed disapproval. She obviously did not live up to hotel standards in female companions. “I don’t believe I’ve seen this young lady before. But she could have been going in and out by the side exit if she had a key—a privilege we extend to monthly tenants—and of course, Mr. Neilson could supply one to any guest he chose.” He gave her one more searching look. The next time he ran into her, he would know who she was, thought Lucas. And he didn’t give much for her chances of getting into this hotel again. “The maids might know her. But they went off duty at two-thirty.”
Irritated, Lucas pushed her out of the apartment again and back into the care of the cadet. Before he could return to the manager, however, the elevator door opened once again, and the errant Eric Patterson stepped out. Lucas stepped in his way, blocking his entrance to the apartment. “Christ almighty, you sure as hell took your time, Eric. Where have you been?”
“So what’s going on?” said Eric with cheerful insouciance. “I get back from lunch and there’s this pile of urgent messages, including one kind of nasty one from you.” He looked around appreciatively. “This is a nice plush place to find a body in. Who is it?”
“The chairman of the corporation that owns the hotel, Carl Neilson. A very big guy, every which way you look.” Lucas yawned. “You want to take over here, Eric?”
“What have you done?” he asked, dropping the frivolity.
“Not a whole lot. The crew just arrived. The guys who got here first picked up a witness probably coming from the scene. I was just going to take her down and fingerprint her and have them run a residue test—”
“He was shot?”
Lucas suppressed the sarcastic response. “Yes.”
“I’ll do that,” said Patterson. “You don’t have to—”
“The hell you will. I’m taking her in, running her through, and then going home. If anyone stays up all night tonight, it isn’t going to be me. I haven’t slept in”—he paused to calculate—“thirty-two hours, and it’s beginning to show.”
“Okay, okay. And look, I appreciate what you did. That lunch was—words fail me, Rob, old pal. But anytime you need a return favour—”
“All I need right now is some sleep. I’m going. Oh, and get the girl’s keys from that cadet or whoever still has them, and find out if one of them fits the side door of the hotel.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask. Just do it. Or talk to the manager.”
Lucas propelled Jennifer Wilson across the lobby, holding her by one thin arm, toward his car, which had been abandoned in front of the hotel. As he handed her in on the passenger side, he suddenly noticed what else was odd about her. The coat. Or rather, the absence of it. She wasn’t wearing a coat on a day in March so vicious that it made January seem temperate. And he had been able to feel her tremble with the cold. “Where’s your coat?” he said curtly as soon as she got into the car.
“My coat?”
“Yes, your coat. Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“It’s not that bad out,” she said, still shivering.
“For chrissake, the dogs are sticking to the sidewalks out there, and you’re trying to tell me you don’t need a coat?”
“I came over here in a cab,” she said hastily. “I was just carrying it on my arm, and I left it in the cab, I think.”
“What kind of cab?” he said, turning the heat up full and unzipping his down jacket.
“How in hell should I know? I don’t go around writing everything down, like you guys.” She slouched down in her seat and lapsed into sulky silence.
And the sulky silence remained as she wiped ink off her fingers and glowered at the floor.
“So,” he said coolly, “your name is Jennifer Wilson, and you sing in a band, and you have nothing to do with that apartment except that you spent last night there. And you never saw that guy before in your life. You know what I think? I think when that apartment is dusted for prints, we’re going to find Neilson’s, yours, and the maid’s. Period. And most of all we’re going to find yours. Because I think Krystal is a figment of your imagination. Couldn’t you have come up with a better name?”
“It’s not my fault that Krystal has no imagination,” she replied, her gray eyes flickering at him from their smudgy sockets. “And if that’s what you think, why not go ahead and fingerprint everything?”
Her confidence shook him a little. “Okay. Let’s run through the whole thing from when you left the apartment this morning. Or better still, when you met Krystal last night.”
“Sure,” she said, sounding bored. She yawned, and once more he realized how hideously tired he was. “I went to my apartment and couldn’t get in, so I put my suitcase in a locker at the bus station—”
“Why there?”
“Why not? It’s central and open all night.” She paused to see if he wanted to say something else. He leaned back, yawning. “I’m sorry if it’s boring,” she said. “But you asked for it. Anyway, I went to the pub—which pub, I know, the Pocket, on Queen Street—because I figured at least a few people I knew would be there. Well there weren’t, really, but I sat at a table with one guy I’d met a couple of times before—”
“Name?” said Lucas. His eyes were closed.
“Doug. Just Doug. And some other people, and one of them was this girl, Krystal. Anyway, I put my purse down on the floor and had a couple of beers, and when I reached down to get it because I was going to the washroom, it was gone. So now I had no purse, no ID, no credit card—yeah, I have a credit card—and no money. I got real upset, and Krystal said I could sleep at her place. Is this what you want?” she asked, looking at the apparently sleeping sergeant.
He had been barely listening to her words; what his mind was playing with was the sense of familiarity induced by her manner of speech. Suddenly it came to him, and he sat up, eyes open. It was the continual slipping up and down in the social scale—from the tough-guy illiteracy of half her explanations up to snatches of cool elegance and intelligence. And it was familiar because he did it himself. It was one of the things that alienated him from the people he worked with. His inability to find a level and stick to it. It made people suspicious.
“Sure,” he said, lapsing back into somnolence once he had settled that.
“Anyway, this morning Krystal told me I had to go out because her friend was coming over, and she loaned me some money and gave me her keys. So I went out for lunch and did some shopping—”
“What did you buy?”
“Nothing. I went downtown and looked around at a lot of stuff. Killing time, that’s all. Anyway, I took a cab and left my coat in the cab, like I said, and got back to the hotel. I came in the side door and went up to the apartment. When I opened the door, I heard someone make this awful noise—a groan or something like that. At first I thought it was—well, anyway, I realized someone wa
s hurt, and I looked in the living room and saw this man lying there, bleeding, and I panicked because he looked as if someone had just shot him, and I didn’t want whoever it was to shoot me, so I called the police and ran.”
“You thought the assailant was still in the apartment, and you stopped long enough to telephone before you panicked and ran? You’re a brave person, Miss Wilson.”
“Well, I didn’t. I grabbed the cordless phone off the hall table and ran out in the corridor and phoned.”
“And how did the phone get in the front hall again?”
“I opened the door and threw it back in. I didn’t want to be accused of stealing a telephone.”
“Well,” he said, yawning again. “They say truth is stranger than fiction. You just make yourself comfortable there while we check some of these wild notions out, Miss Wilson. I’ll get someone to bring you some coffee. You want a muffin? It’s the best thing you’re likely to get around here right now.”
She looked as if she were considering a protest, shrugged her shoulders and huddled down in her chair.
Lucas’s faint hope of catching a half-hour nap—while the mills of justice ground up Miss Wilson’s statement and processed it—dried up as soon as he hit the corridor. The reason was walking rapidly toward him, a vision of expensive tailoring and more expensive shoe leather. Inspector Matt Baldwin, who for the past three uncomfortable weeks had replaced Inspector John Sanders as his superior officer, with a look on his face that meant more work. More work for Robert Lucas, that is, not for Baldy.
“Patterson finally get down there?” he snapped. Hostility electrified the corridor.
So the puss had clawed its way out of the sack. “Yeah. He’s there now. I was just clearing up one or two things before going home.”
“Not until someone goes out to talk to the widow,” said Baldwin. “I just found out who it is, so be tactful, eh? This ain’t Ma Jones whose old man got knifed in a brawl. It’s Lydia Neilson.”
“Isn’t she just a mile or two out of our jurisdiction?” asked Lucas with heavy irony. “Why not let the locals tell her she’s a widow?”
“She may be a witness. And I’ve cleared it. Now get the hell over there, Lucas.”
Common sense told Lucas to shut up and get out; exhaustion prodded him into one last flicker of insubordination. “Do we have an address? More precise than Mrs. Neilson, somewhere near Thornhill?”
Lucas’s bad temper remained through an hour of rush-hour traffic, past the exit off the expressway, down two secondary roads, and into the play farms of exurbia. Everything looked bright and cold and dirty with the detritus of winter. But familiar. Once upon a time, in a time and a world far from this one, he had lived out here on one of these little gemlike farms, until his father had tired of country life and his mother had tired of his father. And of him. And the farm was sold—at a handsome profit, no doubt, since everything his father did was at a handsome profit. Except raise a son. And he grinned at that thought, slowed down, and signaled for a right.
The broad acres belonging to Carl Neilson were protected from the highway by a stone wall and wrought-iron gates. On one of the pillars a polished brass plaque said FREYFIELDS. The gates were open, and Lucas pulled in. The house was pseudo-Georgian; the white fencing said horses, and the whole setup screamed money. As he mounted the steps, he wondered why Baldy hadn’t chosen to come out himself. Clearly Mrs. Neilson would be right up his alley. It must have been an epic struggle between lethargy and upward mobility while he was deciding to send Robert Lucas instead. The chimes rang faintly, as though muffled by miles of carpets and tapestries and draperies and other expensive things. The door opened with a sigh; its place was taken by a square middle-aged woman in a white uniform and apron, who looked like something between a practical nurse and a short-order cook. She tried to size him up, failed, and addressed him in a manner in which courtesy mingled uneasily with contempt.
“May I help you?” The words were meek enough, but the tone was one of crossed arms and heavily planted feet.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Neilson,” he said briskly.
“I’m afraid she isn’t here at the moment. Is she expecting you?”
With a sigh he pulled out his ID and set it squarely under the woman’s nose. “Sergeant Robert Lucas. Metropolitan Toronto Police. It is most important that I talk to Mrs. Neilson as soon as possible. Do you know where she is?” This was the point at which the housekeeper should have screamed and fainted in alarm. She didn’t.
“She’s down at the stable,” she said, in the same tones she might reserve for describing the whereabouts of the man who looked after the septic tank.
“In that case, I’ll wait,” said Lucas, prepared, if necessary, to sit on the front steps. Because if he left without seeing her, bloody Baldwin would send him out again. He wondered grimly how long he was going to be on special duty, stuck with Baldwin.
“You’ll have a long wait, then,” she remarked sourly. “If it’s that important, you’d better go and speak to her yourself. It’s in back—you can’t miss it,” she said, pointing to the gravel walk that circled the house.
If the neat white building hadn’t looked very like a stable to him, he would have been drawn to it by the small warm noises—the stamps and snorts and nickering—that ooze out of all stables. The wide door was open, giving onto a clean cement floor, and he stepped inside. There were six box stalls, three on each side, but only three of them had tenants. The first on the left had been fitted up as a tack room, its walls bright with ribbons, and the first on the right as an office, with a desk, two chairs, and a camp bed all crowded into it. The stall next to it was stacked neatly with feed and straw. Mozart bubbled gently from a cassette player on the desk.
Two heads emerged over their doors to look at him; a third horse, a chestnut mare, was standing facing him with a faraway look on her face as her legs were being vigorously rubbed down. “Mrs. Neilson?” said Lucas to the crouching back in front of him. “Could I have a word with you?” The chestnut tossed her head in warning, and Mrs. Neilson rose quickly to her feet. She looked to be in her mid-twenties—startlingly young to be Neilson’s wife. She had long shiny hair the same color as the mare’s glossy coat, and dark eyes that regarded him acutely, wondering no doubt what in hell he was doing there. She was dressed in worn, mud-splashed corduroy breeches, a beige turtleneck sweater, and a gray tweed jacket with scuffed leather patches and a tear on the sleeve, but her riding boots were as clean and well cared for as the tack in the room to his left and as the coat of the chestnut mare. What man could possibly have traded—even temporarily—this magnificent creature for that thin, messy little slut in the hotel? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Jennifer’s story was true, then.
“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs. Neilson at last, since he seemed to be without anything to say. “What did you want a word about?”
He gritted his teeth. This was the bad part, the part he had been avoiding by thinking irrelevant thoughts about her clothes. “I’m with the Metropolitan Toronto Police—Sergeant Lucas.” He held out his card, as before. “You’re Mrs. Carl Neilson? Your husband is Carl Neilson?” It was, he knew, a stupid thing to say, but it gave the widow the chance to realize that something was wrong.
It worked. She laid a hand on the mare’s withers, as if to steady herself. “Something has happened,” she said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Neilson. There’s been a—something has happened at your husband’s hotel, at the Karlsbad. He’s been shot.”
“He’s dead?” she asked, her voice flat. Lucas nodded, bracing himself. This was when the reaction started. Sometimes. Sometimes it didn’t start until much later, and what you got was this cool stunned acceptance. Not as good for the widow, maybe, but a hell of a lot easier on him. “You’re sure?” she asked again. “Dead? Not just hurt?”
“No—I’m afraid there�
��s no question of that,” he said gently. “He was dead when we found him.”
“Did he . . .” She hesitated and stopped, taking a deep breath. The mare snorted and bent her head around to find out what was going on. “Did he do it himself? Was it suicide?”
Lucas shook his head. “It doesn’t appear to have been suicide. No.”
“Then that means that someone killed him.”
“It looks like that.”
“Who would—when did it happen?” she asked.
“This afternoon. I’m sorry someone didn’t come earlier, but he had no wallet on him, and it took us a while to find out—”
“You’re sure it is Carl?” she said quickly.
“The hotel manager identified him.”
“Bent? Bent Sigurdson?”
That sounded familiar. Lucas nodded.
“He would know.” She sounded oddly reassured, as though the certainty of the identification comforted her. “Poor Carl,” she said. She stood absolutely still, leaning slightly against the mare. “He was so afraid of dying. More than most people, I think. Do I have to identify him? I will if it’s necessary.” She patted the mare, who was stamping restlessly and turned to nudge her pockets.
“She’s expecting something,” said Lucas, nodding at the mare.
“There’s a carrot on the desk, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Neilson. “She’d kill for carrots.”
He stepped into the office, grabbed the carrot, broke it in half and fed one piece to the impatient animal; then, with a friendly pat, he caught her firmly by the halter and led her into the empty box.
“You’ve done that before,” said Lydia Neilson.
“That I have,” said Lucas. “Did your husband ride? Is one of the horses his?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose.” She spoke hesitantly, as if she felt her comments could be construed as a betrayal of marital trust. “The mare is my hacking pony—actually, I guess she’s a bit big to be called a pony, but”—she gave him a pale smile—“she’s a pet. Well, they’re all pets, in a way. Too much so. That was Jasmine. This is Hector—eh, baby, come here,” she cooed, and a big bay stuck his head farther over the door. She opened it and led him out. “Isn’t he a beauty?” she said. “Most of the ribbons in there are his. He’s very neat and intelligent—he can tell exactly what I’m thinking before I think it.” She raised his head to show him off. “You should see him over a fence. Poetry. Restrained poetry. But Carl’s horse—I suppose he was Carl’s horse, although he didn’t ride him very often—is over here.” Lucas held out the other half of the carrot for Hector, who took it with restraint and dignity and then paced elegantly back into his stall. “Achilles,” she said, opening the last door, and an enormous gray gelding stepped out and then shook his head impatiently. “Isn’t he a fine size? That’s how they described him. He’s Irish.”