“Isn’t tomorrow Dominion Day?” O. Pitts asked. No one answered. “I think it is. Isn’t tomorrow the first? Shouldn’t Fred go home?”
For over two hours nobody had thought of murder.
JULY
That night, only Controller MacCulla got a good night’s sleep. Tretheway commented on this later, at about three in the morning. Everyone had gone to bed around midnight, the official start of Dominion Day, except Tretheway and Jake. They stayed up to check locks on doors and windows and make a final outside inspection. Tretheway checked the garage while Jake walked around the house.
“Everything okay, Jake?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I thought I heard voices.”
“That could’ve been me.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Fred.”
“What?”
“She’s round the back. Sleeps out next door.”
“We’re out here in the dark looking for a killer and you’re talking to a dog?”
“I’m sorry.”
Tretheway shook his head.
The night matched the rarity of the June day. Crickets and the occasional owl could be heard above the nocturnal rustling of the leaves. The moon darted in and around the same clouds that had played tag with the sun during the day. Heavy dew carpeted the grass.
Tretheway crunched along the gravel driveway to the front of the house. Jake followed. Once inside, Tretheway divulged the plans for the night. “We’ll take turns watching. I’ll go first.”
“I can go first,” Jake said. “I’m not sleepy.”
“No, no. It’s about twelve now. I’ll wake you at three.”
“Right.” Jake trundled off to bed.
At three in the morning, the two of them stood, in the glow of the upstairs hall night light, peering into MacCulla’s bedroom.
“You’d think,” Tretheway said, “he could at least toss and turn a bit.”
“He looks awful peaceful.” Jake rubbed the sleep from his eye. “Is he okay?”
“Can’t you hear him?”
The two listened to the deep, contented snoring of the Controller.
“I’m glad someone can sleep,” Jake said.
“A policeman’s lot, Jake.” Tretheway bent over and picked up three empty beer bottles. “Keep your eyes open.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“See you at six.” Tretheway went to his quarters.
From six to eight, they both alternately dozed and watched over the slumbering Controller. At eight-thirty, Mac awoke, bright and wide-eyed, eager to face the social activities and events of the holiday.
“Let’s go, men,” he beamed. “Lots to do today.”
They breakfasted well, especially MacCulla. Thick porridge cooked by Addie winter and summer, coddled eggs with chives and mushrooms, back bacon and sausages, racks of toast and soft butter or marmalade and strong tea made up the usual menu. Wartime food rationing was in the future.
They discussed procedure in the driveway while they stood beside Jake’s car. Tretheway and Jake were in clean dress uniforms; MacCulla sported a natty black pinstripe suit with matching vest.
“Dammit, Jake,” Tretheway said, “you should’ve brought the cruiser home.”
“I never thought.”
“Why can’t I sit in the back?” MacCulla asked.
“Too exposed.” Tretheway wrenched open the rumble seat of the ‘33 Pontiac. “Help me up.”
They guided Tretheway up the rear fender steps as well as they could. He stepped into the well, stood poised for a moment on the springy cushion of the seat, then slid helplessly over the worn leather into the small aperture until his girth was wedged against the front and back. His feet almost reached the floor.
“Okay, Boss?”
“Take the back streets.”
Jake and Mac climbed into the front seat of the convertible and unbuttoned the rear window. All they could see was Tretheway’s middle.
“Comfortable?” Mac asked.
“Get going.”
Jake managed to bypass the main parade route by taking the back streets but he couldn’t avoid some early spectators. They stared and the bolder ones shouted unkind remarks at the red-faced Inspector jammed halfway into the rumble seat.
At the police garage, Jake discovered that on the bumpy ride from the west end to downtown, Tretheway had become wedged even more firmly into the opening. It was only with the aid of two muscular mechanics that Tretheway regained his freedom. They squatted, one on each rear fender, and hooked their forearms under Tretheway’s armpits.
“Sir, this might hurt a little.”
“Pull!”
The mechanics pushed themselves slowly upright with the strong muscles of their legs. Tretheway, inhaling drastically, groaned as he slid gradually, rather than popped as everyone expected, out from under the skin of the Pontiac like some bothersome sliver.
“Jake.” Tretheway straightened his uniform. “I don’t want this to happen again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
On the way over to City Hall, Tretheway sat in his regular police car seat beside Jake. MacCulla sat in the back.
In observance of the 73rd milestone in Canada’s Confederation, picnics were popular, the Dominion Handicap was run at the Fort York Jockey Club, and golf courses were open, but the main event was a parade. It was military in character.
The Royal Fort York Light Infantry Bugle Band, the RFYLI Brass Band, the RFY Artillary Band, the HMCS (stationary) Drum Corp., the STELFY Pipe Band, an Air Force Trumpet Band, various Boy Scout and Sea Cadet Bands and the RFY Ladies’ Auxiliary Fifes livened the procession with the overlapping cacophony that makes up a parade.
Jake parked the cruiser beside a hydrant and the three of them walked the short distance to the City Hall. All the politicians insisted on taking the salute. This meant a crowded reviewing stand. Originally, their bodyguards were to be with them, but when it was discovered that the crew who had designed and built the temporary stand over the steep City Hall concrete steps was the same crew responsible for the disastrous Council chamber platform, the police were stationed instead in a protective ring around the structure.
The parade lasted almost two hours. There were two high spots for City Council—at least for MacCulla and Bartholomew Gum. Both their Scout troops were in the parade. Gum’s came first; the 42nd Westdale Scout Troop with the older boys marching smartly in unison, Scout hats all at the same rakish angle, the younger ones out of step, trying not to smile at their leader on the podium. It was much the same in Mac’s 2nd Fort York Sea Scout Troop, right behind Gum’s. The first two pairs marched precisely, older boys again, chins in, chest out, bell-bottoms snapping in the breeze, white lanyards made whiter by the background of navy blue turtle-necks, while the younger Scouts who followed tried unsuccessfully to imitate them.
“Look at those two,” Tretheway said, staring up at the reviewing stand.
Jake swiveled his head to watch both Mac and Gum, hands over hearts, eyes sparkling, their puffed pride for a moment overshadowing their rivalry.
“Like mother ducks,” Jake said.
“Or peacocks,” Tretheway said.
Near the end of the parade, even F. McKnight Wakeley was tired of saluting the endless line of colour parties. The police remained vigilant throughout and the politicians, huddled together on the high stand, were apprehensive at first, but gained confidence with each passing platoon when nothing happened. And nothing did.
After a quick lunch of cold coffee and sandwiches inside the hall, the complete entourage boarded a large bus (policemen standing) and, bracketed by two lorries filled with unarmed militia, drove to the Fort York Civic Stadium for a martial demonstration of calisthenics, close-order drill, mock battles (with eye-stinging smoke screen), marching songs, motorcycle stunts and Highland dancing. After three hours of such entertainment all the bands that were in the parade joined en masse in a deafening, but by this time blessed, finale. The bus then took the c
ompany to the Fort York Armory, where a stand-up cocktail hour that stretched into more like two, preceded a stand-up buffet.
The cavernous, high-ceilinged interior of the armory echoed with the conversation of the politicians and their invited guests, a smattering of civil servants, some federal and provincial MPs, Fort York’s leading businessmen, newsmen, and, of course, the ubiquitous policemen—hats under their arms and their hands free of drinks. On the balcony that circled three sides of the enclosure, the soldiers from the two lorries stood, evenly spaced, in the at-ease position. The RFYLI Brass Band played Sousa marches in three-quarter time, but few people danced.
Conversation swelled with the cocktails, dropped slightly during the meal and speeches, picked up again with the after-dinner liqueurs and built steadily through the evening with the general opening of the bars and the kegs of draught beer. A few more couples danced, but most just visited. None of the politicians left. However, some stood out more than others.
Henry Plain and his civil servants encircled Alderman Emmett O’Dell as he stood, like Gulliver in Lilliput Land, drinking Irish whiskey and telling off-colour stories of the old sod.
His colleague, F. McKnight Wakely, was doing sit-ups in the officers’ washroom.
Old Henry Ammerman told Bartholomew Gum a story that he had told him before, but Gum didn’t remember it anyway.
Mayor Trutt reminisced with a group of grey-haired former smoke eaters.
Controller Pennylegion was surrounded, as usual, by swarthy, dark-suited, shifty-eyed companions while, in contrast, MacCulla praised his senior patrol of fair, clean-cut Sea Scouts (soft drinks in their hands) for their part in the parade.
Gertrude Valentini politely refused drinks while abstemious Ingird Tommerup became louder and more physical with each glass of what she thought was ice water given her by a gold-digging suitor.
Alderman Taz and Morgan Morgan argued good naturedly while they got drinks for each other.
And the rest talked on, outwardly oblivious to the possibility of another killing.
The activities of the evening slowed in direct ratio to the hands of the clock. At 11:30 there was a steady murmur of conversation, at 11:45 low whispers and at ten to twelve, relative silence. Politicians looked over their shoulders at other politicians. Policemen strained their eyes searching for something out of place.
Suddenly a waiter fell with a large metal tray of glasses. Gertrude Valentini fainted. The quick, general intake of breath sounded like a giant vacuum cleaner. It took a few long seconds, but when everybody realized what had caused the commotion, relief flooded the armory like laughing gas. The embarrassed laughter and smiles of released tension took up the rest of the time until midnight.
When the hands of the clock passed twelve, there was a roar of resumed chatter. As on New Year’s Eve, backslapping and handshakes were the order of the day. Everyone smiled and recharged their glasses—except Tretheway. He wore a puzzled frown and shook his head.
“Can’t figure that one out,” Tretheway said to Jake.
“Can’t guess them all, Boss.”
“Something must’ve happened.”
“Eh?”
“To change his mind. His plan.”
“Maybe there won’t be any more,” Jake offered.
“Maybe,” Tretheway said. “Let’s hope.”
A roll of drums from the brass band demanded the attention of the crowd. Chief Zulp made an announcement from the bandstand that reinforced Jake’s belief.
“The Master Plan is no longer in effect. It has proven its worth. Good plan. Achieved its objective.” He paused, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet as though he had forgotten the objective. “Protection. Protection of our civic leaders. Of course you’ll still be watched. Watched over. Fear not. We’ll be there. The Master Plan will be reinvoked the weekend before the next holiday. Which is …”
Zulp stared at the crowd. The bandmaster whispered in his ear.
“Civic Holiday,” Zulp continued. “August five. It’s just a precaution. There will be no more trouble. Speaking as a professional I say the fiend has moved on. To somewhere the police aren’t quite as clever.”
“Like Toronto!” a Fort York newsman shouted from the floor.
Other good-natured shouts and hollers came from the flushed gathering. Chief Zulp tried to regain their attention but failed and ended up waving to the crowd as he went down the steps of the bandstand.
The party didn’t last much longer. After the impetus of relief had burned out, people tired quickly. Tretheway, Jake and MacCulla were home by one-thirty, even having taken the time to pick up Jake’s car at Central. This time, MacCulla sat in the rumble seat. He had decided to stay over one more night for convenience sake and return to his apartment the next day. Mac went straight to bed but Tretheway and Jake stayed up for a few minutes, although they were both tired. Tretheway checked the calendar over the sink while he popped a beer.
“August 5, Monday. Civic Holiday.” He poured some beer into a glass for Jake.
“Thanks.” Jake accepted the glass. “You think something’ 11 happen then?”
“I don’t know. I thought something’d happen today.”
“But the Master Plan protected us.”
“Scared the fiend away.”
Jake drained his glass. “I’m beat. Have to go to bed.”
“G’night, Jake.”
“G’night, Boss.”
Jake heard the pop of another beer as he went up the stairs.
The Master Plan wasn’t abandoned but it was watered down drastically. Zulp had an obscure but not unrealistic theory that the Cosentino killing was the climax of some mysterious plot, and that therefore nothing else would happen. Politicians were still kept under surveillance during working hours and their homes were checked regularly through the night. But the all-night, sleep-over vigil was discontinued as unnecessary and impractical as a long range plan. Gradually, the FYPD returned to normal police business. And the city returned to normal summertime routine—for wartime.
The factories turned out endless materials for war, which were shipped overland to an eastern port and then convoyed overseas where the people of Britain were beginning their finest hour. Local high schools stayed open during the summer months for the Commonwealth Air Training scheme. The Armory and HMCS Fort York (stationary) did their bit in producing army privates and able seamen. And the University, as well as graduating theologians and arts students, turned out officers and gentlemen with its ROTC course.
At Monday breakfast, July 15, Tretheway and Jake sat in their usual places around the kitchen table. In the large, but somehow intimate room, bacon sizzled, freshly-cut flowers blazed from the table’s centre, and the distant doorslams of awakening students punctuated Addie’s tuneful humming. Today, instead of morning sunshine, rain was falling. It drummed cosily on the striped canvas awning over the back porch.
“Oh, dear.” Addie looked out the window.
“What’s the matter?” Jake asked.
“Look at that.”
Tretheway and Jake pushed their chairs back and went to the window. They tried to follow Addie’s gaze. Tretheway looked easily over her head while Jake stooped slightly and peered through the triangle made by his Boss’s arm and side.
Outside, the thick well-kept grass glistened with moisture. Two maples, a mature black walnut, several clumps of white birch, a young oak and an apple tree (fruit half formed and reddening) grew informally about the yard. At the bottom of the garden, healthy evergreens were background for snapdragons, spiky hollyhocks, iris, tall, electric-blue delphiniums, summer phlox and bunches of hardy gold and yellow marigolds. Small white and blue alysum bordered the flower beds. In the rain, all the colours of the garden were tastefully muted.
“What is it?” Tretheway said. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s raining,” Addie said.
“Raining.” Tretheway repeated. He looked at Jake.
“Addie, it’s summ
er,” Jake said. “It’s bound to rain. What’s wrong with that?”
“But not today.”
“Why not?” Tretheway asked, this time slightly impatient.
“Don’t you remember the rhyme we learned at school? For July 15?”
They both shook their heads.
“Oh, you wouldn’t, Jake. It’s English.” Addie looked at Tretheway. “But you should remember.”
“Addie. Where’s my breakfast?”
She turned from the window and recited, in a classroom, singsong rhythm:
“St. Swithin’s Day, if thou dost rain,
For forty days it will remain;
St. Swithin’s Day if thou art fair,
For …”
“Jezuz!” Tretheway bolted from the kitchen, almost taking the swinging door with him.
“Albert!” Addie glared after her brother.
Jake steadied the kitchen door while he and Addie followed the Inspector. They found him in the front hall shouting into the phone.
“Swithin’s! St. Swithin’s! S-W-I, never mind. Where’s the Chief?”
“What is it, Boss?”
Tretheway held up his huge hand, palm facing Jake. He barked more orders into the mouthpiece.
“Get every available man down there on the phones. Find out where the Council members are. You must have a list. Tell them to lock themselves in somewhere. Eh?” Tretheway listened for a moment. “I don’t know. In the bathroom. Or closet. Or in their cars. Then send someone out to watch them. Every one of them.” He listened again. “Cruisers. Their own cars. Bikes. Street cars. I don’t care how. Use your head. I’ll take full responsibility. And hurry, dammit!” He covered the mouthpiece. “Jake. Jump in your car and check on Ammerman and Bartholomew Gum.”
“Right.” Jake ran out the front door without questions.
Tretheway uncovered the phone. “We’ll look after our ward. Ward three. I’ll be here if the Chief calls.”
Tretheway slipped the receiver back onto the phone. Several boarders were standing at the bottom of the stairs, attracted by the smell of breakfast and the loud excitable pitch of Tretheway’s voice.
“Everything’s all right,” Tretheway assured them. “I just want to borrow Addie for a few minutes.” He motioned to his sister. “Would you come with me, Addie, please?” Tretheway went down the hall into the parlour.
Good Year For Murder Page 5