“What about Pennylegion?” Jake asked Tretheway quietly. Addie and Mac were busy talking to some of the Plain people at the next table. “Is he clean?”
“As far as I know, yes. His past is … obscure. Nobody seems to know much about him. You know all the rumours about his trucks. During Prohibition. But, according to Wan Ho, there’s no record.”
“He sure looks the part.”
“I wouldn’t bat an eye if Edward G. Robinson sat down with him.”
“Or George Raft.”
“Certainly not Warner Oland.”
“Or William Powell.”
The two chuckled. Tretheway stood up and made a spectacle of stretching. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Jake stood also. “You expecting anything?”
“It won’t hurt to move around.”
“You think that today, maybe, being a holiday and all that …” Jake swallowed. “… something might happen?”
“The Chief says not today.”
“I know. St. Bartholomew’s Day. But what do you think?”
Tretheway moved away from the table. He looked squarely at Jake. “I hope nothing happens. I hope the whole train of events has been a series of ridiculous coincidences. A bunch of practical jokes topped off by an unrelated strangling and a stupid drowning.”
Tretheway continued to stare but Jake wouldn’t look away.
“Today,” Tretheway said finally. “I think something’ll happen today.” He looked back at the table. “Let’s go, Mac.”
“Hm?” Mac was pouring his second lemonade.
“C’mon,” Jake said to Mac. “We’re going for a walk.”
“No, thank you. I’ll stay here.”
“You have to go, Mac,” Tretheway said. “The Master Plan. It’s time for your ball game anyway.”
“We won’t be long, Addie.” Jake smiled. Addie smiled back.
The three of them started off.
“How’s the investigation going, anyway?” Mac asked.
“Not too well,” Tretheway said.
“Depends which paper you read,” Jake added.
The investigation was not going too well and it did depend on which paper you read. Toronto papers, still smarting from last year’s humiliating football season at the hands and feet of the Fort York Taggers, said the case was being “badly botched”. “The leader of the investigation,” the quote continued, “the old right winger himself, has once again dropped the ball in his own end zone.” This was an uncalled for, but true, reference to the finale of Chief Zulp’s football career that occurred the last time Toronto beat the FY Taggers on a sunny autumn afternoon in 1927.
The local Fort York Expositor, on the other hand, with several impressive but mysterious references to a secret Master Plan, said that the Department, led by Chief Zulp, was zeroing in on the lone religious fanatic, but “at this time, because of security reasons, was unable to release a statement”. In between these two views, with perhaps a slight leaning toward the Toronto papers, lay the truth.
Nothing newsworthy had been uncovered. Zulp still backed the Single Perpetrator theory against Dr Nooner’s conflicting More-Than-One hypothesis—in Ingird Tommerup’s homicide as well as Father Cosentino’s. Sergeant Wan Ho had done all he could under the circumstances. Regular criminals had been rounded up, questioned and released. The alibis and whereabouts of all concerned parties had been checked out with no damning conclusions. In a search for possible eyewitnesses, neighbours had been interrogated, leads run to sterile ground, with the result that, as Wan Ho put it in his Charlie Chan voice, “No suspects, therefore, all suspects.”
Tretheway led Jake and Mac toward the pavilion. This year, as usual, it had been freshly painted for the holiday. The glossy white walls and columns stood out clearly in the park and contrasted sharply with the bright blue trim and matching shingles. A sturdy, weather-vaned cupola rose from the roof.
They mounted the shallow steps and slid across the concrete floor which was already sprinkled with sand for the evening dance. Tretheway made his way through a crowd of boisterous children to the inside hot dog stand. He held up two thick fingers to the concessionnaire.
“You want anything, Jake?” He looked over his shoulder. “Mac?”
“No thanks,” Jake said. Mac shook his head.
They went down the steps on the other side of the pavilion, Tretheway clutching a hot dog in each hand.
“Should we be looking for anything special?” Jake asked. “Or should we be looking at all?”
“What’s that mean?” Tretheway asked.
“I thought Zulp said…” Jake hesitated.
“That I was to confine myself to traffic duties,” Tretheway finished. He ate his first hot dog in three bites.
“Then what should we do?” Jake asked.
“What we always do. Follow orders.”
“Oh.”
Tretheway finished his second hot dog. “However. A policeman is on twenty-four hour duty. A detective can write a parking ticket. A desk man can deliver a baby. A motorcycle patrolman can stop a bank robbery. And a Traffic Inspector,” he smiled at Jake, “or his able assistant, can arrest a murderer.”
Jake smiled.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mac said.
“You just stay close,” Tretheway said with an edge to his voice.
The trio skirted two smaller buildings the same colour and architecture as the larger pavilion, except for “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” painted on the white walls. Conversation was pointless as they passed the wading pool, filled with squealing children and surrounded by mothers with worried looks and wet towels. They bypassed two temporary hot dog stands, a busy multiple horseshoe pitch, a pick-up football game, all the while dodging children and adults going to or coming from other activities in the large park.
At the edge of the softball field, behind the right foul line well out of play, stood a ridiculously large, conical pile of newspapers at least forty feet high. The area schoolchildren had spent weeks gathering the paper, house to house, store to store, farm to farm, in a remarkable show of patriotism for the war effort. LaSalle Park had been selected as a convenient depository.
“That’s the biggest pile of paper I’ve ever seen.” Jake said. “Those kids deserve a lot of credit.”
“It’s for a good cause, Jake,” Tretheway said.
“Mac.” Jake pointed toward home plate. “Isn’t that your team warming up?”
They noticed most of the Fort York politicians milling around in front of the backstop screen, kicking the dust, gossiping, exercising lightly; two of them were actually tossing a softball around.
Mac appeared excited. “You’re right, Jake,” He loped off toward the group.
For the members of the City Council, the high point of the picnic was the baseball game. Each year the Mayor, the Board of Control and all the ward Aldermen faced a handpicked team of civic employees in a five-inning (they’d never finished) half-serious, grudge match. The civic team, having so many departments to choose from, were unfairly superior. They played a lackadaisical game. The politicians, on the other hand, played as competitively and aggressively as they could. In twenty-one consecutive picnic games, the elected officials of Fort York had never won.
“Play ball!” Henry Plain shouted from behind home plate in a voice surprisingly deep for his size. The City Clerk traditionally umpired the ball game because his category was not as clear-cut as say, a Controller or garbageman. “Neither fish nor fowl,” as Mayor Trutt humorously put it. Henry wore a chest protector and mask borrowed from a city-sponsored bantam team.
Because of the numerical advantage of the civic employees and the age difference between the two teams, the politicians were allowed to field their whole group of ten. Mayor Trutt, leader in the Council and leader on the field, (his own slogan), pitched to Joseph Pennylegion who affected a loud, talk-it-up style of catching. F. McKnight Wakeley, in his summer drill uniform, played first base, Bartholomew Gum second, Em
mett O’Dell shortstop with MacCulla rounding out the infield at third base. He had taken off his tie.
From where Tretheway sat behind the third base line, he could hear Morgan Morgan in left field within conversation distance of Taz in centre field. They both carried hip flasks. Ammerman in right field chatted with Gertrude Valentini, who had been officially designated outfield rover.
“One thing, Jake,” Tretheway said. “It makes our job easier.”
“Hm?” Jake said.
“The baseball game. Gets them all together. We can keep our eye on Mac. And all the other officers can watch their charges.” Tretheway waved his hand across the field of players. “Our city fathers. All together in one bundle. One convenient bunch. Every …” He stopped short.
“What’s the matter?” Jake asked.
Tretheway stared at the inept group of politicians as though he had just seen them for the first time.
“What is it?” Jake persisted.
“If you were the killer,” Tretheway proposed, “and, just for fun, had decided to do away with the whole City Council He lit a cigar.
“Go on,” Jake encouraged.
“You’ve carried out a few pranks. You’ve eliminated Father Cosentino. Then Miss Tommerup. Both successfully. Your confidence is growing. Now here’s an opportunity where they’re all together. In one spot. I mean, this game was no secret. What would you do?”
“Ah … I don’t know.” Jake craned his neck and checked the parking lot, the pavilion and even the distant woodlots. He saw plenty of people but they were all doing what they were supposed to do. “But, all of a sudden, I feel nervous.”
“Why?” Tretheway asked.
“Because of what you just said.”
“Oh hell, Jake. That’s all conjecture. Top of my head. Nothing’ll happen right now.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s just not his style.” Tretheway brushed ashes from his front. “Doesn’t fit the pattern. And there’s no joke about it. Stop worrying.”
“All the same.” Jake checked the crowd again.
“For one thing,” Tretheway suggested, “how do you know the killer isn’t out there right now?”
“Out where?”
“Playing baseball?”
Jake stared Tretheway full in the face. “You mean … that … you’re saying …”
“Jake, Jake.” Tretheway leaned over and squeezed both Jake’s knees together with one hand as a young boy might squeeze the straws in his rival’s soda. “I’m not saying anything. Just thinking out loud. Watch the game. And keep your eye on Mac. I’m going for a beer.” He stepped off in the direction of their picnic table, puffing smoke. Jake rubbed the feeling back into his knees and turned his attention to the game.
There were no real surprises in the baseball game this year either. It went just about the way everyone expected, even with the new rules. One of them allowed the City Council pitcher six balls instead of the customary four, but Mayor Trutt still managed to load the base on balls twice in the first inning.
By the time the politicians came to bat, the score was 17 to 0 and they had lost one of their players. Ammerman had collided with a friendly English sheep dog in mid-field chasing a fly ball that Lucifer Taz had subsequently caught and dropped. So that when Tretheway arrived back refreshed, he found old Ammerman beside Jake, sitting on the grass.
“What happened?” Tretheway asked.
“Slight collision.” Jake nodded at Ammerman. “Just knocked the wind out of our friend.”
“It was a good clean check,” Ammerman wheezed.
“What’s the score?” Tretheway asked.
“Seventeen to nothing,” Jake said.
“Hm.” Tretheway watched the politicians at bat.
Pennylegion got a hit and held at first base, but Trutt, Wakeley and Bartholomew Gum went down two, three, four. In minutes the City Council was out in the field again.
What Mayor Trutt lacked in pitching ability, he made up in shouts. He shouted at all the infield for being out of position (which they were) every time a run was scored; he shouted at Henry Plain for all his unfavourable calls; and he shouted at Controller Pennylegion every time he dropped a wild pitch. Pennylegion knew baseball, particularly the betting odds, and had an accurate, strong throw. Unfortunately, there was no one to throw it to. F. McKnight Wakeley played first base as though he were on parade and wore his glove backwards on the wrong hand. Gum and Emmett O’Dell made fewer errors than anyone except Pennylegion.
In the outfield, Valentini, now playing Ammerman’s position, accounted for a few outs on easy fly balls, but Taz and Morgan were an athletic detriment to the team, until Morgan made his decisive play. At the top of the fourth, score 32 to 4, an ox-like sanitation worker with muscles bulging from years of throwing garbage over the side walls and backs of high trucks, smashed a line drive into the unprotected mid-section of Alderman Morgan who, at the time, was looking at something in the sky. The thump was heard back at the pavilion. Morgan Morgan sat down heavily and threw up on his plus fours.
Everyone ran to the outfield to make sure Alderman Morgan was all right—including the garbageman who had hit the pitched baseball. Morgan recovered almost immediately, physically unharmed, but Umpire Henry Plain decided it was best to end the ball game without further chance of injury.
As the crowd started to drift away from the baseball diamond, Zulp materialized beside Tretheway.
“Where’s Wan Ho?” Zulp whispered hoarsely in Tretheway’s ear.
“Eh?” Tretheway jumped.
“I think we’ve got our man.”
“What?”
“Dammit, Tretheway! Our man. The killer.”
“Who?” Tretheway tried desperately to second-guess the Chief. Mac and Jake leaned forward. Ammerman remained seated on the grass.
“Constable.” Zulp looked at Jake. “Arrest that man.”
“What man?” Jake asked.
Zulp surreptitiously jerked his head in the direction of the shuffling crowd. “That one.”
“Which one?”
“The big one, dammit!” Zulp said impatiently. “The one that struck down Morgan.”
“Hold on.” Tretheway saw Wan Ho in the crowd and beckoned him over. “I’ll stop him if necessary. How do you know he’s the one?”
“Didn’t you see him attack Morgan?” Zulp asked.
“With a softball?” Tretheway said.
Wan Ho entered the circle. “Can I help?”
When Wan Ho heard Zulp’s off-the-cuff theory of the garbage-man’s premeditated attack on an elected official, he took a deep breath and explained why such a conclusion was unlikely.
“Nobody, not even a professional ball player, is that accurate with a ball and bat. And from that distance, a blow in the stomach, especially with a softball, would never be lethal. And another thing,” Wan Ho continued, “if Morgan had been on his toes, nothing would’ve happened. He would’ve caught it or got the hell out of the way.”
Zulp, undaunted, wore what he considered a knowing look. “Here’s the clincher.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “I happen to know, from a source I can’t reveal” (Zulp’s well-known source was a sycophantic washroom attendant who had dreams of becoming a City Hall elevator operator with white gloves) “that the garbagemen have it in for the politicians.”
“Surely not enough to murder?” Tretheway reasoned.
Jake nodded in the background. Mac showed interest.
“Well …” Zulp hesitated.
“And what about the twenty-fourth?” Wan Ho came to the rescue.
“The what?”
“The twenty-fourth of August. St. Bartholomew’s Day.”
“You’re right.” Zulp remembered. Tretheway and Wan Ho exchanged relieved smiles. “You’re right,” Zulp repeated. He slammed his fist into his palm. “Nothing’ll happen today. Damn fine mental exercise, though. Keeps everyone on their toes.” Zulp walked away. “Stimulating!”
Tretheway was fi
rst to find his voice. “Hard to believe.”
“Could’ve been nasty,” Wan Ho said.
“An attempted murder charge,” Mac said.
“With a softball,” Jake said.
“At fifty yards,” Tretheway said.
“Can you imagine what the Toronto papers would’ve done with that?” Wan Ho asked.
“Did I miss anything?” Ammerman stood up.
“It’s time to eat, Harold,” Tretheway said.
It was almost six o’clock. Everyone wandered back to his table, car, piece of grass or wherever he’d decided to enjoy supper. The city, through the generosity of taxpayers, supplied free hot dogs and pop to anyone who looked sixteen or under, while the adults looked after themselves.
Tretheway made short work of Addie’s cold chicken. “Great, Addie.” He then table-hopped and sampled everything from cabbage rolls to kosher corned beef, from homemade dandelion wine to bubbly burgundy.
“Eat up, Tretheway!” Zulp shouted at him across the tables. “We need all the weight we can get!” Tretheway smiled back, not too broadly, and returned to his own table for dessert.
Zulp had referred to what was perhaps the high spot of the day if you were a fireman or policeman: the tug-o-war. It wasn’t a big event, really, unless you were a participant, but over the years it had become the pivotal point of the picnic. Parents waited to see it before they carried their sleepy children down to the ferry dock or to their cars. Teenagers past the age of eating sandwiches with their picnicking parents arrived in time to see it before the dance started. Everyone watched it. And the Expositor always ran a picture of the winners in the Monday edition.
By the time the shadows had lengthened and the entertainment committee was thinking about hanging lanterns in the pavilion, the crowd had swelled to its largest for the day. They formed a loose, elliptical shape around the area prepared for the contest. A shallow, circular pit had been dug earlier by the Works Department and filled with water (now muddy) from Old Number Thirteen Pumper (Ret.). The crowd waited to see which losing team would be dragged through the mire.
Good Year For Murder Page 8