The Chief blinked several times and shook his head. His stare wandered for a moment aimlessly, focused on the Doctor, then over the Doctor’s shoulder to Tretheway.
“Let’s get on with it,” Zulp ordered.
“It’s over, Chief,” Tretheway said.
“I still don’t think it’ll work,” Zulp said. “What’s over?”
“The experiment,” Dr Nooner said.
“Morgan’s talking again,” Tretheway said.
“He is?” Zulp said. “I don’t remember that. Where was I?” His brow wrinkled. “Must’ve nodded off. Tired lately. Pressure. This damn case.”
“Anyway,” Dr Nooner said, “Morgan’s found his voice.”
“Good. Good. Knew he would. Eventually. Bring him here for interrogation.” Zulp looked suspiciously around the room. “There haven’t been any questions asked yet. Have there?”
“No, no,” Dr Nooner assured him. “But he needs a rest. As a matter of fact,” Nooner stood up, “I think we all need a break.” He caught Addie’s eye.
“And some sandwiches,” Addie helped out.
“And beer,” Tretheway muttered, brightening.
For the next hour, the Tretheway household threw what for all the world appeared to be a party. The sun room comfortably held all the guests, even with the addition of O. Pitts and several other inquisitive boarders. Unusually mild air wafted through the open windows, spreading the heady fragrance of late fall flowers. Everyone, including Morgan, enjoyed assorted drinks, sandwiches and cigarettes while the music of Paul Whiteman spun from Addie’s victrola. The babble of conversation skirted the reasons for the gathering.
Shortly after nine, Tretheway approached Dr Nooner. “Pretty soon, Doc?”
Dr Nooner examined his drink. “Yes.” He put his glass down decisively. “Now. Morgan’s been on vacation mentally for the last four weeks,” he went on to explain. “He just got back tonight. He hasn’t had time to absorb what’s happened. Michaelmas Day. Lucifer Taz. Jail. The murder. And when he does …” Dr Nooner held his palms upward and shrugged. “Now,” he repeated. “We’ll question him now.”
“Good.” Tretheway started to leave.
“One more thing.” Nooner stopped him. “This has to be done carefully.”
Tretheway nodded.
“One person should ask all the questions.”
“Zulp?” Tretheway questioned.
Nooner shook his head. He pointed at Tretheway. “You.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “One, he’ll recognize you as a friend. Two, you’re a police officer. And three, it’s natural. This is your house. You’re the host and he’s comfortable here.”
“All right with me,” Tretheway said. “You’d better tell Zulp.”
“Right.” Dr Nooner made his way to Zulp’s side and explained the situation. Zulp objected at first.
“Irregular. I should, really. Or even Wan Ho. However, expedient, I suppose. And I’ll be right there,” he agreed finally.
So it was Zulp, Morgan, Tretheway, Dr Nooner and Wan Ho who paraded out of the sun room, down the hall and into the parlour for questioning. The ladies excused themselves and Zulp had drawn the line at four against one despite Mac’s protest.
“Police business,” he said as he pulled the sliding parlour doors shut in front of Mac who had followed them down the hall. “Now let’s get on with it.” Zulp crossed the room and lowered himself into Tretheway’s special chair.
Morgan sat on the uncomfortable love seat beside the electric fire. He cradled his fifth scotch carefully in both hands. Tretheway thought about sitting in a delicate reproduction of a Queen Anne chair but changed his mind and remained standing. Wan Ho sat on the settee across from the fire with his notebook out and ready. Dr Nooner sat beside him.
“Morgan,” Tretheway began. “First of all, are you up to answering a few questions? How do you feel?”
“Top-hole. Tickety-boo,” Morgan answered, a trifle too heartily.
“Fine,” Tretheway said. “Let’s go right back, then. To the beginning. Do you remember what you were doing a month ago? Twenty-eighth of September. Michaelmas Eve.”
“We always had goose on Michaelmas.”
“Eh?”
“When I was a boy. Goose for Michaelmas.”
“Then you’re familiar with that particular holiday?”
“Certainly. Mind you, I haven’t thought about it for years.” Morgan frowned as though trying to remember something. “Until now.”
“Michaelmas was on Sunday. Do you remember what you were doing the day before? Saturday?”
“Saturday,” Morgan repeated. “Yes. I do. A bond drive dinner at the armouries.” He pointed to Zulp. “You were there. Big piss-up afterwards.”
“That’s right,” Zulp explained. “I was there. Just for the dinner.”
“Go on, Morgan,” Tretheway said.
“We stayed for the dance.”
“Who’s we?” Tretheway asked.
“Oh, just about everybody. The Mayor. Pennylegion. Mac-Culla. O’Dell. Just about all the Council.
“Taz? Lucifer Taz?”
“Yes.” Morgan frowned again. “He was there.”
“When did you leave?”
“Not right away. We stayed pretty late. Lived it up. Spun the ladies around the floor. Had a fair amount to drink.”
Tretheway said nothing while Morgan ferreted out pictures filed away in his memory a month before.
“I remember now,” he said. “We … Lucifer and I drove to the University. In his car.”
“Why the University?” Tretheway asked.
“He wouldn’t say. Said it was a secret. Secret meeting. We laughed a lot at this time. We were both pretty potted.”
“Did you go in the University?”
“Not at first. I sat in the car. Lucifer parked a good two furlongs from the building. He got out and told me to wait. Then he walked away. Toward the University.”
“And you never saw him again …” Tretheway bit his tongue.
“What?” Morgan glanced around the room as though looking for someone. “No. That’s not right.”
“Look, Morgan,” Tretheway said. “Just sit back and finish your story. As much as you can remember. Take your time. I won’t interrupt you anymore.”
“If that’s what you want,” Morgan said.
Tretheway nodded.
“Well, I sat there for a while. I don’t know how long. Then I followed Lucifer. Or tried.” His teeth made indentations on his lower lip as he struggled to piece events together. “I remember walking across the soccer field. The grass was wet. Raining. Over the cinder track. I scratched myself on some bushes. Then the main building. The rear of University Hall. A light. There was a flickering light. Like fire. Through the stained glass window. The one with the Devil. Lucifer. Isn’t that odd? And there was organ music. Wagner. Walked around the front. Open. Went up the stairs.” Morgan gulped half his drink. Part of him now trying desperately not to remember. “I went into the chapel. Lucifer was there. I told you I saw him again. Alone. Sitting in a chair. Something was burning. And there were flowers. I went to him. He had this … this sword … Oh God …”
“Easy, Morgan,” Dr Nooner said quietly.
“I grabbed the handle.” Morgan’s temples were glistening. His eyes were far too large. He dropped his glass in his lap. “I pulled it out of Lucifer. He’s not here, is he? He fell down. Rolled over. His eyes were … he’s gone, isn’t he? He’s …” Morgan stood up suddenly. His glass shattered on the hardwood floor.
“That’s enough, Morgan.” Tretheway went to Morgan and steadied him gently. “Sit down. It’s all over.”
For the next few minutes, the only sound in the parlour was Morgan’s polite sobbing.
The party, or gathering, ended shortly after. At Dr Nooner’s insistence, Morgan was taken to the hospital instead of jail. At Zulp’s insistence, he was still under heavy guard.
Tretheway tried to bring up Hallowe’en, but Zulp put h
im off until Monday.
“But Hallowe’en’s Thursday,” Tretheway protested.
“I said Monday, dammit. In my office.”
On Monday morning, first thing, it was obvious that Zulp’s original opinion about the Michaelmas murder had not only held firm, but hardened into concrete.
“Cock-and-bull story!” Zulp said.
Tretheway and Wan Ho were his captive audience. Jake waited in the hall outside Zulp’s office.
“We’re proceeding with the case,” Zulp said. “The charge stands.”
“Do you think Alderman Morgan was lying?” Tretheway asked.
“I don’t think he knows. I mean, all that booze. Not talking for a month. Shock. He went funny. Never-never land.”
“What about the footprints behind the chapel?” Wan Ho asked.
“Students,” Zulp countered. “Proves nothing. Doesn’t change the other facts. Does it?”
Tretheway and Wan Ho sat without answering.
“Morgan’s still placed at the scene. At the right time. Holding the sword. Did he see anybody else? Did anybody see anybody else? Tell me I’m wrong.”
“What about the music?” Tretheway asked.
“From a student residence.”
“Wagner?” Wan Ho asked.
“Why not? I like him.”
“But why did Morgan do it?” Tretheway asked. “Where’s the motive?”
“It’ll turn up,” Zulp said confidently. He stood up, his usual signal for an end to discussion.
Wan Ho stood up. Tretheway didn’t.
“One more thing, Chief, if you please,” Tretheway said.
“Make it short,” Zulp snapped.
“What are you going to do about Hallowe’en?”
The wrinkles on Zulp’s face seemed even deeper when he flushed. “Inspector Tretheway,” he said with control. “I don’t know what you are going to do about Hallowe’en, but I will be at home, with Mrs Zulp, handing out bags of candy.”
“Oh,” Tretheway said.
“On second thought.” Zulp smiled. “I do know what you are going to do. Or, at least, I know what you are not going to do.” His smile disappeared. “You’re not going to play Boston Blackie. Or Sherlock Holmes. You’re not going to call the dispatcher. Or organize chases. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.” Tretheway stood up.
“Now.” Zulp smoothed the front of his tunic. “Take my advice. Spend a quiet evening at home. Hand out treats. Read. Play cards. Listen to the radio. And control yourself.”
Tretheway and Wan Ho stood motionless.
“That’s all.” Zulp dismissed them.
They turned smartly and left the office. Outside, Jake fell into step beside Tretheway. He knew better than to ask anything. Besides, he had heard the louder parts of the discussion through the thick oak door.
On All Hallow’s Eve, the weather changed as though to match the mood of the holiday. The temperature dropped close to the freezing mark and a capricious, blustery wind ushered a cold front across the southern part of the province. When the clouds covered the full moon, cold darts of rain lanced into squealing groups of scurrying, costumed children running from house to house, clutching pillow cases or brown paper bags brimming with treats. And when the clouds scudded on, the moon threw shimmering, mysterious shadows of black cats, witches, spiders, bats, and most scary of all, unknown things, on the variegated greys of wet sidewalks and lawns. To the young, it was a delicious, giggly fear. But to others …
By eight o’clock, Addie had handed out fifty-seven prepared bags of goodies to assorted ghosts, pirates, tramps, ballet dancers, clowns, fairy princesses, one ugly toad, four tin men, (The Wizard of Oz had played at the local cinema two weeks before) and other creatures too amorphous to classify.
The children ranged from pre-schoolers, chaperoned by their parents, to sixth-graders. As the evening progressed, the stream of trick-or-treaters lessened in number but grew in years. By nine-thirty, it had slowed to a trickle of ten year olds, mostly ghosts. And the last group was four first-year high school boys, with hasty daubs of lipstick and smears of eyebrow pencil on their faces as a weak excuse for a costume. They left the Tretheways’, pushing and jostling each other off the sidewalk, at ten o’clock.
“Eighty-three children,” Addie said. She was busy tidying up the card table they had set up in the front hall for Hallowe’en. “A dozen more than last year.” The number of callers the Trethe-ways had was well above average. Reputations travel and Addie packed a mean Hallowe’en bag. “That leaves seventeen for your lunches.”
Tretheway made a face behind Addie’s back.
“That’s great, Addie,” Jake said.
Tretheway and Jake were sitting in the parlour with the sliding doors open close to the front entrance, ostensibly to help Addie hand out treats, but also to be near the hall phone. They had all avoided the obvious topic until now.
“It’s after ten,” Addie said. She was carrying the left-over bags of candy back to the kitchen. “It looks like it might be a quiet Hallowe’en.” Her voice rose questioningly as she walked past the parlour.
“Could be, Addie,” Jake answered.
Tretheway remained silent.
Addie continued down the hall. Tretheway and Jake listened while cupboard doors banged noisily in the kitchen for five minutes before she went into the sun room to look for company.
“It has been pretty quiet,” Jake said.
“You’re right,” Tretheway said.
“Do you think it will stay quiet?”
“I hope so. But don’t get into your pajamas yet.”
Except for trips to the ice box for Molson Blue, the two men sat in the parlour half-listening to the “Kraft Music Hall.” Tretheway didn’t care at all for Bing Crosby, but waited for the parts of the program when Bob Burns performed. Jake did exactly the opposite. At eleven o’clock, while Jake fiddled with the dial to get the local news and Tretheway rested low in his special chair, the phone rang. Addie easily got there first. Tretheway and Jake waited.
Addie appeared in the opening of the parlour doors. She was pale. Optimism had disappeared from her face.
“That was Mrs Ammerman. She can’t find Harold.”
Jake was first at Addie’s side.
“Sit here, Addie.” Tretheway pushed himself to the front of his chair. By the time he was standing up, Jake had made Addie comfortable on the settee.
“Try not to worry, Addie,” Jake said.
“Do you think …” Addie started.
“Don’t try and guess,” Tretheway said. “You know Ammerman. He’s absent-minded. Probably made a wrong turn somewhere.”
“I don’t know,” Addie said.
“What did Mrs Ammerman say?” Tretheway asked.
“That Harold left the house just after supper. He’d gone to the Children’s Garden. The clubhouse. To help out at the party. The costume judging. But she said that was over at nine. He never came home.” Addie looked up at Tretheway. “Where could he be?”
“We’ll find out.” Tretheway caught Jake’s eye. “Get the car.”
Jake hurried out of the room.
“Put the kettle on, Addie.” Tretheway drained the beer bottle beside his chair. “We won’t be long.”
Jake backed jerkily down the driveway. The Pontiac protested the cold start by coughing, sputtering and finally stalling. “Damn!” He pulled the choke out farther and restarted the engine as Tretheway climbed into the passenger seat.
“Let’s go, Jake,” Tretheway ordered.
“Where?” Jake asked.
“You know where Ammerman lives?”
“Not far from the park.”
“Go there.”
Jake flicked the high beams on as they pulled into the dark street and headed toward the park. He started the wipers.
“No,” Tretheway said to the windshield.
“Eh?” Jake said.
“Gum.”
“What?”
“Gum. Bartholomew Gum
. Doesn’t he work with Ammerman on this Hallowe’en thing?”
“Ah … yes.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Right across from the park.”
“Go there.”
In less than five minutes, Jake turned the heavy convertible into Bartholomew Gum’s narrow driveway. Seconds later, they stood on Gum’s front lawn, pulling their police-issue rubber capes around them against the weather and staring up at a light in the attic window.
“Is that Gum’s room?” Tretheway asked.
“I think so.”
“Let’s check the garage.”
The gravel crunched beneath their feet. Through the small, dusty window of the garage, they saw Gum’s bicycle, locked and leaning against his mother’s ‘28 Essex.
“He’s home,” Jake said.
“I’m surprised he’s up this late,” Tretheway added.
They walked back around to the front door.
“We’ll just have to knock until he hears us,” Tretheway said.
“And wake his mother?”
“Can’t be helped.” Tretheway knocked on the door. The wind whipped the sound harmlessly away. Tretheway knocked again, or hammered really, much harder, while Jake stood on the lawn watching the third floor window. He noticed a movement. The window opened.
“Go away!” Bartholomew Gum shouted. “No more candy!” The window started to close.
“Gum!” Jake shouted as quietly as he could. “Bartholomew Gum! It’s me! Jake!”
The window opened again. Bartholomew Gum leaned out and stared down at the voice.
“C’mon down,” Jake shouted. “It’s important!”
“It’s after eleven!” Gum shouted back.
Tretheway loomed into Gum’s view. “Get the hell down here!”
The window closed.
Tretheway and Jake scurried back to the protection of the verandah. When Gum finally appeared, he had heavy rubber boots on and a Scouter’s trench coat over his pajamas. He closed the front door quietly behind him.
“I hope we didn’t wake your mother,” Jake said.
“She sleeps on her good ear,” Gum answered. “What’s going on?”
“Ammerman’s missing,” Tretheway said.
Good Year For Murder Page 12