Tretheway was notified shortly after in the general alarm. By the time Jake had wheezed life into the Pontiac and he and Tretheway had driven in from the west end, the preliminary investigation was well under way. Most of Tretheway’s information had to be gleaned from Wan Ho or his squad. Dr Nooner, who was almost getting used to his monthly emergency calls, had already been and gone, accompanying the body to the morgue for further examination. But he had left the pertinent medical facts with Wan Ho.
“Four bullets,” Wan Ho said. “Probably small calibre. All in the upper body. Chest area.”
“The report said several regular bangs and one loud one,” Tretheway said. “I take it that was Wakeley’s service revolver.”
“Wakeley didn’t fire back,” Wan Ho said. “He tried. Doc Nooner said there was real pressure on the trigger.”
“Then why …”
“His safety was on.”
Tretheway looked puzzled.
“One more thing.” Wan Ho pointed at the ground. “It looks like Wakeley walked back here, then turned around and was shot.”
“While trying to fire his own gun?”
“Right. Here, look at this.” Wan Ho walked beside Wakeley’s footprints. Tretheway and Jake followed with two of Wan Ho’s men. They stopped about halfway between the Cenotaph and Sir John A. McDonald. Wan Ho pointed down again. “There.” Wakeley’s tracks suddenly ran into a maze of other footprints that marred the snow the rest of the way to the statue. “It looks like several people.”
“Maybe four or five?” Tretheway asked.
Wan Ho nodded. “They either stayed here and fired at Wakeley. Or walked back there,” he pointed at the statue, “turned, like Wakeley did, and then fired.”
“Like a duel?” Tretheway said.
“Like a duel,” Wan Ho repeated.
“Damned unfair one,” Jake said.
“Just a minute,” Tretheway said.
They looked at him.
“Do you mean to tell me that early this morning at least five people, maybe more, had a duel with a city Alderman, shot him dead in downtown Fort York and nobody saw or heard anything? Where the hell were the beat men?”
“I know it sounds incredible,” Wan Ho said. “But I’ve already checked with Central about the policemen on the downtown beat. And there is a hole in there. And it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out when. Ask a few questions. Watch a few nights.” Wan Ho looked at Tretheway. “You should know the police can’t be there every minute.”
Tretheway agreed grudgingly.
“So for over a quarter hour,” Wan Ho went on, “if there was no other traffic—and Sunday night is usually quiet—they’d have clear sailing.”
“They took an awful chance,” Jake said.
“They did with every murder,” Tretheway said.
“You’re right,” Wan Ho said. “But this time, there’s a witness.” Tretheway started. “Who? Where is he?”
“Over there.” Wan Ho inclined his head toward an official car parked across the street. “In Zulp’s car. His name’s Hercules … ah …”
One of Wan Ho’s men produced a notebook. “Goodfellow. Hercules Goodfellow.” He pointed to the second storey poolroom. “His observations were made from up there.”
“That’s Here’s place,” Jake blurted out. “The poolroom.”
“Do you know him?” Wan Ho asked.
“Sort of.”
“You play pool?” Tretheway asked, surprised.
“Maybe a little English billiards,” Jake apologized. “Only sometimes.”
“Is this Hercules reliable, Jake?” Wan Ho asked.
“I’d hate to go to court with him,” Jake said. “He drinks a bit.”
“That’s what I thought,” Wan Ho said.
“Did you talk to him before Zulp took him away?” Tretheway asked Wan Ho.
“Yes. Long enough.” Wan Ho took five minutes to relate all the details of Hercules’ story. “And he’s a little vague about everything except the message written in the snow,” he concluded.
“What’d it say?” Tretheway asked.
“You’d better look first,” Wan Ho said.
They followed him around to the far side of Sir John. Wan Ho shone his flashlight at the statue’s base, now clear of snow. “There,” he said. “The message was there, he said.”
“He said?” Tretheway questioned. “You never saw it?”
“No,” Wan Ho said. “It could’ve blown away.”
“You mean, if it was ever there.”
“That’s true.”
“And he remembers what it said?”
“Word for word.” Wan Ho flicked a finger at one of his men. Tretheway and Jake waited while the detective flipped through his book again. He cleared his throat before speaking. “War is nothing but a duel on an extensive scale.”
After a few seconds, Tretheway broke the silence. “Now what the hell does that mean?”
Wan Ho spread his arms in ignorance.
“This Hercules remembered that?”
“Can’t shake him,” Wan Ho said.
“I’m surprised he could read it,” Jake said.
“Another thing,” Tretheway said. “What’s the occasion?”
“Pardon?” Wan Ho went blank.
“The special day. The holiday. What’s November 18?” Tretheway turned to Jake. “Do you know?”
“Ah … not offhand. The first was All Saints’ Day. Last Monday was Armistice.” Jake thought for a moment. “End of the month is St. Andrew’s Day. But the eighteenth …” He shook his head.
“Any ideas, Wan Ho?” Tretheway asked.
“No,” Wan Ho answered. “I’m really in the dark on this one.”
“I think we’re about to be enlightened,” Jake said, craning his neck and peering around Tretheway in the direction of Zulp’s car. They all turned to see Zulp approaching with Hercules Goodfellow in tow. Zulp was smiling.
“How’s it going, Sergeant?” he asked.
“Fine, Sir,” Wan Ho answered. “Just going over the facts.”
Zulp stopped smiling when he saw Tretheway. “What are you doing here?”
“General alarm,” Tretheway said.
“Oh. All right, then.” Zulp seemed unsure of himself. “You were seven days out, you know.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And I suppose you have a theory about this?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well, then.” Zulp’s confidence strengthened. “If you’d all pay attention.”
The group tried to look more attentive.
“I’ve been interrogating our star witness here.” Zulp indicated Hercules, who was enjoying being the centre of attention. “And I’ve come up with a few facts. Ideas. Solutions. Thought we should discuss them. Feel free to add your own.” He glanced at Tretheway. “Within reason. Now. First.” He clasped his hands behind his back and appeared to stare at the sky. “Does anybody know who owns that place?”
No one answered right away.
“Ah … what place?” Wan Ho asked finally.
Zulp lowered his eyes and pointed across the street.
“There. That place. The poolroom. Where Mr Goodfellow works.”
Hercules nodded adamantly in agreement.
“No,” Wan Ho said. His two men said the same thing.
Tretheway and Jake shook their heads.
“Pennylegion. Joseph Pennylegion.” Zulp waited a dramatic moment so the startling revelation could sink in before he went on. “The Controller!”
Nobody said anything again.
“Well,” Zulp urged. “How about that?”
“I didn’t know that,” Wan Ho said.
“Neither did I,” Tretheway said. “But what’s it got to do with Wakeley’s murder?”
“The observation point. Mr Goodfellow here, saw almost the whole thing from up there.” Zulp pointed again. Hercules nodded adamantly again.
“Yes. But how does that tie in?” Tretheway asked.
�
��You know Pennylegion’s lifestyle.” Zulp looked around the group. “Unsavoury companions. Dark shirts. White ties. The funny names. Big cars. This was obviously a gangland-style killing.”
“With twenty-twos?” Tretheway asked.
“What the hell’s the difference?” Zulp shouted. “Who cares about calibre?”
“It’s just that you associate gangland stuff with shotguns,” Wan Ho intervened. “Or machine guns. And more violence.”
“Murder isn’t violent?” Zulp asked.
“But I still don’t see the connection,” Tretheway said.
“Why not?” Zulp said. “He’s a politician.”
“We can’t arrest him for that,” Tretheway said. “Or because he has a poolroom.”
“He owns seven of them,” Zulp countered.
“That’s still no crime,” Tretheway said.
“And I’ll wager that today is an occasion.” Zulp ignored Tretheway. “A special day. A meaningful one to the criminal element. Like John Dillinger’s birthday. Or the founding of Alcatraz. Or even some anniversary of the Fort York Jail.”
“But what’s it prove?” Tretheway persisted.
“Dammit, Tretheway! Use your head. Think of something. Imagination.” Zulp turned to the others. “I can’t do everything for you. I’ve given you the germ. The nucleus. Make it grow. Run it down. Like good policemen.” He was distracted by the approach of the Fort York Expositor’s star reporter and a cameraman. “Here comes trouble,” Zulp said under his breath. “Let’s get on with the job. Remember. Mum’s the word again.” He straightened his hat and pulled his tunic into place before he turned to face the intruders.
The investigation proceeded routinely—or as routinely as a sixth murder in as many months could. Hercules Goodfellow had a field day telling his story to the press. His actions became braver and his deductions more profound with each retelling of the events.
By now, the police knew what to do without being told. Uniformed men cordoned off the whole park. Wan Ho’s squad searched the ground thoroughly for more footprints, fingerprints, and clues of any importance, while other detectives went, once again, door-to-door seeking information. Squad cars patrolled in ever-widening circles around the area. Zulp kept appearing at different vantage points with unnecessary commands.
Tretheway, meanwhile, walked the periphery of the park with Jake beside him. He had been put in charge of the uniformed men stationed around, but away from, the murder scene—an inspirational last minute assignment from Chief Zulp.
“I wonder if they’ve found anything?” Tretheway said.
“We’ll never know from here,” Jake complained.
Despite all the activity, no other new, or startling, information turned up. By the time the sun rose to herald a new work week for the citizens of Fort York, most of the policemen, including Tretheway and Jake, had been sent home. Addie met them at the front door.
“Let me take your coats,” she said. “You look perished.”
“That’s not the greatest heating system you’ve got in that car,” Tretheway complained.
“The roof’s a little drafty,” Jake defended.
Addie hung their coats up on the hall stand. They both laid their fur hats on the top of Tretheway’s trophy cabinet.
“How about some hot tea?” Addie offered.
“Love it, Addie,” Jake said.
“But not with that mob.” Tretheway referred to the breakfast noises coming from the kitchen and dining rooms. Students with early morning classes were noisily eating porridge, toast, eggs, waffles and anything else Addie had prepared for the morning meal.
“In here.” Addie pulled apart the sliding parlour doors. “I’ll bring some toast in with the tea.”
Tretheway and Jake glanced uncertainly at each other. “Addie,” Jake began.
“I heard about Major-General Wakeley on the radio,” she said.
“Oh,” Jake said.
“And I think it’s just terrible.” Addie’s lip trembled. “What’s going to happen?”
“Don’t you worry, Addie,” Jake said.
“But I do!” Addie grabbed Jake by the arm. “It just can’t go on and on. I’m really afraid this time.”
“Well …” Jake tried to think of something reassuring to say.
“There won’t be any more, Addie,” Tretheway said.
“Pardon?” Addie said.
Jake looked just as surprised as Addie, but didn’t say anything.
“I said there won’t be any more killings.” Tretheway locked eyes with his sister. “That’s a promise.”
“But…” Addie began.
“Addie,” Tretheway said, “if you want to worry about something, worry about the tea.”
“Well …” Addie let go of Jake’s arm and looked down selfconsciously as she straightened the front of her dress. “Oh,” she remembered suddenly, “Wan Ho called.” She took the message from her pocket and read aloud. “Medical Report. Three small calibre 22’s. One large calibre tentatively identified as WWI Mauser pistol…” She looked up. “Does that make sense?”
“The big bang.” Tretheway brightened.
Addie started for the kitchen. “I’ll bring in some hot buttered buns, too. You look starved.”
The thought of Tretheway looking starved made Jake chuckle to himself. He was tempted to ask about the “no-more-killings” remark, but refrained. Over the years Jake had learned that if Tretheway wanted to tell him something, he’d do it in his own good time—and probably tell him before anyone else—but asking or prodding didn’t hurry the process.
For the next two weeks, Tretheway was noticeably quiet. He went upstairs to his own room earlier than usual, spent more time sitting back in his oversized chair puffing smoke rings at the ceiling and, although not grouchy, used no more words than necessary when forced into a conversation. The only time he came slightly out of his shell was when word reached him of Zulp’s new theory.
Apparently when Chief Zulp was researching November 18, he stumbled on, or in his words was guided to, the fact that Sir William Schwenck Gilbert was born on this day. And that this was the Gilbert of Gilbert and Sullivan who wrote, among other things, The Pirates of Penzance. One of the most popular songs from the operetta and Zulp’s favourite was “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.” The fact that Wakeley held the same unusual rank in the Cadet Corps was enough to excite Zulp into forgetting, or at least putting aside, the John Dillinger Birthday Theory.
“And now it’s my job to find some sort of tie-in,” Wan Ho moaned. He was in the traffic office where he had come to tell Tretheway the latest turn of events.
Tretheway laughed out loud. “Like he was killed by a travelling Gilbert and Sullivan chorus?”
“Or sung to death,” Jake suggested.
Wan Ho had to smile. “Our Chief huge reservoir of irrelevance,” he said in his best Charlie Chan imitation. Wan Ho folded his hands across his stomach and bowed stiffly. “Thank you so much.”
Tretheway’s good mood lasted the rest of the day, but the next morning he was as sombre as before. He continued so into December.
DECEMBER
On Wednesday morning, exactly two weeks before Christmas Day, Tretheway made a short announcement without lifting his eyes from the breakfast table.
“I’ve got some thinking to do. It might take some time. I’ll be upstairs.” He looked up at a surprised Addie. “I’d appreciate it if you’d send my lunch up. And maybe dinner.” He pushed his chair back.
“But… what about work?” Addie asked.
“I’ve got some sick leave coming.” Tretheway pushed his way out the swinging door.
Addie and Jake listened while the sounds of Tretheway’s footsteps disappeared up the stairs.
“Well,” Addie said. “What do you make of that?”
“Just what he said,” Jake said. “He’s got some thinking to do.”
“Should I call Dr Nooner?” she asked.
“No. Leave him be, Addie.
” Jake stood up. “I’ll look in on him tonight.”
As it worked out, Jake had to alibi for his boss for the next three days. He coped with all the paper work he could manage and hoped that the department would more or less run itself temporarily.
Addie inveigled some students to run Tretheway’s meals upstairs four times a day. Tretheway acknowledged their services with a curt but civil grunt at his door. Between meals, he would bellow from his doorway for different things—an encyclopedia, the ‘C’ volume of the Book of Knowledge, an obscure history book of Jake’s—which were also run upstairs. But mainly, he stayed in his room.
At one point, Addie tip-toed to the door and listened. She was rewarded only by the sound of chalk squeaking on a blackboard, low mutterings, pages turning briskly and, just before she went back downstairs, the unmistakeable pop of a bottle top. Finally, on Friday night, Tretheway ended his self-imposed quarantine.
Jake and Addie were making themselves as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances, in the parlour. Tea was brewing on the wheeled table. The radio was tuned to the NBC Red Network in anticipation of “The Amos and Andy Show”. Faint noises came from the kitchen where some of the boarders were cleaning up and finishing the dishes for Addie. It was relatively quiet. The students who hadn’t gone home for Christmas were studying for the last of the exams. O. Pitts, though, had announced that he wasn’t going anywhere for the holidays, so Addie had invited him for Christmas dinner and to the New Year’s Eve party. It was just as well, she thought, that her brother was upstairs. He would find out soon enough about O. Pitts.
When the first bars of the “Amos and Andy” theme song floated over the air waves and the Westminster chimes of the mantel clock marked seven o’clock, Tretheway dramatically pulled open the doors of the parlour.
“Albert!” Addie said. “You gave me quite a start.”
“Hi, Boss,” Jake said, with genuine relief.
Tretheway’s face shone from a recent shave. His hair was neatly brilliantined into place. He looked pleased with himself. Stretched across his chest, on a freshly-laundered white sweat shirt were the words “Individual Champion Empire Games 1928.”
Good Year For Murder Page 15