Good Year For Murder

by Eddenden, A. E.

  “You look good in red, Tretheway,” was Mayor Trutt’s greeting. “Makes you look smaller.”

  Tretheway grunted and nodded at Mrs Trutt.

  Mayor Trutt smacked his hands together gleefully. “I do like a party.” He extended his arm to Mrs Trutt. “Shall we join the others?”

  His wife nodded and smiled politely in answer to her husband’s request, as she usually did. They followed Dr Nooner down the hall.

  As each new arrival entered the sunroom, he or she added his or her bit to the noise level. The hum of conversation, plus the music from the central P.A. system and the clinking of glasses, rose to normal party volume which increased as the celebration pressed onward. No one was left with an empty glass for more than a few seconds. At times, two Scouts, one of Gum’s and one of Mac’s, would arrive at the same time, in front of the same guest, with a fresh drink. Tretheway noticed that the competition between the two groups seemed more than just a healthy inter-Scout rivalry.

  With all this activity, it was just as well that Pennylegion’s four had decided, or were told, to stay close to home and wait only on their employer. Most of the other guests moved about and socialized. There were small groups forming and dispersing constantly; nothing lasted. Or, as Tretheway said to Jake, he couldn’t see any pattern yet.

  “And maybe nothing will happen,” Tretheway confided to Jake. They were both in the kitchen. Tretheway had just wrestled a large pail of ice cubes in from the back porch. He handed it to Jake.

  “If anything does happen,” Jake started, “ah … just when …”

  “Twelve o’clock.”

  Jake dropped the bucket. Some ice spilled onto the floor. “Midnight?”

  Tretheway lifted the bucket again. “Now pick the ice up.”

  “Wan Ho needs some more ice,” O. Pitts shouted from the doorway.

  Tretheway handed the bucket back to Jake. “Take this in.”

  “But…” Jake protested.

  “I can’t tell you any more.” Tretheway glanced over Jake’s shoulder at the inquisitive face of O. Pitts. “Just keep your eyes open.” He went back to the porch for some cold beer and pop.

  When Jake carried the ice into the sunroom, Addie caught his eye. Jake smiled a reassurance at her that he didn’t feel and kept walking.

  “Need ice?” he asked Wan Ho unnecessarily.

  “Thank you.” Wan Ho accepted the ice.

  “Everything okay?”

  Wan Ho shrugged. “How about you?”

  “Nothing funny yet,” Jake said.

  They listened to the music. Kay Kayser’s rendition of “South of the Border” reverberated across the room. Several couples were dancing.

  “Tretheway says midnight,” Jake said.

  “Does he know what will happen?” Wan Ho asked.

  It was Jake’s turn to shrug. Tretheway arrived with the cold beer and pop.

  For the next couple of hours, Tretheway mixed with his guests, but curbed his drinking and watched. The only really suspicious-looking activity he saw was being carried on by Jake, Wan Ho and the three plainclothesmen who were doing the same thing he was. He decided that dancing would make him less conspicuous. For his first partner, he selected Gertrude Valentini. Short enough, he reasoned, to give him an unobstructed view of everyone.

  Tretheway danced confidently. As Addie said, with her own particular logic, “Albert looks so much thinner when he dances.” But tonight, he gave little thought to his appearance.

  As he fox-trotted Mrs Valentini around the floor and automatically answered her small talk, Tretheway watched for some behaviour that would confirm or reject his suspicions. He watched for something to happen. Which meant, he watched everything.

  The Pennylegion bunch broke up. Two of the hirelings went to the bar, the third followed his boss to the downstairs toilet while the fourth, Quick Roy, danced with a bored Mrs Pennylegion. Addie carried empty sandwich plates into the kitchen. Dr Nooner explained his new golf swing theory to Jake while O. Pitts pretended to understand. Mayor Trutt and his Missus joined the bachelor twosome of Morgan Morgan and MacCulla, effectively stopping Morgan in the middle of an off-colour story. Emmett O’Dell stood by himself sipping Irish whiskey. He was very close to singing. Mr and Mrs Zulp sat beside the fireplace waiting for someone to visit with them. He was drinking scotch neat. The two sets of Scouts weaved their tortuous paths and plied the guests with food and drink, although Tretheway found it hard to keep track of them. Bartholomew Gum was searching for a dancing partner. Mrs O’Dell was nowhere to be seen.

  Tretheway saw all this in the time it took one record to finish—approximately three minutes. And every three minutes the record, and a certain number of people, changed. Frankie Carle replaced Kay Kayser. Bridget O’Dell came back into the room ostensibly from the upstairs bathroom. Morgan Morgan took his story and looked for another group. Joseph Pennylegion returned and danced with his wife. She still looked bored. O. Pitts disappeared.

  Tretheway soon realized that it was impossible to tell where everybody was at all times. He hoped his surveillance would dovetail, rather than overlap, with Jake’s and Wan Ho’s. Also, he consoled himself, the killer had to think he had a certain amount of freedom or he wouldn’t show himself.

  “Have you any idea what a rutabaga costs nowadays?”

  “What?” Tretheway looked down, surprised.

  “And they’re not easy to find, either,” Gertrude Valentini continued.

  Tretheway had forgotten Mrs Valentini. “What’s not easy to find?”

  “Rutabagas.” She didn’t seem to notice Tretheway’s inattention. “It’s the War.”

  “I see.” Tretheway wondered what she had been saying while the last two records had played. The music stopped.

  “I’ll ask Addie,” she said. “She knows all about food.”

  Tretheway watched the diminutive red, white and green figure of Mrs Valentini head toward the kitchen—unsteadily, he thought.

  At eleven-thirty, Tretheway caught Jake and Wan Ho alone at the bar. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Jake said.

  Wan Ho shook his head. “Everyone leaves the room at one time or another. But nothing suspicious.”

  “Did you check outside?” Tretheway persisted.

  “Yes.” Jake flipped another peanut at Fred the Labrador. “Me and Fred. Nothing’s amiss.”

  “What about …?” Wan Ho cocked his head at Zulp across the room. He was still sitting in the same spot, his chair tipped back precariously against the wall. Mrs Zulp was no longer beside him. The heat from the fireplace had reddened Zulp’s face and wrinkled his collar. And his eyes were becoming glazed from the perpetual stream of Scout-delivered scotches.

  “I don’t think we should bother him,” Tretheway said. “He looks content.”

  “I’ll bet he’s even forgotten about Gilbert and Sullivan,” Jake chuckled.

  A Scout pulled at Tretheway’s sleeve.

  “Nothing for me, son.” Tretheway thumped his fist on the bar. “Dammit, Jake. Something’s got to happen.”

  The Scout pulled again. Tretheway looked down to see one of Gum’s Scouts standing in front of him with his arm outstretched. The boy’s upturned palm held a small, wet object.

  “I said no, thank you.”

  “It’s my tooth.” The Scout lisped when his tongue hit the unfamiliar space between his teeth.

  “Eh?”

  “My tooth. Someone knocked out my tooth. In the cellar.” The Scout was close to tears.

  Tretheway blinked. “Who did it?”

  “I couldn’t see. Too dark. My mouth hurts.”

  “Take it easy now.” Tretheway looked at Jake. “Any pop?”

  Wan Ho poured a cold glass of KIK and handed it to the Scout. It settled him down.

  “Now what happened?” Tretheway asked.

  “I went downstairs to the toilet. Then I heard this noise. Then I saw this guy in the corner. Bending down. Fooling around with the big thing downstair
s.”

  “What big thing?” Tretheway asked.

  “I don’t know. You got it all covered up.”

  “The Machine.” Jake looked at Tretheway.

  “Go on.” Tretheway encouraged the Scout.

  “Then I went over to the corner. Then I said, ‘What are you doing?’ Then he hit me in the mouth.” The Scout pushed his little finger experimentally through the hole in his teeth.

  “And you don’t know who it was?” Tretheway asked.

  The Scout shook his head. “No. I guess I fell. Then I felt dizzy. Then I saw stars. And when I opened my eyes, no one was there.” He held his empty glass out for a refill.

  Tretheway surveyed the festivities. No one appeared to be watching them. Pennylegion was alone. His wife and men were not in sight. Only one of the Sea Scouts was in view. Gertrude Valentini was missing and Tretheway couldn’t spot Emmett O’Dell.

  “Watch the door, Jake. Don’t let anyone down.” Tretheway started for the stairs.

  “But how …” Jake began.

  “Tell them the toilet’s plugged.”

  Tretheway walked across the room as nonchalantly as he could. He nodded routinely to Bartholomew Gum who was now dancing with Mrs Trutt. Tretheway entered the inner hall and started down the stairs. The only furtive individual he saw through the crack in the closing door was Jake coming over to stand guard.

  Tretheway bounded nimbly down the steps. He walked around the furnace, past the coal bin to the place he figured the young Scout had been talking about. There was a light at the top of the stairs but it was dark enough here, Tretheway reasoned, so that you might not recognize an assailant. He reached up and pulled the overhead chain. Light flooded into the uneven pools of dark grey on the lumpy tarpaulin that covered The Machine. He walked around the structure, inspecting, while his eyes became accustomed to the harsh light.

  At first, everything appeared to be in its place. Then at the lower end of The Machine, Tretheway spotted fresh creases in the dust, as though the cover had recently been carefully folded back and, just as carefully, replaced. He grabbed the corner of the tarp. With a cautionary sixth sense he had developed over the years as a successful policeman, Tretheway gently lifted the covering.

  Locked in the business end of The Machine, where Addie’s milk and Morgan’s whiskey had been weeks before, was a glass vial about the size of an upright frankfurter. It contained what looked like plain water. And it was corked.

  Tretheway stared at it, outwardly calm, while unsettling questions and answers bounced around inside his head. He finally squatted down and tried, very carefully, to remove the cork. It came out easily. There was a slippery, oily feel to it. On impulse, Tretheway touched the wet end of the cork to his tongue. He experienced a sweet burning taste and an instant headache.

  “Jezuz!” He replaced the cork even more carefully. Still squatting, Tretheway tried to remember the chemistry books he had researched in preparation for tonight—one phrase in particular. He concentrated. A final shot of adrenalin pumped out the elusive sentence as clearly as if a chemistry teacher had chalked it on the blackboard. “To prevent an explosion, the ester must be decomposed by the addition of alkali.”

  Tretheway stood up quickly. “Valentini!” He slapped his thigh. “Gertrude Valentini!”

  When he pushed open the door at the top of the cellar stairs, Tretheway knocked a startled Jake into the potted plant that stood across the small inner hall.

  “Valentini’s purse,” Tretheway said without explanation.

  “Eh?” Jake brushed a fern leaf from his shoulder.

  Tretheway forced himself to speak slowly, while still imparting urgency to his order. “Alderman Gertrude Valentini. Bring me her purse.”

  “But how …”

  “Steal the goddam thing!” Tretheway forced himself once again to speak calmly. “Bring it downstairs. Get Wan Ho to replace you on the door. Don’t let anyone see you. And hurry.”

  Jake stared at the door after it closed and listened to Tretheway’s descending footsteps. “Mrs Valentini’s purse,” he said resignedly out loud to himself.

  Jake pushed his way through the dancers. Addie saw him and tried to get his attention. He pretended not to notice and pushed on. In his hurried search for Mrs Valentini, Jake absently noted a few changes. The O’Dells were two-stepping to a Paul White-man waltz. Zulp was still participating but had slipped lower in his chair. Morgan Morgan was telling a story to the Pennylegion men. Mrs Pennylegion was listening and, for the first time, didn’t look bored. When Jake found Mrs Valentini, she was discussing the Italian flag with O. Pitts.

  “It was originally the banner of Napoleon’s Italian Legion,” O. Pitts was saying. “The 1796 campaign.”

  “My, my,” Mrs Valentini replied.

  “He designed it.”

  “Who?”

  “Napoleon. The Italian flag.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s why it looks so much like the French flag.”

  “I see.” Mrs Valentini looked puzzled.

  Jake noticed the purse by itself on a small low table in full view of the two conversationalists. He was racking his brains for ways to divert their attention when Emmett O’Dell came to his rescue. The Irish Alderman belted unannounced into the chorus of “Mrs Murphy’s Chowder”, easily drowning out Paul Whiteman. Every eye in the room went to him, including Mrs Valentini’s and O. Pitts’. Before Mrs O’Dell could quiet down her husband, Jake stuffed the bulky red, white and green evening bag up his cashmere sweater. He left unnoticed, he thought, and made for the bar feeling reasonably pleased with the first part of his mission.

  “Why did you steal Mrs Valentini’s purse?” Wan Ho asked.

  “You saw?” Jake said.

  Wan Ho nodded professionally.

  “Did anybody else see?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t think so. But why?”

  “I was ordered to,” Jake explained. “I have to take it down to the cellar to the Inspector. He wants you to take my place at the door.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You now know as much as I do.”

  Jake pushed his way back toward the inner hall. He had to pass between Emmett O’Dell, now seated, and Mrs O’Dell, who was consoling him. “Wait till after ‘Auld Lang Syne’,” Jake heard her say.

  When Jake arrived at Tretheway’s side, the purse had already slipped halfway out of his sweater. Tretheway grabbed it just before it fell to the floor. He opened it roughly and, without compunction, dumped the contents onto a low bench beside The Machine. A set of keys, three floral scented handkerchiefs, a letter, two dark lipsticks, newspaper clippings about the Atlantic sea war, a pencil stub, two eight-ounce unlabelled full bottles, one eight ounce unlabelled empty bottle, paper clips and, naturally, some smelling salts, were among the unsuspicious objects.

  “There it is,” Tretheway announced.

  Jake picked up the empty bottle. “This?” He unscrewed the top and sniffed. “Smells like turnips.”

  “No.” Tretheway picked up the smaller bottle. “This one.”

  “Smelling salts?” Jake asked.

  “Anyone that faints that much has to have smelling salts.” Tretheway took the top off. A heady aroma filled the air. “Ammonia,” he said.

  “What?”

  “An alkali.”

  Tretheway squatted down beside The Machine. Jake squatted also. Tretheway pointed. “You see that cork?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Take it out. Very carefully. Under no circumstances make a sudden move.”

  “Should I ask why?”

  “No.”

  Jake steadied himself and did as he was told. When the cork came out, a faint sweet smell mingled with the ammonia already in the air.

  “Good boy.” Tretheway touched the jar of Mrs Valentini’s smelling salts to the open neck of the vial. He tipped it slowly until the ammonia ran down the inside of the vial and mixed with the colourless liquid. Some of the camphor lumps fell in
to the solution. There was a sudden bubbling reaction.

  “It’s boiling,” Jake said.

  “Exothermic reaction,” Tretheway said.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you learn that at FYU?” ’

  “I took history.”

  The two watched while the liquid settled. It appeared unchanged. “Good,” Tretheway said.

  “What did we just do?” Jake asked.

  “Decomposed an ester. Put the cover back the way it was.”

  Jake reached out for the tarp.

  “Gently,” Tretheway said.

  “We still have to be careful?”

  “Let’s say extra safe.”

  “But I thought we just …”

  “I’m a policeman. Not a goddam chemist.”

  When the cover was safely in place, Tretheway walked away. Jake replaced Mrs Valentini’s belongings in her purse and followed. He stopped just in time to avoid a collision when Tretheway halted abruptly at the foot of the cellar stairs. Tretheway turned around. “What’s the time?”

  Jake checked his wrist. “Eleven-thirty.”

  “And how long does The Machine take to smash a bottle?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “That gives us twenty minutes.” Tretheway searched fruitlessly in his new pockets for a cigar. “Let’s go look for someone with a tooth mark on his hand. Presumably his right hand.”

  “Right,” Jake said.

  “And get rid of that purse.”

  When Jake successfully sneaked the purse back onto the table he had taken it from, it gave him a chance to check the hands of Mrs Valentini and O. Pitts. They were clean. While Jake chose simply to look, Tretheway’s method was to shake hands. But he too found nothing. From the limp fishy handshake of Controller MacCulla to the surprisingly strong grip of Mayor Trutt, Tretheway found no cuts, bruises or tooth marks.

  They met back at the bar. One of Wan Ho’s men handed them each a beer. Wan Ho was still guarding the cellar door.

  “Nothing?” Tretheway asked Jake.

  Jake shook his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  Jake nodded.

  “You checked everybody?” Jake nodded again.

  Tretheway took a long pull of Molson Blue. He surveyed the dance floor. Gum’s Scouts were still efficiently serving drinks and sandwiches.