Good Year For Murder

by Eddenden, A. E.

  “The Scouts,” Tretheway said.

  Jake swallowed fast. “Eh?”

  “Did you check the Scouts?”

  Jake followed Tretheway’s gaze. “They wouldn’t punch one of their own.”

  “Did you check Mac’s Scouts?”

  “No.” Jake looked around the room. “I can’t see them.”

  “I can’t see Mac, either.” Tretheway pushed his way across the room with Jake in his wake. They nodded and smiled their way past the guests until they reached Addie.

  “Everything all right?” she asked them in a tone that begged for a happy, even if untrue, answer.

  “Have you seen Mac?” Tretheway ignored her question.

  “Why, yes.” Addie pointed. “He went into the kitchen a few minutes ago.”

  Tretheway made for the kitchen.

  “Everything’s fine, Addie.” Jake patted her arm and felt the soft texture of his gift. “Don’t you worry.”

  Addie smiled an answer.

  When Jake pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen, he found Tretheway standing in the centre of the empty room.

  “Where is he?” Jake asked.

  “Has to be outside.” Tretheway went to the back door. He stepped out onto the porch. Jake followed. Tretheway didn’t notice the cold.

  “Maybe we should get our coats on.” Jake shivered.

  “No time.”

  “But it’s still snowing.”

  “Good.” Tretheway pointed to a set of fresh footprints leading away from the porch. “There’s our man.”

  Once off the shovelled porch they became part of the winter night. The wind howled about their bare heads, at times stinging their cheeks and eyes with snowflakes. They followed the trail, crouching like common burglars, with Jake trying to place his street shoes into the larger holes in the snow made by Tretheway’s boots. As they rounded the corner of the old house, a large black flying object hit Tretheway square in the chest. He fell back on Jake with the black thing on top of both of them. Tretheway swung wildly. He felt a sudden swoosh of hot breath on his face as his fist sunk into the soft belly of Fred the Labrador. The dog yelped. She jumped off Tretheway’s chest.

  “Damdog!” Tretheway scrambled to his feet and pulled Jake up. “Why’d he do that?”

  “It’s the snow.”

  “Eh?”

  “She goes funny when it’s fresh. Didn’t mean anything. Just playful. Here, Fred.” The dog, wheezing sheepishly, came to Jake. “Good girl.” He rubbed her stomach.

  “What the hell are you petting him for?”

  “She thinks she did something bad.”

  “He did!”

  Jake didn’t answer.

  “Keep him quiet.” Tretheway started on the trail again.

  It led them along the back of the house. They could hear enough of the party sounds through the thick walls of the sunroom to know that Addie had tuned in Guy Lombardo and Times Square. Tretheway stopped at the forsythia hedge, now weighed down with snow, which separated this part of the garden from the driveway.

  “The garage.” Tretheway spread some of the branches apart with his bare hands and peered through. “I think it goes to the garage.”

  “Can you see anything?” Jake tried to see through the hedge.

  “We’ll have to get closer. I can’t… wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s there.”

  “Where?” Jake whispered.

  Tretheway pointed.

  They watched through the falling flakes while a shadowy figure left the black square of the open garage door and flitted from bush to evergreen in its progress down the driveway. As the figure left the protection of a large elm tree, the capricious wind swirled the snow away from their line of sight. For a short but clear second, they saw their quarry silhouetted against a snowbank before it disappeared around the side of the house.

  “You see that?” Tretheway asked.

  “Yes.” Jake nodded excitedly. “Looked like some sort of uniform. And a funny hat.”

  “Not a hat. A pickelhaube.”

  “What?”

  “A broken pickelhaube.”

  A clanging sound of metal against metal interrupted their discussion. For the second time since he had left the house, Jake felt a chill.

  “Let’s go.” Tretheway stepped out from behind the forsythia and bulldozed his way through a drift with, Jake thought, nowhere near enough caution. And Jake could think of no good reason not to follow. Halfway down, Tretheway stopped. “Look.” He pointed at the ground. Other footprints joined the ones they were following to create a confusing pattern.

  “Where’d they go?” Jake asked.

  Tretheway looked up and down the empty driveway.

  “Up the wall?” Jake suggested.

  Tretheway shook his head.

  “Did they double back?”

  “We’d’ve seen them.”

  “Around the front?”

  “Didn’t have time.”

  “They can’t just disappear.”

  In a three foot section of jog, a square iron door faced the street for the convenience of coal delivery. Tretheway pointed. “The coal chute!” He lifted the heavy cast-iron door and propped it open. The opening and beyond was black. Nothing could be seen. The two of them squatted down and listened.

  Sounds overlapped. They heard the wind in the distance; they heard the spinning wheels of a nearby car stuck in the snow; they heard the muffled sounds of Guy Lombardo; they heard Fred panting; but most distinctly of all, they heard someone shouting in a language they didn’t understand.

  “Give me your revolver,” Tretheway said to Jake.

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At the office.”

  “Damn!”

  “What about yours?”

  “We’ll have to go in without them.”

  “Don’t you think we should tell someone? Like Wan Ho? Or his men? I’ll bet they’ve got guns.”

  Tretheway ignored Jake’s questions. “I’ll go first.” He stood up and made another quick decision. “Feet first.”

  With Jake helping, Tretheway climbed into the opening as quietly as possible. It was adequate for most of his body. His feet, legs and lower parts slid smoothly down the metallic chute with no problem. Then, with his arms pinned to his sides and only his head and shoulders protruding from the hole in the wall, what Jake knew was bound to happen, happened.

  “I can’t go any further,” Tretheway said.

  “Eh?”

  “Push!”

  Jake pushed as hard as he could.

  “It’s no good,” Tretheway said. “Pull me out. I’ll try head first.”

  Jake exerted himself in the other direction. “Harder!”

  He pulled harder and still Tretheway didn’t budge. Jake straightened up, breathing heavily. Fred licked Tretheway’s face.

  “Do something!”

  Jake leaned over close to Tretheway’s head, which now appeared upside down to him. “This might hurt a little, but it’s our only chance.”

  “Hurry up!”

  Jake ran back across the driveway and up a large snow bank. He turned and faced Tretheway. Rocking back and forth on his feet like a decathlon champion at the start of a high jump run, Jake readied himself for the attempt. The back door opened.

  “Albert! Are you out there?” Addie shouted. “It’s almost midnight. Jake!”

  Jake took off down the snow bank and across the driveway. He leaped high in the air just before he got to Tretheway. His jump was perfectly timed. With his legs straight out ahead of him, knees locked, he landed with his full hundred and forty pounds astride Tretheway’s head, one foot on each shoulder. The force was enough to pop Tretheway loose. He disappeared down the chute.

  Jake lay in the snow and listened. Tretheway’s bellow echoed from the depths of the cellar. Whether it was caused by pain, fear, rage, or was simply a battle cry, Jake could only guess. He scram
bled to his knees and poked his head into the opening. Black dust stung his eyes and offended his nostrils. He heard the sounds of coal shifting noisily with lumps hitting the wooden sides of the bin. A poker clanged on the concrete floor. Someone cursed in German. Then, except for the party noises upstairs, there was silence.

  “You okay?” Jake shouted down the chute.

  “Come down,” Tretheway answered.

  “I’ll take the stairs.”

  “Now!”

  Jake shook his head and thought about the teaching job he had passed up to join the force. He pulled his jacket tightly around him to protect his new sweater. Closing his eyes, he pushed off with his legs and slid head first into the coal bin. His alarmingly fast slide down the chute, worn smooth with years of coal delivery, stopped abruptly when his head hit the shock-absorbing mound of Tretheway’s stomach.

  Jake picked himself up. “Sorry, Boss.” He trod unsteadily on the lumps of coal at the edge of the pile. “Let me help you up.”

  Tretheway, temporarily out of breath, didn’t answer. With Jake’s help he turned over, got to his knees and finally regained his feet.

  “Are you all right?” Jake flicked coal dust from Tretheway’s new smoking jacket and his own suit.

  “Never mind that now.” Tretheway pointed over Jake’s shoulder. Jake turned around.

  Five shadowy figures, dramatically backlit by the single overhead bulb, crouched threateningly in a defensive half-circle around The Machine. The chromium ball swung rhythmically from the miniature tower already three-quarters of the way down the ramp. A brilliant highlight shimmered on the vial locked in the lower end of The Machine. And five shadowy arms each held a handgun.

  “God,” Jake said softly.

  Four of the five were small calibre revolvers. They wavered slightly, but pointed at Tretheway and Jake. The fifth, an ugly automatic Mauser pistol, flailed wildly through the air in the white-gloved hand of … Tretheway wasn’t sure.

  “You have two minutes to live!” the figure shouted.

  Tretheway didn’t recognize the voice, the B-movie German accent, nor the uniform, or really, the costume …

  A broad red stripe ran down the grey legs of the trousers; one leg was tucked in, one leg hung over the scruffy, knee-high riding boots. The navy blue tunic with a scarlet high-necked collar and matching cuffs supported a pair of oversized gold epaulets with matching embroidery. Decorations glittered on the figure’s chest. A dull gun-metal grey Iron Cross hung at his throat. This Tretheway did recognize. And a broken pickelhaube, slightly askew and throwing the face into deep shadow, capped this apparition of nineteenth century Prussian military might. The figure raised his head to the light.

  “In one and one half minutes we all die for the Fatherland!”

  Despite the dark coal smudges on his features, both Tretheway and Jake recognized MacCulla.

  Tretheway noticed a change of expression come over the other four—Mac’s Sea Scouts. In the cellar light, their navy uniforms appeared black. Homemade white crossbelts formed x’s on the four young chests. One Scout, slightly taller than the others, wore silver epaulets, the mark of an NCO. And four genuine pickel-haubes, chinstrapped into position, glistened menacingly. Tretheway recalled the pointed heads he first saw at the top of the paper pile the night Henry Plain suffocated. Three of the Scouts lowered their 22s and looked at their leader. The tall NCO kept his revolver trained on Tretheway and Jake, but also looked a question at MacCulla. Mac ignored them. It appeared to Tretheway that, as far as the Scouts were concerned, being part of the explosion was not part of the plan.

  “Sir,” the NCO Scout began, “you said …”

  “Courage above all things is the first quality of a warrior!” Mac shouted.

  Tretheway could see that The Machine was less than two minutes away from its climax. And the Scouts knew it. He wasn’t so sure about MacCulla.

  “Stay full of good courage!” Mac’s eyes were large. Drool wet his chin. “Fight with zeal and spirit!”

  Tretheway took one calculated pace toward The Machine. The NCO Scout pointed his revolver at Tretheway’s stomach.

  “Do you know what’s in that vial?” Tretheway transfixed one of the other Scouts with a glare that had bent stronger people to his will.

  “Ni … Ni …” the Scout stammered.

  “Nitroglycerin,” the other two answered together.

  “There’s enough there to blow up the whole house.” Tretheway stabbed his coal-stained finger at the Scouts. “And you along with it!” He thought he saw even the NCO Scout’s lip tremble.

  “A commander must show great energy of purpose!” MacCulla ranted on, paying them little attention.

  Tretheway heard a commotion at the head of the stairs. Addie was trying to get by Wan Ho. The door opened.

  “Albert! Jake!” Addie shouted. “Are you down there? It’s one minute to twelve o’clock!”

  Tretheway sensed Jake’s sudden tension. So did the NCO Scout. His revolver swung around. Jake lunged forward. With the speed of a snake’s tongue, Tretheway’s arm shot out. Jake’s progress was stopped when Tretheway’s ample hand grabbed him by the neck. He pulled Jake back and turned him around. Their eyes were inches apart.

  “Have faith.” Tretheway watched the fear and courage in Jake’s eyes give way to perplexed trust.

  “I know you’re down there,” Addie shouted.

  The noise of the party intruded through the open door. Premature experimental toots on horns sounded in anticipation of midnight. The radio blared. Someone started counting the seconds.

  “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

  The Machine hummed on.

  “The field of genius raises itself above the rules!” MacCulla raved. “Seven! Six!”

  At five, the three Scouts dropped their revolvers. One ripped off his pickelhaube and sank weeping to his knees. The other two bolted for the coal bin.

  “I’m coming down!” Addie shouted.

  “Three! Two!”

  “Decision by arms!” MacCulla screamed.

  At midnight, several things happened at once. The swinging metal ball smashed full into the vial, spattering the harmless liquid around the room. Tretheway let go of Jake, stepped forward and took the gun from the remaining NCO Scout with no fuss. Jake grabbed the two escaping Scouts. Fred came down the coal chute. The upstairs revellers swung noisemakers, blew horns, threw streams of paper and cheered. Mac raised his gun hand and fired his unbelieveably loud Mauser pistol, sending a bullet through the rafters, through the hardwood floor of the sun room, through one of Addie’s Persian rugs, through the seat of Zulp’s chair and slightly penetrated the fleshy part of the Chief’s right buttock. Guy Lombardo struck up “Auld Lang Syne”.

  JANUARY, 1941

  In January, 1941, the German city of Bremen was bombed with incendiaries for three and a half hours in retaliation for the fire raids on London; Stanford defeated Nebraska in the Rose Bowl; a local movie house screened the musical Tin Pan Alley starring Alice Faye and Jack Oakie; Bette Davis married someone called Arthur Farnsworth; Eli Culbertson explained a five diamond bid; the Toronto Maple Leafs stayed in first place, a skating step ahead of the Detroit Red Wings; and an alarming sequence of events took place on New Year’s Eve at the home of Inspector Tretheway.

  All these events were reported in the first Fort York Expositor of the year, published and delivered on the second of January, a Thursday. The last item filled the front page of the second section.

  It began:

  At the stroke of midnight, festivities came to a shuddering halt when Chief Horace Zulp was felled by a madman’s bullet while attending a New Year’s Eve celebration at the Tretheway residence. During the melee, the infamous Holiday Killer was unmasked. Who? None other than Controller (Mac) MacCulla. Inspector A. V. Tretheway, Constable Jonathan Small and Sergeant of Detectives Wan Ho also took part in the arrest.

  Near a large picture of the Chief, the item went on to say, among other things, that Zulp was out of da
nger and would be back at his desk fighting the enemies of society again in a few days. The story contained many mistakes.

  Zulp was out of danger, but then, he was never in danger. He was gunned down, but nobody realized it. When the bullet partially entered his rear, there was still enough force from the powerful projectile to knock the chair down along with Zulp. He was immediately replaced in his uprighted seat by two Boy Scouts and continued to enjoy the party.

  Hours later Mrs Zulp noticed the large bruise on her husband’s backside when they were undressing for bed. What little blood there was had been absorbed by his clothing. And when Mrs Zulp plucked the squashed bullet from her husband’s rear and examined it, she concluded that it was probably a misshapen upholstery tack from Addie’s dining room chair. One of Wan Ho’s men actually traced the bullet’s path and correctly deduced what had happened. Zulp was far from the first one to know he had been shot.

  And the festivities did not come to an abrupt halt. Most of the guests partied on into the wee hours and went home, like the Zulps, not realizing what had happened. In all the commotion at midnight, few people guessed it was a shot when MacCulla squeezed off his last round. Those in the cellar, of course, knew.

  After Tretheway had carefully pried the Mauser from Mac-Culla’s clenched fist, Jake explained things to Addie. She punctuated his explanation with tongue clucks and several “Oh, dears” while absently brushing coal dust from his sweater. But she took the frightening events well.

  “I’d better look after our other guests,” Addie said finally. She turned and started back up the stairs.

  “Would you send my men down, Addie?” Wan Ho had followed Addie downstairs.

  “And Doc Nooner,” Tretheway added with his eye on MacCulla.

  MacCulla had stood quietly all this time. He appeared stunned, alternately smiling and frowning. And always averting his eyes from his Scouts. Tretheway approached him. He placed his hand gently on Mac’s shoulder. Mac jumped.

  “Why?” Tretheway asked.

  “Wh … what?” MacCulla successfully focused his gaze on Tretheway. His pickelhaube was pushed to the back of his head. He rubbed at his eyes and further dirtied his coal-streaked face. His collar was undone. An epaulet had fallen off.