At the same time that the procession turned east on Main Street to begin its longest leg, the police detachment at city hall jumped into pre-arranged cars and buses and roared along back streets leapfrogging to the next stop, Scott Park. Minutes before that, Tretheway’s group had boarded a pilot train and chugged through Fort York’s north end on their way to Jockey Club Siding, the point of Royal departure.
When the cavalcade turned north onto Melrose Avenue toward Scott Park, it soon passed the home of Freeman Thake. The West End owner had graciously and democratically offered his spacious front verandah to his staff for an enviable view of the Royal Couple. He had also invited a few friends, among them Addie, Miles Terminus and Basil Horsborough. Addie waved at the motorcade every bit as graciously as the Queen. Terminus stood stiffly at attention while Horsborough, smiling quietly, arms fully extended, held a large, red and white cross-of-St.George flag he had borrowed from the museum, in front of his black suit. Neil Heavenly and Joshua Pike shook miniature Union Jacks. Lulu Ashcroft jumped up and down excitedly waving both arms and bouncing both breasts. Violet Farrago shouted wildly. And Thake beamed continuously as though he had arranged the whole spectacle for another added attraction. Addie said afterward that the Queen looked right at her but then, everyone on the verandah said the same thing.
When the procession turned into Scott Park, the second loudest cheer of the day escaped the throats of thirty thousand waiting school children. Somewhere in the throng, Scouter Gum and his troop added to the din. Girl Guides and Brownies squealed. Bemedalled men wearing white ducks, blue blazers and dashing straw boaters led platoons of flag-bearing athletes around the quarter-mile cinder track past the reviewing stand. The King saluted, the Queen waved. Twelve hundred white-clad school children overflowed the infield and performed a well-rehearsed show of calisthenics. After a Royal aside (“Aren’t the children splendid?”) the King proclaimed the next day a school holiday, thus eliciting the loudest cheer of the day.
By the time the cortege had left Scott Park, Tretheway and his men had already reinforced the contingent at the Jockey Club. Once again the process was repeated with a different cast; another presentation, more curtsies, cheering, handshakes and waving, an honour guard of thirty-two Rover Scouts and a final twenty-one-gun salute. The Royal Couple, unbelievably still smiling and waving, watched from the observation platform of the departing train as the colourful vista of Fort York receded. In a parting fillip, a group of urchins outflanked the Canadian National Railway Police and chased down the track after the puffing train waving flags and pennants until their breath ran out. The King and Queen were amused.
At that moment the city also ran out of breath, or so it seemed to Tretheway. Fort York began a short period of post-Royal Visit depression. Months of preparations had climaxed in a whirlwind hour and a half. And now everybody had to go back to ordinary life, back to routine, Tretheway included.
Parties were held that night to celebrate a job well done. But mostly, people turned in early. Except for school children and teachers, tomorrow was another workday. Tretheway spent the evening at home rehashing the events of the momentous day and comparing notes with drop-in friends. No one stayed late. Miles Terminus, Horsborough and Gum had left about ten. Addie went to bed shortly after that. Tretheway and Jake sat at the kitchen table sharing a beer. They had just closed the door behind Wan Ho. Addie’s small radio played the music of Ted Weems. Tretheway thumbed through the special souvenir Royal Visit Edition of the FY Expo searching for news. Wedged between dozens of ads all headed “Welcome To Their Majesties,” he found a few headlines.
“Chamberlain Says Hitler Will Not Bring On War,” Tretheway read aloud. “Military Experts Confident Polish Cavalry Can Contain German Army. Berlin Practices Air Raid Drills.” He shook his head. “Very discouraging news.” He picked up another section and was halfway through a comic strip ad story of how, if one used Lifebuoy Soap to stop B.O., one could gain rapid promotion and enter a happy marriage, when Jake spoke.
“When all is considered then, the day went well?”
“Better than I expected.” Tretheway put the paper down.
“You expected something?”
“Not really.” Tretheway took a long pull of Molson Blue. His eyes widened as his upper body convulsed in a quiet belch. “But every time I looked at the crowd, I half expected our friend to do something silly.”
“I must say it crossed my mind,” Jake admitted.
“But I guess he hadn’t seen the right movie,” Tretheway said.
“You really think that’s why he didn’t do anything?”
“Among other things.”
“Like?”
“Security. You must admit it was tight.”
Jake nodded.
“And it was too close to the last one,” Tretheway explained. “He seems to need a gestation period. A few weeks at least to choose a suitable movie. Prepare the events. Make necessary arrangements.” He drained his quart. “And then there’s the most logical reason.”
“Which is?”
Tretheway put his empty on the kitchen table. “He wanted to see the King and Queen.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. He was probably waving a bloody flag. And cheering.”
“A fine King’s subject.”
“A patriot.”
“So what do we do now?” Jake asked.
“Just what he’s going to do.”
“Eh?”
“Go to the movies.”
Jake smiled. “Why not?”
“Maybe tomorrow.” Tretheway smiled back.
“Right.” Jake stood up. “I’m for the sack.”
Tretheway pointed to the ice box. “As long as you’re up.”
Jake handed his boss a frosted bottle of ale.
Chapter
9
Tretheway and Jake did return to the movies, the next night.
In honour of the Royal Visit, Freeman Thake had used his influence to procure the most kingly or queenly movies he could for that week. He ran the pair an unprecedented six consecutive days. So on Thursday Tretheway and Jake sat through The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex, a vivid technicolour costume drama of royal court intrigue, more fiction than history. It revolved around the love/hate relationship of Elizabeth I of England (Bette Davis) and the Earl of Essex (Errol Flynn) in their struggle for power. Essex eventually lost his head.
The second feature stuck closer to fact. A gory historical thriller, The Tower of London, follows the deformed, evil Richard III (Basil Rathbone) as he kills and tortures his way to the fifteenth-century English throne. Boris Karloff plays Mord, a club-footed, handy-with the-axe executioner. The Duke of Clarence (Vincent Price) gives a satisfying, blood-curdling performance when he drowns horribly in a vat of Malmsey wine. The Tower of London appealed to Tretheway while Jake, a fan of Errol Flynn’s since Captain Blood, preferred the first feature.
For the rest of June and into the first week of July, Tretheway and Jake, with assorted happenstance companions, viewed a varied slate of feature attractions. And with certain exceptions, they agreed any one of them could goad an unbalanced killer into another murderous scheme. Movies like Last Warning, Street of Missing Men, Boy Slaves (“seething story of wayward youth”), Trapped in the Sky, Crime Takes a Holiday or even The Gracie Allen Murder Case were all possible fodder for the creative but warped mind of the Fan. Addie accompanied Jake for the ostensibly harmless exceptions; Romance of the Limberlost, Zenobia and Good Girls Go to Paris. Tretheway skipped all of these as well as Ice Follies of ’39.
“Sorry to bother you this late on a Sunday,” Wan Ho said.
“That’s okay,” Jake answered. “We’re still up.”
“I’m calling from Central.”
“Pull night duty again?”
“Zulp loves me.”
Tretheway came out of the parlour. “Who’s that?”
“Wan Ho.”
Then Jake spoke into the mouthpiece.
“We’re both here.”
“Just got a call.” Wan Ho raised his voice so both Tretheway and Jake could hear. Jake held the receiver between them. “A Mrs D.W. Clarence, 53 Mayfair. That’s not far from you. Reported a prowler.”
“I take it not your usual prowler,” Tretheway
“You tell me,” Wan Ho said. “She heard a noise in the backyard. Thought it was D.W., that’s her husband, returning from walking the dogs. Switched on the back porch lights. Saw a man. She thinks a man. Close to the window. Wild unruly hair. Laughing. Jumping up and down. Drinking from a bottle. He appeared deformed. Crookback was her word.” He paused. “You still with me?”
“Go on,” Tretheway said.
“She screamed,” Wan Ho went on. “Now get this. He took another drink from the bottle. Then carefully put it down on the back porch. In no hurry. Sound familiar?”
“As though he wanted to be seen,” Tretheway said.
“Exactly,” Wan Ho said. “One more thing. He was wearing a crown.”
“A crown. A King’s crown.”
“Definitely not your usual prowler,” Jake said.
“Sound nutsy enough to be our Movie Fan?” Wan Ho asked.
Tretheway and Jake exchanged nods.
“Did you see The Tower of London?” Tretheway spoke into the mouthpiece.
“No,” Wan Ho said.
“You’d better pick us up on your way,” Tretheway ordered. He took the receiver from Jake’s hand and hung up.
Mayfair Crescent ran by the sprawling FY University campus, past its playing fields, sunken gardens and ivy-covered seats of learning, before it looped back on itself. Except for a few residents, the secluded loop was used in the daytime by young persons learning to drive and when night fell by more young persons, still in cars, learning the rituals of love making. “Sort of a vehicular Flirtation Walk,” Addie would say. In the enclosed elongated oval, several magnificent oaks stood above smaller scrub trees. At their foot, Queen Ann’s lace, shimmering blue cornflowers, goldenrod and wild grasses grew tall between monthly cuttings by the FY Parks Department. On the side across from the University property were three houses. Each occupied a landscaped acre. The Clarences lived in the first one.
Old Cyrus Increase Clarence (D.W.’s grandfather) had started Clarence Potteries years ago when most of West End was farm land or pasture. In the small, dingy factory, shadowed by Fort York Mountain, he worked beside cheap immigrant labour seven days a week producing simple but classic ceramic plates, dishes, bowls, platters and pots for the Ontario market. Business flourished. The next Clarence, as industrious and tight-fisted as his father, expanded with even more success. There was hardly a house within a two-hundred-mile radius that didn’t harbour a Clarence container of some sort. The day D.W. became president, he began spending the fruits of his frugal ancestors. For one thing, he built the Mayfair Crescent house.
Architecturally designed in the not-too-homey Regency style of the early 1900s, it was small as mansions go, but still a mansion; three floors, sixteen rooms, five bathrooms, six fireplaces and a separate, heated, triple garage. The well-manicured front lawn, rock gardens, flagstone walk and wide red gravel driveway all sloped gracefully from house to street. Behind the building, the land dropped more steeply and unevenly until it merged with West Woods, a part of Coote’s Paradise. At the edge of the trees stood a small greenhouse. A pool took up three quarters of its interior. It had no heater, filter or diving board and could only be used comfortably on warm clear days when sunlight filtered through the high Dutch elms and dodged the opaque bird droppings on the glass-walled structure. Nevertheless, in polite conversations with the Clarences, it constituted a bona fide, in-ground swimming pool. The remaining quarter of the greenhouse was partially closed in, ideal for homemade wine storage.
Mr and Mrs D.W. Clarence had lived in the house for twenty-five childless years, contributing as little as possible to business or society. The couple owned two spoiled Pomeranians. D.W. walked them every night at ten o’clock, rain or shine.
“It’s the first one on your left,” Jake said from the back seat of Wan Ho’s squad car. “The one with the lights on.”
They had driven past the university and were heading back around the loop. Tretheway had used the time to discuss high spots in The Tower of London. Wan Ho turned left through the open wrought-iron gates and up the driveway. The tires crunched on the gravel as he slowed to a stop. Wan Ho jumped out of the car with Jake close behind.
“Very impressive,” Wan Ho said, studying the imposing façade of the Clarence house.
“And big,” Jake said.
Tretheway grunted, noisily uprooting himself from the poorly sprung passenger seat. He sweated freely. The day had been humid and darkness had brought no relief. High clouds formed. Leaves hung motionless, upside down, asking for rain.
“Let’s get in there,” Tretheway said. “I think they’re waiting for us.”
He could clearly see Mrs Clarence in the well-lit living room, glowering through the leaded casement windows at the three of them. A maid stood in the background wringing her hands. After introducing themselves through the locked screen door, the trio was ushered inside where Mrs Clarence repeated her story in more detail.
“But his face, Mrs Clarence,” Tretheway asked when she had finished. “You say you didn’t see his face.”
“No,” Mrs Clarence said emphatically. She made untidy waving motions around her face. “His hair was all over. Adele saw him.”
Tretheway glanced at the maid. She nodded her head vigorously.
“But you did say him,” Tretheway said to Mrs Clarence. “A man.”
“Yes.” This time not so emphatically.
Tretheway grunted. “What was he wearing?”
“Black, nondescript clothing. He was bent over. Horribly deformed.” Mrs Clarence shuddered. “He limped when he ran away.”
“Perhaps we should look outside,” Wan Ho suggested.
“Right,” Tretheway agreed.
“I’m sure the prowler will be gone by now,” Jake assured Mrs Clarence.
“I’m more worried about D.W. My husband. He should be back by now.”
“Let’s have a look,” Tretheway said.
On their way to the back door, Mrs Clarence showed them where she had first seen the prowler. “He was right there.” She pointed out the window. “You can see where he put the bottle.”
Tretheway led the way onto the spacious back porch. He squatted down and examined the bottle without touching it.
“A Product of Madeira. Malmsey Wine,” he read aloud. “Is your husband by any chance into wine-making?” He hoped for a No.
“Why, yes.”
Tretheway straightened up. “On the premises?”
“There are three vats by the swimming pool. In the greenhouse.”
“Do you suppose it’s Malmsey wine?” Jake asked Tretheway.
“Why do you ask?” Mrs Clarence said.
“I don’t think it matters,” Tretheway said to Jake. “He’s made his point again.”
“Who’s made his point?” Mrs Clarence said.
“Listen.” The maid spoke for the first time.
“What?” Mrs Clarence said.
No one spoke or moved. A beginning hot breeze rustled the leaves. Crickets chirped. A streetcar bell clanged blocks away. Then a dog barked, or really yapped.
“It’s Mr Moto,” Mrs Clarence said.
“Or Popsie,” the maid said.
“Who?” Tretheway asked.
“It’s our dogs,” Mrs Clarence said. “Down there.” She pointed to the barely discernible greenhouse on the edge of light, where the cut grass merged with the natural ravine.
“Sergeant,” Tretheway ordered. “You stay with the ladies.” He started off the porch.
“Shouldn’t we call for another car?” Jake asked.
The ladies looked alarmed. Tretheway glared at Jake. “Not just yet.” Then he smiled at Mrs Clarence. “The Constable and I ca
n handle a simple prowler.” He turned back to Jake. “Gimme the flashlight.”
Jake handed his boss the three cell lantern, thankful he had remembered it.
Wan Ho stayed on the porch and watched the wavering light as Tretheway and Jake carefully trod down the sloping sward, their shadows growing grotesquely toward the darkness. The feeble moonlight outlined the shape of the greenhouse. It appeared much smaller and less picturesque up close. The peeling paint of the metal frame and the filthy glass showed up even at night. Close to the only entrance, they found Mr Moto and Popsie. The dogs were growling over something on the ground. Tretheway pushed the dogs apart roughly with his heavy police boot. “Get away.” He considered any dog under twenty pounds untrustworthy. They stopped growling.
“What is it?” asked Jake.
Tretheway shone the light on the objects the dogs had been quarreling over. The crown glittered with reflections while the black woolly hairpiece absorbed most of the illumination.
“I’ll wager they belong to Richard III,” Tretheway said.
Jake reached down to pick them up, then thought better of it. He looked at Tretheway.
Tretheway shook his head. “Leave them for Wan Ho,” he said. “We’d better get in there.”
“Right,” Jake said.
Tretheway pulled open the door of the greenhouse. The dogs scampered in and started barking again.
Inside, the damp smell of stale, chlorinated water wrinkled both their noses. Tretheway bounced the light around the interior. Wet stains spotted the narrow ledge bordering the pool. Water dripped somewhere. A tall rack containing half grown annual seedlings stood in one corner beside several carelessly stacked garden tools. There were no chairs.
“Sure ain’t Hollywood,” Jake said.
Tretheway tried a light switch on the wall. Nothing happened. “Great.”
He looked back at the main house. Even through the mottled windows of the greenhouse Tretheway could make out Wan Ho on the back porch. The detective stood in a circle of yellow light, hand shielding his eyes, like some ancient sailor in search of whales, peering into the darkness that had swallowed his two colleagues. His charges huddled behind him.
Murder at the Movies Page 8