Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  Once at the hall, he’d overheard two of the men talking about him. “He’s a bit simple is what it is,” said one of them. Franz had been hurt by this remark, but his mother was alive then and she had scoffed. “Let them think it. Clever people are noticed and you don’t want that. Not as you’re German.” And she made him a nice apple cake to make up for the hurt. “I’ve told you, family is the only thing you can rely on. Blood is what counts.”

  For as long as he could remember, there had only been the two of them and, now she was gone; there was no family, no blood ties to turn to. However, the necessity of having two jobs when she became ill had turned into a habit. He continued to live frugally and the extra money that accumulated he kept in a strongbox under his bed. There was a lot of it by now and sometimes he wondered if he should do anything and he’d take out a few dollars. But then he’d sit and think about it, and realise he could make do. His trousers got a good brush and his boots another blacking. So, most of the time, he put the money back. His mother taught him that. “Don’t let any women know how much you have or they’ll try to seduce you and take it all.” He never quite knew what it was to seduce but he could tell it was bad. His mother had been born in Germany and had come to Canada just after he was born. She wouldn’t talk about his father no matter how much he begged, and although she had received occasional letters for a while, they hadn’t come for years now.

  Even though force of habit had kept him up, he’d not gone to work at all since Monday night. He sent the neighbour’s boy with a note to Mr. Tweedie saying as how he regretted but he was incapacitated for work. It took him almost an hour to write those two lines, but in the end he was proud of his big word. He didn’t go the next day either.

  “You’d better go tell the police,” the secretary had said when Franz spilled out his story. But he wouldn’t consider it. The police were always on the lookout for culprits, and they didn’t care who they got, especially if they were foreigners. He could end up in jail for the rest of his life and nobody would be the wiser. No, he was very sorry he’d spoken up at all.

  It was only because the cries he’d heard were so disturbing that he’d told Mr. Tweedie about them.

  Darkness was well settled in and the street lamps were struggling without much success to throw out some light in the gloom. A few passersby, bent under their black umbrellas, hurried to get out of the drizzle that had started up again. Murdoch had started at Queen Street, knocking on every single door, and it had taken him almost two hours. He was tired and disheartened and his mouth felt dry from too much talking. Almost all of the people he spoke to had heard about Wicken’s death, and they were eager to discuss it with him. Much as he would have expected, there was not much sympathy for the dead man, who was considered to be a disgrace and a coward to boot. Opinion ran cool toward Mrs. Wicken and the word “unfeeling” was said many times, even though for most of them this opinion on her conduct was based on hearsay. Enthusiasm was high for Mary Ann, and his questions concerning her engendered a great deal of curiosity, which he tried to diffuse. The Lees were mostly referred to as “the heathens” and he knew that, if he had introduced them into the investigation at all, speculation would have run riot. He was, in turn, asked questions, most of them prurient. He had no answer to “Was it true there was blood and brains splattered all over the walls?” Sometimes the question was asked as bluntly as that, sometimes with more subtlety, but the reason was the same – they wanted to feast on the morbid details. However, so far, he had no more information than when he had started out. If Mary Ann Trowbridge had met up with Wicken anywhere along this section of his beat, nobody had seen her. He gave out Isobel’s description as well but with the same result. At least he didn’t have to worry about the nocturnal habits of Toronto citizenry. They all seemed to enjoy the untroubled sleep of the righteous. And Mr. Lee was unusual in that he worked late into the night. No other business owner had. Murdoch groaned to himself. At this rate, he wouldn’t get home until ten o’clock, certainly too late to visit with Mrs. Jones.

  On the southwest corner of Parliament Street and Gerrard, directly across from the vacant house where Wicken had died, was the imposing Foresters Hall. Lights were burning in the downstairs windows and, hoping to find a caretaker who might have been awake on the night in question, he went in. The double front doors were unlocked and he entered a large foyer. There was a fine brass and crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, all the globes extravagantly lit. A splendid staircase curved in front of him and there was an imposing line of portraits ascending to the second floor. He assumed these were depictions of officers of the order.

  There was nobody in sight, but to his right was a half-open door and he could hear the now familiar tapping of a typewriter. A plaque on the door said H. TWEEDIE, SECRETARY. He knocked and a strong male voice called, “Enter.” Murdoch complied. A young man, presumably Mr. Tweedie, was seated behind a long desk. Several bound ledgers were piled around him like a barricade, and he seemed to be copying something from one of them. There was an electric light suspended above his head and he wore a green eyeshade to protect himself from its brilliance.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Murdoch. I’m an acting detective at number four station and I’m pursuing some inquiries concerning the death of one of our constables. No doubt you’ve heard about it?”

  The secretary pushed back his visor. “I’ll say. Did himself in, didn’t he? Don’t understand that, I must say. I mean we all have our trials and tribulations, don’t we? But we’ve got to keep going. As far as I’m concerned, suicide is a coward’s way out. However, I digress. How can I be of assistance?”

  “The investigation isn’t completely closed and I was wondering if you employ a night watchman at all. If so, I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Yes, we do. Fellow by the name of Franz Liepman. Didn’t he get in touch with you?”

  “No. Should he have?”

  “I told him to. But then again, I’m not surprised he didn’t. He’s a strange bird, bit slow on the uptake, German. He came in here on Tuesday with quite a story. I’d heard about the constable from one of our members so I thought it might be relevant. Told him to get to the station right away.”

  Murdoch stared at him. The green eyeshade made his face look sickly but his brown eyes were keen enough.

  “Well, he didn’t. What was his story?”

  “He claims he heard somebody crying. Pitiful was the way he described it. Like this, he said.” Tweedie put his head back and cried in a falsetto voice, “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”

  “A woman?”

  “Oh, no, it must have been the constable. He was beseeching his lady-love.” Tweedie looked as if he were about to howl again. Murdoch cut him off.

  “Did he say where the cries were coming from?”

  “The vacant house.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Franz was on his way here and he usually arrives about half past midnight, so it was shortly before that.”

  “Do you have this man’s address?”

  “Matter of fact, it’s right here.” The secretary propelled his chair toward the end of his table and rotated a card file that was sitting beside the telephone box. He rolled back and handed a card to Murdoch. “He hasn’t been in since Tuesday. Sent a message to say he’s ill. Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me. He looked like he’d shit his britches, begging your pardon, when I said he should speak to the police. Like I said, he’s a strange sort of fellow. But he’s been with us for years, no complaints. First time he’s been off sick for six years. Hasn’t missed a day.”

  Murdoch checked the address. “I’ll go and have a word with him. Thank you, Mr. Tweedie.”

  “You’re welcome I’m sure.” He regarded Murdoch with keen curiosity. “Do you mind if I ask why the investigation isn’t closed? I popped down to the inquest myself, my own backyard as it were. The verdict was unequivocal, wasn’t it?”

  “It was
but there are a few discrepancies in some of the testimony that we need to clarify.”

  “The Chinaman’s? What a pair they were.”

  “I’m not at liberty to go into it at the moment.”

  “Well, any time I can help, just drop in. Oh, by the way, I recommend you take a deep breath and hold it when you go into the fellow’s place.” He made a gesture of pinching his nostrils. “He doesn’t believe in soap and water.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Murdoch took his leave and left. The typewriter soon resumed its rapid clacking.

  Mr. Liepman lived at 375 Gerrard Street, just east of Sackville. The house was a tall semi-detached with a narrow strip of paved front yard and a brown painted door that needed freshening up. The front window was dark, but slits of light came through the blinds at the second- and third-floor windows. There was an outside bell and the clapper was fastened to a frayed rope. He rang it as loudly as he could, given that the casing was cracked. He expected he’d have to repeat this several times before somebody heard him but, surprisingly, there was a response almost immediately. Through the glass, he saw light from a candle drawing closer. The door opened and an elderly man stood there, his candlestick held aloft.

  “The room’s taken,” he said before Murdoch could speak.

  “I’m not here for the room, I’m looking for Mr. Liepman.”

  “He’s on the third floor.”

  The old man didn’t wait for Murdoch to introduce himself or express any curiosity; he turned around and began to shuffle back to his lair. He took his candle with him.

  “Wait a minute,” Murdoch called but the man ignored him and entered a door on the left. Murdoch heard a bolt shoot closed. The hall was completely unlit and there was a strong smell of raw onions hanging in the air. On the other hand it could have been skunk. Cussing at the old man for his rudeness, Murdoch stood for a moment to get accustomed to the darkness. There was a staircase to his left and the room at the landing was occupied. Enough light came from beneath the door for him to make his way up. The stairs were uncarpeted and creaked loudly but nobody came out to see who he was or what he was doing. He didn’t hear anything – no voices, no sounds of life behind the closed doors.

  The stairs to the third floor became narrow and steep and again the only light came from beneath a door at the top of the landing. He slid his hand along the railing and more or less felt his way to the top. Here there was some sign of life, a man’s voice speaking rather softly in a language he didn’t understand but assumed was German. It sounded as if he were reading aloud. Murdoch rapped hard on the door. The voice stopped abruptly but there was no movement. He knocked again.

  “Mr. Liepman, I’m a police officer and I would like to talk to you.”

  No response. Murdoch was getting thoroughly annoyed. He thumped hard with his fist on the door. “Mr. Liepman, please open up.”

  A squeak and scrape of a chair, the door opened a crack, and a frightened face peered out at him. Murdoch had expected an older man but Liepman was of middle age. His hair was long about his shoulders and he had a full, untrimmed dark beard. He was wearing a red flannel combination suit under a pair of loose trousers.

  “Mr. Liepman, I’m Acting Detective Murdoch from number four station. I have just come from the Foresters Hall. The secretary told me you had some information concerning the death of one of our constables.”

  Liepman stared at him for so long, Murdoch wondered if he had understood anything. He was about to repeat himself when the man said, “I have been ill. I couldn’t have come.” He had a pronounced German accent, turning his v’s into f’s.

  “I’m not here to reproach you or charge you with anything, Mr. Liepman. I’m pursuing an inquiry into the death of this officer.”

  “I thought the verdict was for self-murder.”

  The man wasn’t as ignorant as he first appeared. “Yes, but there are a few matters I’d like to clear up. Can I come in?”

  Reluctantly, Liepman stepped aside and Murdoch went into the tiny attic room. Tweedie was right about the smell. It was far worse than the odour downstairs. He tried to breathe lightly.

  “I was just having my tea,” said Liepman and he indicated a pine table tucked underneath the window. There was a cup and the remnants of a meat pie on a plate. A black book was turned face down beside it. Could have been a Bible.

  “I won’t keep you.”

  Murdoch had been annoyed with the old man who let him in, but this one’s lack of manners was more forgivable. It seemed less deliberate and more as if he simply wasn’t used to company. Unexpectedly, there was the sound of birdsong, a cascade of trills and chirps. At first, Murdoch couldn’t see where it was coming from, then he noticed a small cage in the corner of the room, next to the hearth. Inside was a dainty yellow and black finch. It shook out its feathers, raised its beak, and let out another series of whistles. Liepman grinned. “She likes to show off.”

  “That’s a beautiful song.”

  “Yes, we’ve won competitions. Her name’s Jenny Lind. She’s named after the singer. My mother heard her when she did the only show she ever performed in Toronto. Fifty-three it was. I was only five years old but she took me too. It cost Mutter a week’s wages but she didn’t care. It was worth it. I name all my birds the same now. This is Miss Jenny Lind the eighth, or is it ninth?”

  The little bird preened herself, then took a sip of water from the dish inside her cage, for all the world like a diva warming up for her performance.

  Murdoch glanced around the tiny room. The furnishings were spare but whether that was from penury or from choice, he didn’t know. The walls sloped and there was only one small window. It must be hot as Hades in summer. At the moment, however, it was comfortably warm and, in contrast to the rest of the house, well-lit and cheery. There was a fire going in the fireplace and a kettle was steaming on the hob. This was obviously where Mr. Liepman cooked his meals. He hadn’t invited him to sit, but Murdoch pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  “Mr. Tweedie said that you heard the sound of somebody crying on Monday night. Can you tell me more about it?”

  “What would you like to know?” Liepman had plumped himself down in the single armchair by the fire but he jumped up again, went over to the cage, and shook out some seed for the bird.

  “Could you describe this sound?”

  “Oh, yes. Piteous, it was. Made my blood run cold.”

  “Were they words or just cries?”

  “Words.”

  “What were they?”

  “‘Help me, help me.’”

  That wasn’t what Mr. Tweedie had said.

  “Mr. Liepman, could you swear an oath that those words were exactly what you heard?”

  The other man looked frightened.

  “What I mean is that we often recall things differently from the way they actually happened. I may for instance insist that a friend said to me, ‘We must have a chat,’ when in fact what they said was ‘I’d like to get together for a talk.’”

  Liepman was staring at Murdoch. He tried again. “All I am asking, sir, is if, to your recollection, these were the precise words. Mr. Tweedie has reported it rather differently.”

  “Has he?” He scowled. “Well, he can go stuff himself in his filing cabinet for all I care. I heard plain as you’re talking to me, ‘Help me. Help me.’ And that’s the gospel truth, may I be put on the rack and not change my mind.”

  “Were the words repeated several times or twice like that?”

  “Only twice.”

  “What made you think it was the constable?”

  “Eh?”

  “Mr. Tweedie said you thought it was the officer who died.”

  “I didn’t say that. It was him who said it must have been.”

  “He imitated the sounds for me and they could have come more from a woman.”

  “I did think that at first. That it was a woman, but according to Mr. Clever, it couldn’t have been.”

>   “Did the cries come from the empty house?”

  “Thereabouts.” Liepman clicked his tongue at Jenny Lind but she didn’t respond, just continued to dig into her flight feathers.

  Murdoch sighed. “I must repeat what I said earlier, Mr. Liepman, you are not in any kind of trouble. But it would be more than helpful if you could be exact. You were walking by on your way to the hall; at what point did you hear the noises?”

  “Just as I was going past the livery.” He turned around and faced Murdoch. His face was tight with anxiety. “Mr. Tweedie said sound at night is difficult to pinpoint, travels around. He’s the one convinced it was coming from the house. I’d have said it was behind me rather than in front. But he knows best.”

  “Did you hear a gunshot?”

  Liepman was emphatic. “No. Not so much as a pop. Just the cries.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “About twenty minutes past twelve. I get to the hall at half past.”

  “That is your regular route to work, I presume? Have you ever seen the constable on his beat? Tall fellow, blond whiskers and moustache.”

  “I see him most every night. He’s regular and so am I.”

  “Did you see him on Monday?”

  “No. I did wonder at it.”

  “Have you ever seen him accompanied by anybody else?”

  “Once or twice he was with the sergeant.”

  “On Monday night, did you notice a young woman on the street?”

  “No, it was too late for women to be out.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. Everybody is in bed by the time I go to work. I’d notice if it was different.”

  “When you heard these cries, did you see anything? Did you look up at the windows, for instance?”