Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  Bognor shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t think I would. It certainly didn’t begin to remind me of anyone I’ve met out here. Whoever it was must have friends in the control room.’

  ‘I thought of that,’ agreed Monica. ‘Do you think the Quebecois conspiracy idea does stand up?’

  ‘And the CN Tower elevators are in the hands of the Quebecois? It’s possible, but scarcely likely.’

  ‘What happened is scarcely likely. We could have been killed, Simon.’

  He nodded. ‘But it’s just as likely that that psychopath Johnny Baker infiltrated the control room. Or any of our other suspects, come to that. Presumably everyone has their price and when all’s said and done they were just fooling around. It could have been passed off as a practical joke.’

  ‘Some joke.’

  ‘Yes. But.’ Bognor sighed. For enough money it would almost certainly have been possible to arrange the complicity of the very few key personnel necessary. Especially if they could be convinced that no serious harm was intended.

  They had reached the end of the long walkway which led from the base of the tower to Front Street. Emerging on to the sidewalk they both as if by instinct turned to look up at the top of the tower. Even looking up at the monster made Bognor feel dizzy. Above the revolving platforms the lights blinked out from the great needle which pointed to the sky. Along the tower’s huge grey concrete side a yellow elevator crawled upwards like some inexorable insect. Bognor shuddered and looked down at his feet. ‘I’m not going up there again,’ he said.

  11

  THEY FOUND THEIR NEW guard waiting for them at the hotel. He was at least six foot four and big with it. He was wearing a standard-issue Tip Top Tailor’s suit which bulged with ill-concealed muscle and firearm, also a fixed grin which twitched as he chewed the inevitable gum. Alongside him by the reception desk was Bognor’s old sparring partner Pete Smith.

  ‘Hi, Si!’ he said, secreting his gum in a corner of the mouth not necessary for speech. ‘Good to see you, Mrs Bognor. I’d like you to meet Gary.’ He indicated the young giant at his side. ‘Gary once had a trial for the Toronto Argonauts and has a black belt in karate. He is trained to kill. Like, I mean, kill.’

  ‘Hello there, Mrs Bognor.’ Gary grinned yet more broadly, displaying an impressive array of killer teeth, and shook hands.

  ‘Hi, Mr Bognor, sir,’ and he seized Bognor’s somewhat flabby hand in his enormous nutcracker grip. Bognor winced.

  ‘Hello, Gary,’ he said. ‘Please call me Simon. Well, call me Si if you prefer.’

  ‘And I’m Monica,’ said Monica. ‘But not Mon, if you don’t mind.’

  They all laughed weakly.

  ‘How was the view, Mrs Bognor?’ enquired Smith of the Mounties, politely.

  Monica put a hand to her temple and attempted a smile. ‘Spectacular,’ she said, ‘but not without its little excitements.’

  ‘We had a bit of an adventure as a matter of fact,’ conceded Simon. ‘The lift got stuck.’

  The two Mounties glanced at one another incomprehendingly.

  ‘The lift, Si? Stuck?’ Smith was at sea.

  ‘Sorry. Elevator. We were left hanging around rather a lot. In mid-air. I have a bad head for heights.’

  ‘Jeez, that’s too bad. I heard they sometimes have trouble with those elevators. They were manufactured in Japan.’

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down for a moment?’ asked Monica. She had gone an unnatural pinkish grey. ‘I don’t feel awfully well.’

  ‘Oh, say, sure. Hey, why didn’t you say so, Mrs Bognor. Let’s find a chair. Gary, fetch Mrs Bognor a glass of water.’ Smith sprung to life. Obviously a man for a crisis. He put an arm round Monica in a manly grasp and helped her towards the bar, where a willowy girl in a low-cut evening gown was showing guests to their tables. In seconds they were seated in a corner. Monica had a glass of ice with a little water in it and they were confronted with long slim cards explaining the infinite variety of cocktails on offer.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ Monica kept saying. ‘I feel a lot better thank you. Yes, really. It was just a passing thing. I felt a bit faint, that’s all.’

  ‘Delayed shock,’ said Bognor, who was feeling a touch of the delayed shocks himself.

  The Mounties fussed around a while and then ordered a brace of Harvey Wallbangers while the Bognors settled for double brandies. Then Bognor explained what had happened.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Smith, when he had finished. He hit his palm several times with a clenched fist. ‘I will nail that French bastard! I will nail him, no matter what. No matter what, I will nail him, so help me. Those bastards in Ottawa gonna have to play ball. This isn’t just a political affair any longer, this is threatening to kill a member of the British Board of Trade and a guest in this great country of ours.’

  Bognor did not wish to become involved in yet another argument about French bastards. Besides, he was feeling confused about murders and threats to murder, and he was inclined to accept that the French bastard theory was as likely as the Colonel Crombie/Bandanna Rose theory or the Harrison Bentley theory or the Johnny Baker theory or any of the other theories which he was no nearer verifying. The most maddening aspect of the case was that the guilty party clearly believed that Bognor was on to him.

  Bognor said this. Or something like it.

  ‘He is a frightened man, Si.’ Smith took a draught of Wallbanger and wiped his regulation neatly clipped Mountie moustache with a paper napkin. ‘That is one frightened man. That’s what makes me mad. That’s what bugs me. That man is frightened. He is a cornered rat and a cornered rat is a dangerous beast, Si. That cornered rat has to be put away, but his friends in Ottawa just aren’t letting me do that. And so he is out on the run, a menace to society. He is not safe to be on the streets. You know that? The politicans are letting him roam the streets threatening law-abiding citizens who are going about their lawful business. It’s the politicans who are ruining this damn country. If the Soviets nuked Ottawa they’d be doing the rest of us a favour, you know that?’

  He drank more Wallbanger.

  ‘I think it might be best if we were to catch a plane back to Britain tomorrow,’ said Bognor. ‘I’d rather not be killed. And I’d much rather my wife wasn’t.’

  ‘I don’t like to hear that,’ said Smith. ‘Mean to say, Gary here will shoot on sight. On sight. There is no way any harm is going to come to you good people.’

  Bognor nodded his appreciation. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you should be shooting at people on our behalf. And I’m really not doing any good here. You’re obviously well under control and there’s nothing I can do to help. And I’m wanted back at the office.’

  ‘If you say so, Si.’ Bognor recognized that the policeman would be quite happy to see the back of him, but he was impressed by his scrupulous politeness.

  ‘Tell me, Si,’ Smith suddenly came over expansive, ‘do you still think Farquhar was killed by someone else? I mean you can be straight with me. Shoot from the hip.’

  ‘As a matter of fact’—Bognor rotated his glass and watched the amber alcohol lap the sides of the balloon—‘I’m not convinced, but I have no proof that it was anyone else, and I have no evidence to suggest that it wasn’t our French friend.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Smith nodded his head several times, pursed his lips and pinched his moustache. ‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Just one thing though,’ Bognor added. ‘Well, two actually. First I want to have a word with the Cerniks before I leave. I’ll try to set that up for tomorrow. I really need to establish his intentions for Mammon as much as discuss the murder. Trade matter, you understand …’

  Smith nodded. ‘Sure, sure,’ he said.

  ‘And then I thought I’d make one visit when I return to London.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘I hear that Farquhar was not at all a well man. In fact he was very sick. He had several bits and pieces taken out of him over the
last few years, and he was always junked up to the eyebrows with pills. It seems he had no faith in his Canadian doctor and went to a quack in Harley Street.’

  ‘Harley Street?’

  ‘London. It’s where the expensive doctors hang out.’

  Smith shrugged. ‘You go see who you like, Si,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I see any future in finding out how ill a man was when he’s dead. Like suppose he did have the Big C, those French bastards got to him first, eh?’

  Bognor grinned. ‘I’ll still go and see him,’ he said. ‘You never know. It doesn’t do to leave a stone unturned. Or so I’ve found in the past.’

  ‘Lookit, Si.’ Smith drained his glass of Wallbanger. ‘You just carry on and do your own thing, and let me know what you find out. And Gary will stay with you until you’re safely up, up and away and flying back home again. OK. So long.’ He rose, brushed down his trousers and shook hands. ‘Good seeing you guys. See you again soon. Have a good flight.’

  Monica and Simon watched him shamble off through the swing doors, waved a last farewell, and went upstairs to pack.

  They were about to venture out for a last supper in Toronto at a highly recommended Rumanian restaurant on Yonge Street just beyond Merton and Balliol, and were wondering what to do with Gary. Monica thought they would have to invite him to share their table. Simon was for leaving him outside in the car. The argument was threatening to become acrimonious, when they heard altercation outside in the corridor.

  A male voice, Gary’s, saying, ‘Lady, I have my orders. No one is entering this room without authorization.’

  A female voice. ‘I am a friend. It’s very important.’

  Gary was impressively unbudgeable. The lady quietly persistent.

  ‘It’s your little French friend,’ said Monica.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bognor. ‘Yes. I think you may be right. Louise.’ He felt himself flush and was annoyed at this lack of self-control.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to let her in?’

  ‘Um. Yes, I suppose so. Do you think I should?’

  ‘Well, of course. Why ever not?’ Monica regarded him with incredulity.

  ‘She is a friend of Prideaux. That “French bastard”. She may be a villain.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ The voices outside were rising. ‘If you won’t,’ snapped Monica, ‘then I will.’ And she flounced to the door, unchained and unbolted it and admitted Louise, placating Gary with an assurance that all was well.

  She did not look well. She was wearing jeans, tailored and expensive and creased, also a crisp white shirt, probably silk. Nothing wrong with her turnout, nor that neat little figure, but there were dark rings under her eyes and her face was pinched, thin, more lined than he remembered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she exclaimed, taking in Monica’s little black dress and pearl earrings and, no doubt, inhaling the Chanel, recently and liberally applied. ‘You’re going out. I won’t take a moment, but I am worried and I thought I should come to you.’

  ‘Why? What is it? Sit down. Have a drink.’ Bognor was flapping.

  ‘No. I won’t keep you.’ She smiled apologetically and Bognor remembered how elfin and gamine she was. He had always had a soft spot for the French, or, more accurately, for French women. He was still in love with Juliette Greco and Zizi Jeanmaire. Had been since the age of eight. And the Quebecois were sort of French. ‘It’s about Maggie,’ she said. ‘She’s vanished.’

  ‘Vanished? What do you mean, vanished?’

  ‘She’s gone. I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  She sighed. ‘I’m not really sure. After … well, after the affair at the zoo, we drove to her place in the country. It’s a cottage about a hundred miles northwest. Just a little place. She wanted to get away.’

  ‘She phoned from there that evening. When I was with her husband.’

  The girl nodded. ‘That’s right. She stayed there a few nights. I spoke to her every day on the telephone.’

  ‘Didn’t Baker find her there?’

  ‘Her husband didn’t know it existed. She never told him. She used it as, you know, a “love nest”. It was where she took men.’ She glanced at Monica, embarrassed. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t like to say these things. She is my friend. But I think she is in trouble and it’s important that you know these things, I think.’

  Monica smiled, a touch glacially. ‘I’m quite beyond surprise,’ she murmured, ‘and, for an Englishwoman, virtually shockproof. Do carry on, please.’

  ‘Then,’ said Louise, ‘she visited in New York for a few days. Seeing friends, I don’t know who. Again I talked to her every day. She was OK. Then she came back two days ago. I met her at the airport. We drove to the cottage together. I left her there, and since then she has not telephoned nor has she answered the telephone. I think she is in trouble.’

  ‘Couldn’t she have just done a bunk? Escaped again. Run away?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. I am her best friend. Maybe her only friend. She tells me everything and we agreed that we would speak to each other every day. No, she would not just disappear like this unless she was in bad, deep trouble.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you tell the police?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t like to do that. I don’t trust them. Also they don’t trust me. And they will go straight to Baker, her husband, and he will say, “Oh, don’t worry, everything is all right.”’

  ‘You think Baker has her?’

  ‘For sure. Who else?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but if you’ll forgive my saying so she seems to get around rather a lot. I mean, she’s not exactly discriminating with her favours.’

  Louise’s mouth set, firm and irritated.

  ‘I came to you because I thought you would be sympathetic. I thought you would understand.’

  Bognor was upset. He had not meant to put his foot in it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that, well, it’s surely possible that she’s gone off with someone for a day or two to get away from everything.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Louise was very cold now, her voice hostile, disillusioned. Bognor longed to be able to say something of comfort, even to put a consoling arm around her. He remembered the night of the storm, standing on the jetty, close together, waiting for the ferry that never came. He wished he wasn’t so impossibly susceptible. At the moment, and just for the moment, he also wished he could not feel Monica’s eyes boring into him, watching for the slightest hint that he might be wavering from the straight and narrow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bognor, attempting compromise, ‘I’d love to help. I would really. But we fly back to England tomorrow. The fact is that Baker, or someone unknown, is still after us. Me, that is. We were given a really rather unpleasant afternoon in one of the elevators at the CN Tower.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Louise dully. ‘I see now that you cannot help. I hope you have a good flight. Good-bye, Mrs Bognor.’

  Monica flashed out one of her most memsahib smiles.

  ‘I’ll see you out.’ Bognor could not remember when he had last felt so impossibly constrained, and helpless. He swung to the door on his crutches, another fatuous gesture because it was Louise who actually opened it, leaving him hovering like a stork or crane, stiff-legged, clumsy, useless.

  ‘How’s Jean-Claude?’ he tried, pseudo-brightly.

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’ She looked up at him. Was it his imagination, or were there tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, like a child’s. She looked as if she might crumple at any moment.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, softly. ‘Truly.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, avoiding his look. ‘Good-bye.’ And very quickly she reached up and kissed him, a fleeting dab of the lips on his cheeks, turned and was gone, hurrying down the corridor towards the lifts, leaving Bognor staring after her wishing, hopelessly, that life was a little less complicated.

  A few fee
t away from him young Gary coughed apologetically. Bognor had forgotten about him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he offered. ‘My orders are not to let anyone in without due authority. I didn’t know you and the young lady were, like, acquainted.’

  Bognor smiled at him inanely. ‘That’s quite all right, Gary,’ he said. ‘Quite all right. No harm done. Mrs Bognor and I will be with you in just one moment. We thought we’d eat Rumanian tonight. Do you like Rumanian food?’

  The Mountie frowned. ‘Can’t say I know, Si, sir. But I guess Rumanians can grill a steak.’

  ‘I guess so too,’ said Bognor.

  12

  AINSLEY CERNIK WAS SURPRISINGLY pleased at the idea of talking to Bognor. He was also, less surprisingly, tied up. However, hearing that the Bognors were leaving for home late that afternoon he did some swift rearranging of his schedule, and called back to say that if Bognor liked to come round to his squash club he could talk to him while he did a quick pre-lunch workout. Then perhaps their wives could join them for lunch. Bognor said that was fine, provided he could bring his personal bodyguard. Cernik asked if the bodyguard played squash. Bognor said he would find out and get him to bring a racket if he did.

  Cernik’s club was not remotely like Colonel Crombie’s nor like such London sporting establishments as the Hurlingham or Queen’s where, in trimmer days, Bognor had attempted to postpone the coming coronary by flailing around on the squash court. Cernik’s club was aglow with young men and women who looked as if they existed on carrot juice, skim milk, jacuzzis and pre-breakfast marathons. These tended to be staff, but even the members, mainly middle-aged executives, had a bushy-tailed bounce which was a startling departure from previous generations nurtured on the three-martini lunch consumed in the smoke-filled room.

  Bognor found Cernik in the gymnasium doing pull-ups. He stopped long enough to shake hands and establish the fact that Gary did not play squash.

  ‘Too bad,’ he said, taking to the floor and embarking on a series of press-ups. He had the beginnings of a paunch but his biceps were enormous. Up, down, up, down. Bognor was impressed.