Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘I really don’t know which came first,’ she said, ‘but I know he killed him.’

  ‘But why? Nothing to do with the Quebecois and Seven. Something to do with you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ She drank gratefully from the scotch. ‘Roddie put cash into an account in our joint name. It wouldn’t show in a will. Jean-Claude wanted to get his hands on it. If I had gone off with him I’d have been cut out by everyone: no cash from my husband, no cash from Roddie. And, by the way, no job for Jean-Claude.’

  ‘So Jean-Claude killed him and you kept the money in the joint account?’

  ‘I kept the money from the joint account, but I didn’t know that Jean-Claude had killed him. Not until … the other day.’ She blushed and stared at her scotch.

  ‘What happened the other day?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to get shot of Jean-Claude. Like I told you, I’m not a one-guy gal, and I guess the time had come. Oh, god!’ She took another drink. ‘I must seem so awful. I was fond of the guy, but … I don’t want to settle down with him or with anyone.’

  ‘You’re not in love with him,’ Bognor groaned. ‘So you told him it was …’—he searched his mind for the correct phrase and found it hidden among lines from bad movies—‘all over between you.’

  ‘Yeah. And then he went berserk. He told me he’d killed for me and killed to get me and, I don’t know, he was just insane. Would you believe, he pulled a gun on me and he took me to that cottage he borrows on Ward’s Island and he kept me there, tied up like an animal. He wouldn’t let me go. I told him it was all over but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor’s mind raced. ‘You’re sure he told you he killed Farquhar. You’re not making it up this time?’

  ‘I’m sure. He said he put some crystals in the bath oil when they were on the train. He threw the packet out of the window into some river. He was jealous and he wanted me to have the money. He knew that if I went off with him, Roddie would cancel the account.’

  Bognor slumped back in his chair. ‘Nothing to do with the PQ, the Group of Seven, Quebec, all that?’

  ‘Nope. I don’t think Jean-Claude cared about all that. But he felt humiliated by Roddie and he thought he could get even through me. Then he realized he couldn’t have me without Roddie firing him and taking the money and …’ She passed a palm over her forehead. ‘Don’t ask me why. Why should anyone do such a thing under any circumstances? Take the life of another human. It’s too terrible.’

  ‘Did you say you’d tell?’

  ‘On him? Sure. That’s why he kept me locked up. I thought he would maybe kill me too.’

  ‘And,’ Bognor was experiencing palpitations, ‘you told him who you’d tell? I.e. me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Maggie nodded enthusiastically. ‘I don’t trust those Mounties.’

  Bognor nodded wanly. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘First your husband. Now your lover.’

  She looked surprised. How dumb is this blonde, he wondered, as she buried her face in her glass and looked up at him with suffering, misunderstood eyes.

  ‘Gee,’ she said, ‘you don’t think Jean-Claude would try to do anything to you?’

  ‘Why not? I have a hunch he tried to murder us in the lift at the CN Tower.’

  She frowned. ‘You mean the elevator? He was just warning you off, trying to frighten you. He didn’t mean any harm.’

  All around them the early evening ritual of ‘the Happy Hour’ was taking place. Men in elegant business suits were imbibing unwinding sundowners before returning to the challenge of wife and home. The atmosphere was ultra-civilized, far, far away from sudden death unless by coronary or cirrhosis.

  ‘You’re telling me that he murdered Farquhar, and made you a prisoner. I should have thought he’d be bound to have a go at me now he’s been released.’

  ‘But surely now he’ll have to be arrested again?’ Maggie’s eyes were wider still. ‘He can’t do anything to you. You can do something to him.’

  Bognor frowned. She was right. Or would have been if dealing with a conventional relationship between policeman and suspect. But somehow his life never panned out like that. He sighed and looked at his watch. ‘Where the hell’s Gary?’ he said angrily. ‘We’ll need him. We have to find Jean-Claude and I am certainly not attempting that on my own.’

  He left the girl and went out into the lobby, where he saw Gary standing at the desk in conversation with one of the assistant managers.

  ‘Tried calling your room,’ said Gary, apologetically. ‘No reply. So I was just going to have you paged.’

  ‘We’re in the Anne Boleyn Room.’ Bognor spoke crisply, with an air of urgency. ‘But before we go back I think we’d better call Smith. Something’s come up.’

  Together they crammed into one of the telephone booths, so tiny that it had evidently been designed exclusively for visiting Japanese. It was far too small for occidentals built on the scale of Gary and Bognor.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Gary. ‘Did the broad come through?’

  ‘Just listen,’ snapped Bognor, glad that he had Gary between him and the unknown menace from the outside world, only wishing that he weren’t quite so close. He could feel his heartbeat.

  Smith’s reaction, when Bognor managed to communicate the full import of Maggie’s revelation, was much as one might expect. After the initial silence there was a sound of low moaning followed by a choke and then the words, ‘Jesus wept!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Is that all you can say? We nailed the bastard. We had him in here. Despite everything I pulled the bastard in. Then you tell me he didn’t do it on account of there wasn’t no murder after all, so I set the bastard free and now you turn round and say he did do it. And then you say you’re sorry. What in hell am I gonna tell Ottawa?’

  ‘Don’t tell them anything yet. Let’s re-arrest him first.’

  ‘That’s not so damned easy,’ said the Mountie. ‘The guy will have split. Where do you imagine he will be, sitting on his ass back home eating frogs’ legs? He’ll be in Paris, France, or some such place.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Bognor. ‘I should imagine he’ll be feeling supremely lucky and untouchable by now. Not often a guilty man is arrested and then released without even being charged.’

  ‘Don’t remind me, Si,’ said Smith. ‘I don’t wanna know.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you come and pick us up and we’ll all go looking for him.’

  ‘OK.’ Smith sounded disapproving and world weary. Bognor sympathised, though try as he might, he could not feel as much guilt as he was obviously supposed to.

  ‘We’d better send Mrs Baker home,’ he said to Gary as they moved back to the Anne Boleyn Room. ‘This could be unpleasant. Especially for her, though underneath all that ingénue eye-fluttering and breast-heaving I sense that she is, as you would say, “one tough cookie”.’

  Gary grinned.

  Smith arrived ten minutes later in an unmarked white Chevrolet which came into the hotel forecourt with a squeal of rubber and crash-stopped inches short of two doormen dressed, for no immediately apparent reason, as Yeomen of the Guard. Maggie Baker had left five minutes earlier, subdued and confused. Bognor could not really make out whether she was extremely sinister or amazingly silly, though it crossed his mind that the two were not mutually exclusive.

  ‘Hi,’ he said to Smith who was sitting in the front passenger seat wearing his Tip Top Tailors’ suit and a face like frost.

  ‘In the back, you two,’ said Smith. ‘We gotta move!’ Gary was already in the back seat. Bognor fell in beside him and the car leapt away before he could even shut the door. One of the Yeomen of the Guard did it for him as they spun past.

  ‘Junction of Bloor and Spadina,’ said Smith, ultra-laconically.

  The driver merely nodded.

  Bognor, feeling that he had drifted into a dangerous alien world, noticed that he was the only man not chewing gum. Also the only one without the bulge under
his jacket which meant firearms. Lame and defenceless, he picked a duty-free cheroot from the pack in his pocket, stuffed it in his mouth and tried to feel virile. No one spoke. From time to time the car’s shortwave radio set crackled, but it said nothing that was intelligible to him. He sat back, chewed the cigar and stared out into the evening cold.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Smith suddenly, nodding towards an anonymous grey mass of concrete. The car mounted the pavement and crunched to another jolting halt. As it did the two Mounties jumped out and ran to the glass doors, where they halted, looking foolish, and began a conversation with the automatic answering device set in the wall. As Bognor wandered up to join them an elderly caretaker in a shabby peaked cap walked slowly across the vestibule and made elaborately hard work of opening the doors. When he had done so Smith thrust an ID card under his nose as menacingly as if it had been a Smith and Wesson, and barged past. Bognor, struggling in the policemen’s wake, smiled ingratiatingly

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘bit of a flap on. We’re looking for Mr Prideaux.’

  ‘Not in,’ said the doorman in a tortured Central European accent. Latvian, Bognor speculated with the disengaged portion of his brain.

  ‘Not in?’ said Bognor. The Mounties had sprung into the elevator in a few electric bounds. The panel above its entrance indicated that they were already passing the eighth floor. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He went out,’ said the Latvian.

  ‘Out? Where to? How long ago? Who with?’

  The old man backed away from him, mouth sagging in incomprehension.

  Bognor spoke very slowly and carefully.

  ‘How long ago did he leave?’

  The old man consulted his watch and gave the question some thought. ‘Twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘Maybe half an hour.’

  ‘And was he on his own?’

  The caretaker shook his head excitedly. ‘He was with three men. They are not friends of Mr Prideaux. He not like very much. They hurt him I think.’

  ‘What did they look like, these men?’

  ‘Very big.’ He held his hands wide to indicate size. ‘Very big,’ he repeated. ‘They are strong, strong like so.’ He gripped a puny bicep in further demonstration. ‘Two of them, they hold on to Mr Prideaux very tight. They not want to lose him. He not want to go.’

  ‘These men,’ Bognor articulated. ‘They look …’ He faltered, trying to remember the thugs who had abducted him from Toronto Metro Zoo, and then wondering how on earth he was to describe them in pidgin. ‘They look very tough. Very ugly. Like wrestlers maybe.’

  The man nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Right, right,’ he said. ‘Not good men.’

  Bognor glanced up at the numbered lights. They showed that the lift had come to rest on the twenty-first floor. He might as well wait, he decided. They would discover that their bird had flown soon enough and there was not the remotest point in flogging all the way to the twenty-first floor just to tell them what they knew already. They would have to come back down in any case. Bognor thanked his Latvian friend and gave him five dollars. He smiled a thank you, displaying a great many gold teeth, and shuffled away, shaking his head and muttering. Seconds later Bognor observed the descent of the elevator, and was pleased to see his two colleagues emerge with rueful expressions.

  ‘Not there,’ said Smith. ‘Didn’t answer so we broke the door down. Seemed to have been some sort of fight. Lamps broken. Blood on the carpet.’

  ‘He left about half an hour ago,’ Bognor told them, smugly, ‘and I’m afraid my guess is that he’s been abducted by Baker’s boys. Like I was.’

  ‘Like you were, Si?’ Smith was so surprised by this revelation that he stopped chewing for an instant. ‘By Baker? Do you mean the Baker I mean, Si?’

  ‘The Honourable John.’

  ‘Oh, Jeez, Si.’ Smith sat down on a plush sofa and wiped his brow. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t say it before.’

  ‘You were right not to. Why in hell go and say it now?’

  ‘Because,’ Bognor weighed his words to make them count. ‘Because my bet is that Baker has abducted Prideaux and if he has then I think Prideaux is in serious danger.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon Si, you’re not serious.’

  ‘Never more so. Baker is paranoid. And impotent. If he thinks Prideaux has been having an affair with his wife he’ll have his guts for garters.’

  Smith scratched his head.

  ‘You mean this, Si?’

  ‘Yes. Baker bloody near broke my skull. He threw a bottle of Chivas at me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think he’s got Prideaux and I think we have to go and find out.’

  ‘We can’t just go barging in there, Si, that guy may be the next Prime Minister of Canada.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Yeah, but … Si, I got a family. I mean, I don’t think I can take the sort of risk you’re asking me to.’

  Bognor saw his point of view. It was an embarrassing situation. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘It would give me a lot of pleasure to see Baker again with the boot on the other foot. I’ll do all the necessary talking. You two just back me up. Make it clear you’re RCMP, and armed.’

  ‘I don’t like it, Si.’

  ‘Do you want to find Prideaux?’

  ‘Guess so, Si, but …’

  ‘OK,’ said Simon, ‘let’s go.’ At last he was feeling quite genuinely virile. Those latent powers of leadership, usually dormant, were suddenly showing signs of life and he was delighted to see that the two men, despite obvious misgivings, were going to acquiesce in his plans. They returned to the Chevy and clambered in.

  ‘You know John Baker’s place, Mac?’ enquired Smith.

  The driver nodded. ‘Sure. Rosedale.’

  ‘OK. Take us there. Fast.’

  He was a highly skilled driver and despite heavy traffic and more ice on the roads than salt and grit could quite remove he did the trip in only a few minutes. Once as they paused briefly for a red light, a city policeman on his old Harley-Davidson and sidecar drew up to ask what in hell they thought they were doing, careening down the wrong side of Bloor on the wrong side of sixty. Smith waved his card and the motorcyclist shrugged with ill-tempered resignation as he vanished into their slipstream.

  There were several parked cars in the driveway of Baker’s mansion: Cadillacs, Lincolns and a couple of Rolls-Royces.

  ‘Party time,’ said Bognor laconically.

  ‘You sure you want to go through with this, Si?’ asked Smith, falteringly. ‘Looks like we picked a bad time.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Bognor. ‘It’s the best possible time. He’ll hardly risk a scene with all these people in the house.’

  They waited, shivering by the front door for a full minute, then it was opened by a servant in black jacket and tie.

  ‘Mr Baker?’ asked Bognor, exaggerating the Englishness of his accent.

  ‘Mr Baker is tied up right now.’

  ‘Well, I’d be obliged if you’d untie him. Sharpish.’

  ‘I …’ The flunkey seemed on the point of shutting the door but something about Bognor’s manner, or more likely the armed menace of the two Mounties flanking him, made him change his mind. ‘I’ll see,’ he said. ‘Who shall I say?’

  ‘Bognor. Board of Trade, London, England. And my colleagues here are from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.’

  The man hesitated. ‘You’d better come in, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘If you care to wait in the hall I’ll see if Mr Baker is available.’

  From somewhere down a corridor they could hear party sounds, conversation hum, laughter.

  ‘I’m not happy about this,’ said Smith, shifting unhappily from one foot to the other. ‘This could finish me.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Bognor. ‘It’s far more likely to finish him.’

  ‘Jesus, Si,’ Smith hissed, ‘you’re a Brit, maybe you don’t understand. This guy is like, important.’

  ‘Never heard of hi
m until a few weeks ago,’ said Bognor, ‘but hush, here comes his master’s voice.’

  Indeed the flunkey was returning.

  ‘Mr Baker will see you now,’ he said flatly. ‘This way.’ And he led them down a passage and into the long study with the photographs and Maple Leaf flag that Bognor remembered so well from his previous encounter. Baker was sitting behind his desk as before. He did not stand to receive them, nor did he give the slightest sign of recognition. However, Bognor was sure he was not mistaken. He knew. And Baker knew he knew. But how to prove it?

  ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘I hope it’s important. I’m entertaining some old friends of mine. I can give you five minutes.’

  ‘We’re looking for Prideaux.’ Bognor saw no point in messing around. He felt Smith flinch. Baker, on the other hand, did not blink.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, coolly. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Prideaux,’ repeated Bognor. ‘Jean-Claude Prideaux, one-time private secretary to Sir Roderick Farquhar of the Mammon Corporation and lover of your wife, Margaret.’

  Bognor had to admire the man’s self-possession. He scarcely blinked. But he knew. Bognor knew he knew.

  Instead of responding directly, Baker turned to Smith who was sweating visibly.

  ‘Who is this guy?’ he asked. ‘I let you guys in because you’re from the RCMP. I have time and respect for the RCMP but I don’t expect to be insulted in their presence by some goddamn English faggot.’

  ‘That’s what you said last time we met.’ Bognor was stung. ‘I very much hope nothing has happened to Mr Prideaux because if it has you’re in trouble, no matter who your friends are.’

  Baker stood and addressed his next remark to Smith. ‘Lookit,’ he said, ‘I’m a busy man. I’m sure you two Mounties are busy men as well. So why don’t you remove this phoney and let’s all get back to our busy lives, eh?’

  ‘If you think you’ll get away with this, Baker,’ said Bognor, wagging a finger at the corrupt tycoon, ‘you’ve got another think coming. You’re an impotent psychopath. Did you throw a bottle of Chivas at Prideaux too? Eh? Eh?’

  Baker flicked at his jacket as if to remove alien fluff.