by David Hood
He took off his helmet and was running a hand through his hair. “Mr. Perry, I don’t know anything about that. That’s not why I’m here. Were you working here last Friday?”
“Why?” If Perry was trying to sound tough, it wasn’t working. Between the hangover and the split lip, he sounded like a confused six-year-old waiting on new front teeth.
“Because I need to know and you look as if you’d like to see me on my way.” His expression was sympathetic. He wasn’t trying to rile Perry up any more than he already was.
Perry didn’t seem to be reassured. He answered anyway. “What about last Friday?”
“Victor Mosher, you know who he is?” Squire had come closer. He laid his helmet on the bar and waited.
There was a rack of shelves on the wall behind the bar. Perry had begun removing bottles and lining them up on the bar. He glanced at the helmet and Squire slid it down a ways. “The councilman, the one found in the harbour?” Perry asked.
“Uh huh. He had lunch here on Friday. You see him with anyone?” Squire watched Perry work, trying to see himself in his shoes.
“I don’t remember.” Perry had found a pad of paper and a ruler somewhere below the bar.
Squire watched a couple move into the restaurant and seat themselves. His voice was patient. “No?”
Perry had taken a pencil from his shirt pocket. He was measuring levels and making notes. He paid attention to his work, but took a moment to survey Squire again before he answered. “Mackay gonna show up later, try to take me in?”
Squire turned his attention from the restaurant back to Perry. “If he doesn’t?”
Perry kept measuring twice before writing on the pad. “Then maybe I remember.”
“My guess, you’re both on the same page, a little hair of the dog then bed straight after work.”
“Robert White. Manager of the Aberdeen Hotel. He came in while Mr. Mosher was eating, sat with him a few minutes then left.”
“You hear anything?”
“What they said?” Perry was looking from the measurements he’d just taken to some numbers on other pages in his pad.
Squire reached across the bar and covered the pad with his hand. “Uh huh.”
Perry gave Squire a look, then relented. He ignored the pad and rested his pencil behind an ear. “Not really. A name, I think. McNeil or McNare maybe?”
“McNeally?”
Perry was replacing the bottles. He stopped and pointed a finger at Squire. “Yeah, that sounds right.” He ignored the bottles now. “You don’t think White did it?”
Squire reached for his helmet. “He seem like a killer to you?”
“No.” Perry put the last of the bottles away and picked up the pad of paper.
“Let’s hope for his sake you’re right.” Squire was backing away toward the front of the hotel and its door to the street.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Perry called after him, “I won’t count on it.” He waved the pad and made a face, then winced and touched his lip. Apparently taking inventory, or his encounter with Mackay, or both, had shaken what faith he had in people. Or confirmed it.
Squire’s first thought was to head back to the station, see if Baxter was in and report what he’d learned. It was still too early. It was unfortunate that Simon Perry had got tangled up with Mackay. The man was a thug in a uniform. If Squire stayed on this job he would hear plenty of complaints against his fellow officers. Sometimes he would have to give the injured party more time, maybe even try to do something for them, but not today.
Squire was yet to experience his first winter in Halifax. People had described it for him as grey and suicidal. Spring they said was always late and some years just a cruel trick that lured out the desperate with a bit of sunshine, then crushed what was left of their souls with a late winter storm. With all that to look forward to, the warmth and sunshine of the past two days was a welcome calm before the storm. Though they were still wearing winter coats, everyone Squire passed looked as sunny as the sky. He made his way down Barrington, then up Sackville Street to the corner of Argyle.
The Aberdeen was a step up from the Royal. He’d been in the place on the few occasions he had had a drink with William, before he met his evil twin. Squire went in the front door, past the large front desk to the restaurant. William was bussing tables. Squire nodded to a corner then went and waited.
“What you doin’ here?” William set a tray of dirty dishes down on an empty table.
Squire leaned in a little and tried to imitate the Tolliver he’d seen Monday morning at City Hall, the tone that said a reckoning was coming. “I’m looking for Sitting Bull, you seen him?”
William was taller than Squire, and wider. He had a face of perfect proportions that looked back at Squire warm as granite. “Asshole.”
Squire couldn’t help looking pleased with himself. “I need your help.”
William pointed toward a small anteroom full of carts and dishes. “Not here.” He picked up his tray and Squire followed.
William moved as carefully as if he were handling a newborn. The dishes made almost no sounds as he carefully scraped and stacked. “Do you know Robert White?” Squire asked.
“He’s the manager.” William gave Squire a look that said nothing more needed to be said and scraped a half-eaten sausage and bits of scrambled egg into a slop bucket.
Squire had picked up a plate. The sausage hadn’t been touched. He sniffed, then passed the empty plate. “What’s he like?”
William pointed to another stack of dirty plates. “I don’t know, he runs things. I don’t see him much, never given me any trouble.”
With the sausage hanging out of his mouth like a cigar, Squire delivered the plates. With the sausage back in his fingertips he asked, “You ever hear him mention a man by the name of Frank McNeally?”
William paused, a fork in the air over a plate. “No.”
Squire pointed with the sausage. “You ever see him with Victor Mosher?”
“The councilman?”
“Right.”
William motioned for another stack of plates. “He do something wrong?”
“Got himself killed.”
“Oh, yeah? So they got you playing Sherlock Holmes?”
Squire had finished his sausage and was wiping his mouth with a napkin. He went for another stack. “Now who’s the asshole?”
William ignored the taunt. “Mosher came here for lunch sometimes. He was friendly with everyone.”
Squire brought over the last stack of plates. “Nothing special between him and White, no special meetings, or arguments or anything unusual?”
“Not that I saw.”
Squire spied a carafe on a table at the back of the little room. He felt it and looked round for a clean cup. “You notice White doing anything different lately? Or anything around here strange at all?”
William whipped his hands on his apron then handed Squire a cup the way a mother hands over something her child has been tripping over and still can’t find. “It’s a hotel, there’s always something strange going on.”
Squire felt the carafe again just to be sure, then filled his cup. “With White?”
William held out his own cup and Squire poured. “I don’t know.”
Squire tried his coffee, winced, blew, then tried again. “Can you find out?”
William drank his coffee without any fuss. “You’re the policeman.”
“One who would owe you a favour,” Squire offered between delicate sips.
“I’ll see what I can find out. I get fired, I’ll be bunking in with you.” He gestured with his cup.
“Place isn’t the same without Betty.” Squire dropped his cup a little and shifted his weight.
William nodded as he poured himself a little more coffee. “She left me a cake.”
“
Blueberry pie.” Squire tossed his dregs in the slop and set the cup in with a pile of others on their way to the kitchen.
William peeked around the corner into the dining area. “I better get back to the tables.”
The chief inspector was at his desk. He still hadn’t seen Meagher. His daily reports had little to say. Whoever it was that was having a lark breaking into nice houses, they were likely to get away with it awhile longer. As Squire came in, Baxter looked at his watch then tucked it back in a pocket. “It’s nearly nine thirty, you get up late?”
For a moment Squire looked as if he were going to say something cordial, then he simply sat down instead. “No, I made a second stop.”
Baxter rolled his eyes up from the paperwork. “After the Royal?”
“I went to the Aberdeen to see Bil…to see a man named William Paul.”
Baxter leaned back in his desk chair. “Why?” He would listen, then remind Squire that all he need do was follow instructions. Learning that Robert White had met with Victor the day he died and that Squire’s initiative had been fruitful was a lift, despite having to eat a bit of crow, silently of course. His own meeting with Seabrook had taken some wind out of Baxter’s sails. The lawyer had given him nothing. He was counting on remaining beyond reproach. Seabrook was very much mistaken of course. So why had Baxter’s mood so suddenly clouded over? In order to keep up with Squire’s report and push his thoughts aside, he asked, “How is it you know this William Paul?”
Squire looked at the floor and rearranged himself in the chair, “He’s at the end of the hall. We live in the same boarding house.”
Baxter leaned forward, paying more attention now. “Do you trust him?”
Squire looked up from the floor. He seemed to be considering something. Whatever it was Baxter couldn’t see it in his face. “I trust it’s in his best interest to help us.”
Baxter rapped his knuckles on the desk for emphasis. “You tell him to tread lightly. Do you know who owns the Aberdeen?”
“No.”
“Wallace.”
Trying to hide it only made the pique of excitement and curiosity in Squire’s voice more obvious. “Do you think he sent White to Victor, looking for a favour or delivering a message maybe?”
Baxter liked the idea. He knew better. He liked it anyway. So far nothing about this case was what it seemed. “Too fast. Let’s wait and see what this Paul character can find. Meanwhile, let’s hear what else you’ve learned.” Squire had pulled Victor’s notes from inside his jacket.
“We didn’t miss anything obvious. No direct mention of Wallace. The argument Victor was building for the tramway talked about progress, horse power the way of the past, electricity the way of the future, less maintenance, more sanitary. No names, but he drops hints about investment money taking the weight off the taxpayers.”
“Look at this.” Baxter handed a newspaper clipping across his desk. “This was in the Morning Chronicle about a month ago.” Baxter waited.
Squire read to himself, then some half lines out loud. “Horses are cheaper…There is strong and well-founded resistance to increased assessment…Electricity may be the way of the future, on the other hand there is no lacking in the present arrangement of the city’s street car service. Victor said this?”
“More than once. Now look at this.” Baxter handed over another clipping. This time he didn’t wait on Squire’s reading. “It’s an editorial in support of expanding the electric tramway…progressive, cleaner, matches the new direction of the city. And just like Victor’s notes, it hints at investment money.”
“The Chronicle?” Squire waved the second clipping then laid both on Baxter’s desk.
“Yes.”
“Wallace?” Squire had backed off his earlier excitement, Baxter noticed, and he now seemed more measured.
“You’re asking does he own the Chronicle? No…well, I don’t think so. But I’m sure if he offered them an opinion…Maybe wrote an editorial, I suspect the paper would listen.”
“Has he agreed to speak to you?”
“Yes, but not until tomorrow. I suspect he wants time to rehearse, time to make sure everyone else has their stories straight.” Of course Wallace and Seabrook had already met. As he spoke, Baxter could see Wallace seated in Seabrook’s office in the same chair he had been in just an hour before. Baxter wished this vision had come to him earlier. Rather than trying to read Seabrook, he might have done better trying to draw out whatever anxieties or secrets Wallace may have left buried in the wood and leather of the chair. And as soon as the thought entered his head Baxter could hear his rational self scoff at the notion of such mystical claptrap. Still…
“Did you learn anything from Seabrook?”
“James Seabrook.” Baxter said the name with obvious disappointment. “He’s likely another graduate of King’s Collegiate. The only way he’ll tell us anything is if he has to, to save his own neck. We need evidence.”
“I did get something else from Victor’s appointment book.” Squire came round the desk. “In the month before he died, Victor had a number of meetings with MS and W. No times or places are mentioned, only these initials.”
Baxter looked over the pages Squired had opened to. “MS for Maynard Sinclair?”
“W for Wallace?”
Baxter spoke without looking up. “It’s thin, even if we could prove Victor and Wallace were meeting, we don’t know why, or what it might have to do with Victor’s murder.”
“So what do we do?” Squire had taken off his helmet. It was back on now and he was trying to catch his reflection in the window of the office door to be sure it was on straight.
Baxter closed Victor’s diary. As he spoke, he slid the paperwork on his desk into a drawer along with the book. “Wallace is doing his homework, getting ready. We need to do the same. I’ll have another chat with Saunders at the bank. We need everything he can find on Wallace’s business dealings. Then I’ll wire the Maine police, see if they have any idea where Frank McNeally is.”
“What do I do?”
Baxter stood by the coat stand buttoning his tunic. Wallace and Seabrook were guilty. They were, however, civilized. He could gather evidence against them in a civilized way. Dealing with the witnesses to what they did was a different matter. “You, Mr. Squire, will work with Sergeant Mackay.”
Squire stepped away from the door. “He’s a gorilla.”
Baxter took his place in front of the window to check his own reflection. “I will agree it’s often hard to tell which side of the law he’s on. It pains me to say this, but that’s exactly what we need just now. The women who were at Clarke’s Place on Friday night may have managed to get out of town. Or they may be holed up somewhere here. If they are, Mackay is the fastest way to find them.”
“So what will I be doing exactly?”
“Your job is to see that Mackay doesn’t do any more damage than necessary. Let’s go find him, shall we?” Baxter waved Squire though the door then pulled it shut behind them.
The first place was on the ground floor, behind a thick wooden door with a narrow slot and a sign that said PRIVATE. Mackay banged hard. After a moment, there was a sliding sound, eyes through a slot, then the door opened. Coming in from the morning brightness, the place seemed even darker than it was. Heavy blinds made sure no sunlight got in. There were candles for light, no harsh intrusions of electric bulbs or clocks. Clouds of perfume and smoke hung in the air, pushed about gently by liquor breath and soft lies, bare shoulders and downy laughter. Perhaps the night had been wild, young men in new uniforms not wanting to leave anything undone before going off to fight the Boers. Others trying to drum up enough courage to join the ranks. Yet there were no signs of that. No one in the place looked new. Everyone looked as if they had just woken up. Behind them there was a yeasty pungency that Squire couldn’t quite identify.
From the door no one could
see his face, only his uniform. Wary looks came his way from the girls. Their customers looked everywhere else. Mackay followed the doorman to a back corner. No one seemed to notice his uniform. Everyone he passed said hello. Mackay sat at a small table. The doorman went behind a curtain. After a minute or so a woman came back through. She was wearing more years and clothes than the others. She sat at Mackay’s table. Squire couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t have to to know it wasn’t their first meeting. The doorman reappeared as a waiter, carrying a small tray with bottles and glasses. He paused, Mackay said something and nodded toward the door. The waiter moved on.
Squire tried to look as if he wasn’t paying attention, let his mind wander while he waited. Mackay had been civil when Baxter came to him with Squire in tow like a visiting cousin that needed watching. They were downstairs. Mackay had been helping roust the cells. Police court was about to go into session. He listened to the chief inspector, seeming to know he was getting a selective summary of the case and not wanting any more. He asked a few questions, feeling the way between exact instructions and what might have to be done. “Squire will be along to help.” When Mackay was about to protest, Baxter added, “He needs the experience.” Mackay eyed Squire as if he were a termite or some vermin popped up from a hole in the ground. Then he turned back to the chief inspector. The look on Mackay’s face was one of wonderment. However, he kept his thoughts to himself. When Baxter finished, Mackay merely pulled on his helmet, tucked its strap under his ample double chin, and made for the stairs. “You’ll not be gaining any experience standing there,” he muttered over his shoulder and Squire had to run to catch up.
They had said very little as they walked. Mackay mentioned an address near the corner of Sackville and Brunswick Street. They’d start there and work down to the waterfront. When Mackay caught Squire looking at him out of the corner of his eye he stopped short and asked, “What?”