by David Hood
The door opened into a smaller lobby with a desk and curate in the form of a secretary in a plain but handsome dress. The dark hair pulled back into a tight knot, the voice equally efficient and controlled. “Good morning. May I help you?”
“Good morning. I’m Chief Inspector Baxter. I need to speak with your office manager or whoever is in charge, please.”
She stood without a word. As she disappeared through a narrow archway behind her desk it occurred to Baxter that he had no idea of her age. In the dim light and smell of furniture polish everything seemed eternal. In a moment she was back. “This way, please.” She disappeared again and Baxter had to step lively to stay close.
“Mr. Woodside, Chief Inspector Baxter.” The secretary waited for a nod, and when she got it she closed the door behind him. She had made no sound coming or going and Baxter wondered if she might be wearing slippers. He hadn’t looked at her feet. Woodside was standing behind his desk. He motioned to a leather armchair in front of it. Baxter remained standing, momentarily distracted by the question of whether or not Woodside was wearing shoes.
The office had a high white ceiling and small chandelier. No windows. The walls were thick and papered with a subtle pattern. Words spoken here had the confidence of a confessional with a touch of ballroom elegance. Woodside was a man of middle age, just heavy enough to cast assurance. His moustache was full, though very neatly trimmed. He might have stepped out of some gilded frame. He spoke with an accent that was vaguely European. “Chief Inspector, how may I be of service?”
“Maynard Sinclair Wallace. You look after things for him, yes? I need you to tell me about that.”
“Perhaps that’s true, but in any case I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Rest assured, sir, you will not remain at liberty if you don’t.”
Despite the aura of great resolve that hung about him in the rarefied air, Woodside put up no more resistance than the backbiting hooligans of the upper streets who bore witness against one another just for spite or for the small share the court would give them should any fines be paid. “Well, since you put it that way, Chief Inspector, are you familiar with what a holding company does?”
Baxter reconsidered the chair and the office became an elementary class in business. For the next several minutes Woodside’s moustache moved in a gentle, steady rhythm. His hands went into motion now and then to emphasize a point or signal a pause for questions. There were none until the end. “So, this holding company…what was it…?
“Harbour City Limited.”
“This Harbour City owns several properties?” Baxter had followed the details. He just couldn’t see the angle of them.
“Correct.”
“And as the head of Harbour City, you oversee all of its affairs?”
“Correct again.” Baxter wasn’t sure if he was being praised or patronized. He pushed on.
“And Harbour City Limited is owned by Chebucto Enterprises Company.”
“That’s right.” Now Baxter recognized the tone. Woodside had spent time teaching his children.
“And you say that while Maynard Sinclair Wallace does not sit on the board of Chebucto, he owns a controlling interest in this company.”
Woodside stiffened a little. The metal swivel at the base of his desk chair let out a small squeak, it needed oil. “That is what I have heard.”
“From men who are on the board.’
“Yes.”
Baxter leaned forward. His leather armchair had no metal bits. It announced his movement with the creak of something stuck being pulled free. The heel of his left foot lifted and his thigh began to bounce. The movement was unintentional, an involuntary reflex, a habit, but not without effect. It acted on his memory, in the way of a particular scent on a pillow or melody in the distance or spice in a soup you don’t have often enough, and he could almost feel the weight of a little girl and hear Grace squealing giddy up. He spoke quickly now and with great intent, trying to get away from the thought. “What you’re saying is you have no records, no proof of that.”
“Only Chebucto would have such records.”
“What can you tell me from the records of Harbour City Limited?”
“Not very much, really. As I said, it is a holding company. Its only function is to manage assets purchased or held in the company name. In this case the assets are small and overseen by me, the sole officer of the firm.”
“And what are those assets exactly?”
“Buildings rented out for various purposes, shops, living quarters, that sort of thing.”
“And you do what…find tenants, collect rents…see to repairs…?”
There was a sliding sound as Woodside opened a drawer and took out a folder of papers. He went through it as he answered. “Well, not directly. As I said, my role, the role of Harbour City Limited, is management. I see that such things are done.” He handed a single sheet across the desk.
“These are the properties currently held by Harbour City. A real estate firm finds tenants, collects rents, et cetera. That firm files quarterly reports with revenues. I look things over and when I’m satisfied that all is correct, I attach my own report and turn the lot over to Chebucto.”
Baxter took the paper. It contained a list of six addresses. It was typed without corrections or accidental spaces and with all necessary punctuation. It ran down from the top right corner aligned at a one-inch margin, in alphabetical order. He went down the list once, then again. Without looking up, he asked, “How long has all this been in place?”
“That is more than I can say. I was appointed to Harbour City only for a two-year term. It ends next month.”
“The assets, the real estate firm, they came with the appointment?”
“Along with a set of instructions.”
“And a salary.” Baxter had gotten back to his feet. He folded the paper neatly. He watched its edges, admiring their certainty and truth, unspoiled by lies or disappointments. He slipped it inside his tunic and checked his hat.
“Chief Inspector, I’ve done nothing wrong here and to the best of my knowledge, neither has anyone else.”
Baxter sighed, not for Woodside or his protest. He sighed for Jesus in the temple and the sadness and the anger that he suffered at the hands of the moneychangers. “What’s the name of the real estate firm?”
Kenny Squire woke up Wednesday morning bright and energetic. It had nothing to do with the weather. As he stood, in no hurry to button his shirt, the damp and cold came through the thin glass of the window and then through his flimsy undershirt. Over the roof next door he could see the greyness hanging over the city. Between the houses, the eaves and windowsills dripped in slow time. At least the sky wasn’t falling hard. He watched the drops fall out of sight, listening to their soft padding rhythm in the mud below. Yesterday or a week ago, such a day would have been hard to bear. If he were pushed to honesty, he had been vaguely unhappy and ambivalent for weeks. But not today.
He looked down at the buttons of his open shirt and his arms hanging at his sides happy in their stillness. It was early and he was up and washed. Of course, that had more to do with putting body in line with spirit than any other purpose. He glanced over at the rest of his uniform strewn across the only chair. Its intentions were good, protection of the innocent, not letting the guilty get away. In order to do any good he had to endure the hell between men like Baxter and Mackay. Had he known, he never would have joined the force. There were other things worth doing. He had enough saved for a few tools or a ticket west. His father would have no opinion on the matter. If his father should come back from wherever he was, that would be the most important chapter in the family history, more memorable than anything his son was likely to accomplish in a policeman’s uniform. His mother had never seen him in it. Her letters were filled with pride of what she could imagine.
Despite the sorry sight of the ci
ty shivering beneath a grey blanket of sop. Despite the air and the mud and the wood and stone of every building being infused with the burnt sulfuric stench of coal fires. Despite being caught between Baxter’s Catholic Puritanism and Mackay’s frontier justice. Despite being powerless to rescue his father or ease the suffering of his mother. Despite all of these things Kenny Squire had a shy smile on his face. There had been all manner of fault found with the room. She had hoped it would be bigger. There was only the one dresser. Such a small kitchen, how could they all manage? She went on in her protestations for more than half an hour and two trips up the stairs, then lingered at the door with talk of all the things she would miss. She left saying she would need some time to make up her mind. It was all theatre, her trying to get even and succeeding not at all. Elizabeth Murray would move in and the thought pleased him and unnerved him all at once and the feeling was as good as any he could recall from recent memory. He looked once more at the chair. As he buttoned his shirt he felt less daunted by its call. He would remain a policeman for a while longer. The envelopes it sent home were thin. At least they were steady. He was no crusader. Still his notion of right wanted to see some measure of justice for Victor’s family, even though he had never met them. And the thought of leaving the city just now seemed more loss than gain. The front door key turned the bolt then slipped into a pocket, a final look overhead before stepping off. The sky glowered but was holding for now. The Aberdeen Hotel wasn’t far. Halfway across the street in the midst of a full breath of morning air heavy with an exhilarating mist, the devil whispered in his ear. What if he was wrong and Elizabeth Murray was having her revenge after all? He took a second deeper breath and shifted his thoughts to what William Paul might have to say. A heavy drop landed on his shoulder. Two more made dark staring eyes on the sidewalk. Squire looked away and quickened his pace.
Normally his office closed out the world to let him think or work, sometimes until he fell asleep. He seldom turned on the overhead lights, the small island created by his desk lamp made the room even smaller and the walls thicker. The tightness and order of the place reflected and restored his sense of control. It gave him sanctuary. However, at this moment the room was bright and as taut as catgut.
Both men had discarded their ties and tunics and rolled their sleeves to the elbow. Half-empty tea cups had been pushed aside and steam drifted off fresh ones just got in. Every remnant and piece of evidence of the case lay strewn about the surface of the desk, held down in places by cups and pads of paper and pencils that were taken up now and then and tapped against the arm of a chair or a rim with the rhythm of a thought, the back and forth of tribal drums. Neither man had yet found sufficient patience or enough of a vision of the coming battle to make any useful notes.
Baxter seldom made notes. Years on the force had taught him how to write detailed final reports. His natural ambition saw that they included his key insights and decisions. Until then Baxter carried an investigation in his head. He had brought out the pencils and writing pads perhaps in some subconscious deference to Squire’s education or the increasing demand for a show of some sort of scientific method in all matters claiming to be serious. He was somewhat surprised to find Squire inimical to their use. Of course, Squire must be more of a reader. Baxter read the papers, not much else. When he was promoted to sergeant he forced himself to read some military history, Roman conquests, European battles, and an account of the American Civil War. He found few parallels between the fight against an enemy army and the struggle to make his city better, though it might be easier with the power of a general. At the moment he was far from any notions of command. Instead it seemed to him that he and Squire were in the terrifying deafness of the hypogeum below the floor of the Coliseum waiting in an elevator to be hauled up before the screaming mob, then torn to pieces for its amusement. Or they could just as easily be hunkered down in a trench counting the minutes before the final charge that would be ordered once the cannons stopped or started.
Baxter blew on his tea then put it down without taking a sip. As he rummaged through the papers on the desk he said, “We only have half an hour more.”
Squire had gotten up. His arms were stretched over his head and he was fighting off a yawn brought on more by anxiety than fatigue. “If he has any decent council, he’s being advised to stay away.”
Baxter waved off the idea. “Wallace will be here.” Looking at a newspaper photo he had picked up, he added, “Just late enough to remind us.”
“Of what?”
“That he needn’t be afraid, that he is beyond our reach.”
Squire bent to touch his toes. “But he can’t stay there.”
Baxter waited until Squire came back up, then dangled the photo at him. “So long as he does not become distasteful to the public or the upper crust that rests upon it, maybe he can.”
Squire sat back down and reached for his tea. Between careful sips, he said, “So we prove his involvement. Make him distasteful.”
Baxter had let go of the photo and gone back to his own tea. The cup was halfway to his lips. He put it back in the saucer with a sharp clink. His voice grew even sharper. “After five days of investigation, what can we prove?” Holding things up as if Squire had never seen them before, he went on in his frustration. “The medical report proves Victor was murdered. It does not prove who killed him.” Baxter tossed it back into the pile. “His clothes show he was at least partly undressed when he was killed, but we still can’t prove where it happened. His appointment book shows he was meeting with a ‘W’ and an ‘MS.’ We think that was Wallace. Can we prove that? No. We know he owed money, perhaps for gambling, and that he was about to reverse his politics and come out in support of expanding the electric tramway. So far we can’t prove those things are connected to his death or to Wallace or anyone else.”
Squire had held on to his tea, mostly to protect it from Baxter’s rearrangement of the desk. He sipped again and it seemed to give him his reply. “We know Victor was last seen alive at Clarke’s Place and that Wallace was there, we have a witness.”
Baxter wasn’t hollering. He hadn’t spoken softly ether. Heads turned in the outer office, and then quickly went back to minding their own business. His voice shifted from frustration to something more contemplative. “Martha Green tells us we’re on the right track. Even if she agreed to testify, who’d believe her?
“Mackay could testi…” The incredulous look on Baxter’s face finished the thought. Squire tried again. “We’ll find Sarah Riley.”
“Wallace is on his way.”
“We can use what William told me this morning about Robert White.”
Baxter had moved away from the desk as if it were a bad smell. “The bartender at the Royal Hotel…what was his name?”
“Simon Perry.”
“He claimed it was White who met Victor at lunch on Friday. Now your William says some bellhop is sure Frank McNeally met with Wallace at the Aberdeen before he robbed the bank in Maine three years ago.”
Looking hopeful, Squire pulled at the thread a little more. “And that in the wee hours of last Saturday morning, White brought a woman into the Aberdeen, a woman who disappeared a few hours later. That had to have been Sarah Riley.”
“Likely. Sadly we don’t have time to talk to White and even if we did…” Baxter shrugged. He had taken up a pace across the short distance between the desk and the door, his long legs taking only half strides as if he were in complete darkness. “White, Perry, Carmine Mosher…most of what they gave us has to do with a bank robbery that happened in Maine, not here.”
“But that has something to do with Victor’s murder.”
“Something we have yet to figure out. We’ll never find McNeally.”
Squire changed tack, determined to move forward. “Then we use what Saunders told you. Wallace buys a large share of the Halifax Tramway Company. Victor opposes tramway expansion. Victor noses around in
Wallace’s business. Victor is murdered. If I was Wallace and you threw that in my face it would make me nervous.”
Baxter nodded as he made a tight about-face. Squire was right in his approach. They had to shake Wallace’s confidence. This, however, would have the opposite effect. “We do that and Wallace knows our case is merely circumstantial.”
“What about his dealings with the Eastern Trust Company, that holding company he controls without owning?”
“Harbour City.”
Squire turned his head and waited until Baxter came directly in front of him. Shaking his head against all possibility he could be wrong, he said, “That’s too much trouble for nothing, Wallace is using it to hide something or do some dirt.”
Baxter stood still. He looked directly at Squire, at his cowlicks and clear eyes, at what he had done over the past few days. He wanted to trust him. Baxter started to speak and as he did Squire’s expression showed his anticipation of a confidence. Then suddenly Baxter saw Wallace reading Squire like a book and he started again. “As it stands, it’s just more suspicion.”
Squire blinked as if Baxter had gone out of focus. “We have good reason to be suspicious…”
“So does Wallace.” Baxter was still looking at Squire, but he was seeing something else. “Do you know what Sergeant Meagher asked me yesterday?”
Baxter’s question was rhetorical. Squire answered out of reflex. “No.”
Baxter kept talking, not realizing Squire had spoken. “He asked me if anyone had confessed…I had forgotten.” Baxter had picked up his tunic. He had one arm in and was circling in search of the other sleeve.