by David Hood
“Mr. Berrigan?” Squire kicked the end of the bed.
Thomas’s eyes remained closed. His mouth opened to let out an irritated reply. “What?”
“Mr. Berrigan, can we talk for a moment?” Squire had entered the cell and pulled a chair up at the end of the bed. He was admiring the coat and jacket.
Thomas opened one eye and took stock of his guest. “Name’s Tommy. You got a fag?”
“No,” Squire answered, leaning back in the chair.
Thomas closed the eye back up and adjusted his pillow. “Then how ‘bout you let me sleep?”
Squire kicked the bed again. Thomas groaned, perhaps with vague memories of childhood and being called for Mass or school, or more rude awakenings in the alleys of the city.
“Nice clothes. You want to hang them up…least the jacket?”
The other eye opened this time. “You a policeman or a valet?”
“Just curious.” Squire looked into the eye. It was too bloodshot to be sure of colour, blue maybe.
“Oh I see. So you’re a cat.” The more he spoke the more it became clear Thomas would need a few more hours sleep.
“You plan on stealing any more clothes?” Squire gestured toward the end of the bed and then toward what Thomas had on.
Thomas had both eyes open now and had managed to get to his elbows. “I ain’t stole nothin’, these are mine.”
“Where you working, Tommy?” Snide comments in these circumstances came easily from Baxter and Mackay. Maybe if he knew Thomas better it would seem less awkward. He hoped not.
“Get me a fag, maybe I’ll tell ya.’
“Tell me the truth, you can be on your way.”
Thomas rubbed his face and looked hard at Squire. He was sitting up now, swaying a little. No doubt he had a catalogue of convenient truths. On the other hand telling what really happened could sometimes work. He drained the glass of water someone had left on the table by the bed. He opened his mouth then reconsidered at least twice before he finally spoke. “I just wanted to look good…for Victor. Catherine…she and I…So I took some things, and stashed them.”
Squire accepted the statement with no reaction other than to add some detail. “Except the hat.”
“Yeah, except the hat. I started with that. Thought I could get away with wearing it around a few days at least.”
“Where did it come from?” Squire asked not because he thought it was important.
Thomas seemed to need to say a little more to get his conscience completely clear.
“A man passed me on Barrington Street. I thought to myself, I would look good in that hat, so I followed him. He didn’t lock his front door. I opened it a crack. The hat was on a hook less than an arm away.” It was tucked out of sight under the bed. Thomas nearly fell over reaching for it. He handed it to Squire, his confession now complete.
Squire rolled the fedora round in his hands. He had solved his first case. If things went badly in the chief’s office, a small victory might ease the bitterness. It was made of fine felt, dark brown with an elegant black leather band. Meagher had likely heard from the owner. The band seemed to have something tucked beneath it, perhaps a forgotten smoke.
As Thomas eased himself back down onto the bed Squire unfolded a note. It was on good paper and the handwriting rather stylish.
Squire was now up from the chair, bent over the bed, shaking Thomas by the shoulder and holding the hat under his nose. “Do you remember where the house was?”
Thomas blinked and turned tortoise, withdrawing into the pillow. “A nice place, on Inglis Street,” he sputtered.
Squire let him go. “Do I have your word you are done with this?”
Thomas’s eyes had fallen shut again. “I got no more reason to be worrin’ ’bout how I look.”
Squire straightened and moved to the door. “Come on, Thomas, I’ll walk you out.”
Once again a single eye opened, this time looking for something. “Maybe you should wait a day or two, make sure nothin’ else goes missin’.”
“Maybe you’re right. I’ll let Sergeant Meagher know, and I’ll see if I can rustle up a few fags.”
“Do either of you remember much about the history of the city’s schools?” Wallace was on his feet, moving around, gearing himself up.
“I know we used to have public hangings.” To him, Wallace was beginning to wriggle and Baxter was determined to keep him on the hook.
Wallace stopped and looked straight at Baxter for a moment. “Bear with me, Mr. Baxter, in this story the Catholics triumphed.” He moved over, his back to the window. Outside, clouds drifted away from the sun. As the backlight hid his face in shadow, Wallace continued. “Just about the time all of us were ready to start school, there were no public schools like we have now. The only schools we had were run privately, by one or the other of the local churches, mostly. Nobody wanted to pay. Finally a school tax was voted in. The city needed a public system. Of course they needed schoolhouses. They could build. If they did it would take a great deal of time and money.”
“What does any of this matter?
“Be patient.” Baxter was glad Wallace’s face remained hidden. He could hear the scheming and the condescension. He didn’t have to see it too. “Connolly, the Catholic Archbishop at the time, stepped into the breach. The Church would lease its buildings to the city as public schools if the city would allow some time for Catholic instruction. Council agreed. The city got a public school system, thanks to the Catholic Church.” Wallace nodded in Baxter’s direction. His face emerged from the darkness wearing a thin unfriendly smile.
Baxter smiled just as warmly, then replied, “Of course in no time more schools were built so innocent Protestant schoolchildren would not be exposed to popish godforsaken Catholics.”
“Precisely.” Wallace was moving about again, his face in full view. Baxter could see the expression matched the tone of voice, affirming and unapologetic. Baxter tried not to feel a twinge of hot shame. Wallace seemed not to notice, closely following his own thoughts as he went on. “And this is why it matters here. The schoolboard’s finances are in a shambles, no one wants more taxes. Ratepayers are in arears as it is. Council is short and slow in turning over funds to the board. Sinking funds to pay off leases and building loans are…” He waved his hand and came to a stop in front of Tolliver. “The point here is that the board needs help…I could move away from the tramway proposal and…”
This time Baxter cut him off. “So the city gets a new school if you stay out of the public eye, and jail, is that it?”
Wallace’s voice dropped a bit as he looked at Baxter out of the corner of his eye. “Not quite…”
Baxter was far from finished. The twinge he was feeling now was rage, which he made no attempt to hide. “I can see it now. Red brick and white pillars and green lawns. Somewhere south of Quinpool Road of course. You wouldn’t want to encourage the north end public. The Wallace School, where students learn debauchery, deceit, and dirty dealing, the three D’s with the three R’s. Martin, please tell me you are not considering any of this.”
Tolliver, who had been leaning on the edge of his desk arms crossed, took a step toward his chief inspector. He kept his arms in place. His made a polite request with a firm command. “Cully, will you let him finish.”
“I have no interest in seeing my name anywhere, that’s entirely the point.” Wallace managed to sound more pleading than snide.
“You can’t just give money to the city without notice, stories in the paper.” Baxter tried to focus on the logic, not the man.
“I’m sure I can. Anonymously through lawyers to the managers of the building fund. There will be stories of City Council’s prudent management and the results. The mayor and his aldermen will be too busy taking credit to bother about particulars.” Baxter could not dispute Wallace’s grasp of city politics. He would have to find
another point of attack.
“Even if you could do all that, we are not the only ones who know. Others will talk eventually and when they do, the papers will get hold of it and you’ll be done.” Wallace knew the willful blindness of power. Baxter knew better the momentum of talk in the streets.
“The only ones who can say anything convincingly are Mr. Clarke, Miss Higgenbottom, and Miss Green.”
The look on his face told Baxter he had not taken Wallace by surprise or given him any pause. “You have already bought their silence.”
Wallace cleared his throat. He glanced at Tolliver then moved back toward the window. The sun had gone behind a cloud. Wallace’s face was plain and hard at work. “Try seeing it this way. The place you describe as the most notorious of its kind in the city and its keeper will cease to operate. Two young women will no longer be doing something you deplore. And three more taxpayers will be added to the rolls.”
“What I deplore is money replacing justice.”
“No real justice comes out of this unless the damage is repaired…or minimized at least.”
You only look respectable, Baxter thought. Your fancy words only sound true. “No amount of money brings Victor back. You do wrong, you get punished, people want that, they need to see it happen.”
“Or what? Chaos?” Tolliver had gone back to his desk. He seemed to be expecting Baxter to reply. Instead he looked back at Wallace, invited him to continue. “People look out to see what might happen to them. Would they rather see a man in jail for saving lives, or good schools and fewer people before the courts?”
Baxter remained calm and sure of himself and unswayed. “They don’t want to see families of murdered men trying to survive.”
Wallace moved forward a step. Then one more. The chief stopped leaning back on his desk. “Victor had no legal debts of any consequence. Catherine will be able to hold on to the business until the sons can take it over. On top of that, Victor had some insurance, which I can add to.”
Instead of coming toward Wallace, Baxter moved away toward the door. “You’ll just stop by with a bag of money. No one would question that.”
The chief spoke quietly, yet his voice sailed across the office to his chief inspector like a heaving line. “If money can be added quietly to the public coffers, I’m sure…”
“The chief is quite correct. Catherine will simply get more than she expected. The company will be very sorry for any incorrect information she may have received. Then remind her that her husband knew the value of insurance, et cetera, et cetera.
Baxter came back. He spoke square and hard against the charm of Wallace and his words. “Minions will do the dirty work. The money is not important. You’ll forget.” Then, looking at the chief with no less challenge, Baxter added, “And you tell yourself the good outweighed the bad. The public never finds out. And life goes on. Convenient, how very convenient.”
Wallace returned to his chair. He crossed his legs slowly then straightened himself against the back of the chair and looked Baxter in the eye. “I can’t make up my mind if you’re more conceited or selfish or paranoid. You act as if there is a plot against you. Only in your dreams are you that important. Try thinking about the real victims. And as for forgetting, you needn’t worry. I’ll never stop seeing what happened. I may not even be able to forget you.” He looked away when he finished, and then after a moment back at the chief inspector.
Tolliver began moving about in front of his desk, hands in his pants pockets, fiddling with change. “Most likely you’re both only half right. Let’s suppose there is no trial, no scandal or subsequent events. Time goes by, years. And then one day we realize that somehow everybody knows. It’s all come undone and floated to the surface. Then what?”
Baxter couldn’t tell if Wallace’s pause was real consideration, or more theatrics. “In that case people would have heard something they wanted to believe. How did Oscar Wilde put it, if a rich man makes an ass of himself he is poaching on the preserves of the masses? Something like that…In the end, there would be some indignation, nothing more.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then to anyone who should ask, I say, where is your proof?”
The chief moved his hands behind his back and watched the floor. Baxter stared out the window. Wallace gathered up his coat and stood with it draped over one arm. Finally Tolliver broke the spell. “Gentlemen, I don’t think there is anything more to be said. Maynard, thank you for coming in.”
Wallace nodded curtly. “Martin.” He kept his eye on the door as he passed in front of Baxter. Just before he closed it he spoke with a voice that was either the dispassion of business or personal regret. “Chief Inspector.”
Baxter and Tolliver watched from the window as Wallace’s coach pulled slowly off the Grand Parade and headed south on Barrington Street, the oncoming traffic giving it a wide birth. Heads turned along the sidewalk to follow it for a moment before carrying on. Baxter kept his own eyes on the coach as he spoke. “You can’t let it end like this.”
Tolliver let out a long sigh. “Please don’t try and tell me Victor deserves better, not after what we just heard.”
The chief knew the basic principles of the law as well as he did. The lowest victim is still a victim and equal under the law. “Wallace confessed to a murder.”
Tolliver loosened the collar of his shirt and began working on his cuffs. “He saved lives.”
Baxter watched the chief begin to roll the first sleeve. He moved into the wing chair Wallace had not been sitting in. “If you believe him,” he pointed out as he undid the top buttons of his tunic.
“I do, and so do you, Cully,” the chief said flatly, looking up briefly from the second sleeve.
Baxter’s eyes followed as his palms ran back and forth along the arms of his chair. “It’s not up to us, Martin, it’s for a judge and jury to decide.”
The chief moved closer and rested a hand on the back of Wallace’s chair. “You know as well as I do no court could convict him. A jury would see it from a utilitarian point of view, the lesser evil, or as a matter of self-defence. And they would be right.”
“Wallace was in cahoots with Frank McNeally. He was blackmailing Victor. He…”
“No one said Maynard Wallace was a saint.”
Baxter’s hands stopped. He looked up to find Tolliver’s eyes ready and waiting for him. “A trial would make that clear.”
As Tolliver folded his arms across his chest, more of his shirttail came untucked. He widened his stance a little. “To ruin Wallace you would ruin Victor, do more harm to his wife and children, drag the entire city through the mud?”
Baxter looked at Tolliver’s hard-set face, at the heavy forearms and the wrinkled shirttail.
A pair of work boots would have been more appropriate than the Oxfords he was wearing. His eyes came back up. “Instead of rolling up your sleeves to do what needs to be done, you think it’s better we bury this in the dirt?”
Tolliver tucked his chin into his chest for a moment, then spoke to the floor, thoughtfully, as if the strips of hardwood were learned and keenly listening. “I think words like ‘better’ and ‘justice’ and ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ are written in grey not black or white.”
Baxter did not think the response he was about to give was trite or hollow. He was as determined to hold firm as Tolliver was willing to bend. He stood as he spoke, redoing the buttons of his tunic. “They are written in the things we do.”
“Nothing we do can bring back the dead.” Tolliver was not pleading or negotiating with his chief inspector, he was stating cold fact.
“And when people find out we did nothing in this case, then what?” Baxter did not go so far as to point a finger or a chin. The look on his face was allegation and warning enough. He would not be taking the blame.
Tolliver was now leaning back against the front of his desk, heavy
and moored for weather. Suddenly he came free and banged the desktop hard enough to shake a few things loose. “For the love of Christ, Cully, we are doing something. We are exercising the greatest power we have, discretion. Wallace puts his tramway deal on hold. The city gets some money for schools, which it desperately needs, and Victor’s children will want for nothing.”
“If Wallace keeps his word and if no one gets suspicious.” Baxter’s voice had become mealy sounding. If he had ever had it, he was slipping from the high ground, whether he realized it or not.
“I think Mr. Clarke will see to that, along with Annie and Martha. Even if they didn’t, Wallace truly wants to make amends.”
“It’s dishonest.” Now his chin was out.
Tolliver got a step closer to Baxter. His entire body had become a cannon, not just the barrel finger he pointed. “You want plain truth? All right, Cully, I’ll give some plain truth. People don’t come to this place anymore, they are born here. At one end of the province we’ve got what’s left of the sad-eyed Acadians who keep praying over the few seeds they put in the ground every spring. Throwing them out of the place only made them want it more. And who’s right beside them? Ancestors of the Loyalists who replaced them. And how are they doing with their grander visions and Protestant work ethic? Not all that much better. Mind you at least they tried. At the other end we’ve got the remnants of some starving Irish and chased-off Huguenots who are sure there is something wonderful and especially noble about an island full of sooty faces and ceilidhs. Of course there isn’t. If there was, people wouldn’t be running away en masse. We know these things. We don’t say them. It hurts too much. And where is Halifax? It’s in between, halfway. Everything here is halfway. Nothing here will ever go too far and that’s what makes it worth staying, we don’t go to extremes. People who want more leave. Some say that holds us back. I think it keeps us safe. And the ones that do stay, they have it tough enough. I’m sure your righteous indignation keeps you warm at night. I’m just as sure it’s cold comfort for the rest of us. It is not our job to preach and woe betide us if we should try. You have never learned these things, Chief Inspector, and that’s what’s held you back. It was never me or anyone else, only your crippling inability to forgive.”