Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  “Now that’s interesting, Harry. A brilliant murderer, or at least one with artistic sensibility. Rather shoots my theory down,” Stephen concluded glumly.

  “Why brilliant?” Harry asked.

  “From what I’ve heard, this guy seems to agonize over his victims. ‘Could that life develop into greatness, if spared?’ Interesting sense of morality.” Stephen grimaced. “At least that’s what some psychologist on the news theorized.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that. What I can’t understand is how he can thinks he’s creating when he’s killing.”

  Stephen winked at him. “Don’t forget, Harry: he’s completely and utterly mad.”

  Harry shrugged. “Most of my clients are sane, I guess. They worry about whether they’ve paid enough tax.”

  “Sounding just a little bitter yourself?”

  “Not really. Life’s just getting a bit too predictable, although the money is better.”

  “Estate work’s not exciting enough?”

  “Maybe.” Harry was suddenly weary. He thought of leaving, but then he said, “I think Laura’s having an affair.”

  “No!”

  “She’s seeing someone at work. Not coming home that much.” Harry never felt so tired.

  Stephen was quiet for a moment. “That’s tough, Harry. What are you going to do?”

  “Probably try to keep going as is, at least for now. If I confront her, I have to deal with the consequences. I’m not ready for that.”

  “Time for one more?” Stephen was signaling to the bartender. Harry nodded. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like talking anymore. It was a lousy mess—so bad he hadn’t gotten around to calling Natasha yet, whose soft smile had caught him at the funeral, and whose intimacy drew him in... With Laura likely in the arms of Dr. Stover, why not?

  Harry lit a cigarette and returned to his beer. In the mirror, he caught a dark reflection of a small, familiar figure gliding between the tables. To Harry, he certainly looked like Albert Chin. He sat down with someone Harry did not recognize, perhaps one of the members of the Hong Kong conglomerate.

  Harry grasped Stephen’s arm. “Look in the mirror,” he whispered. “That’s my new client over there.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Albert Chin.”

  Harry was now turned three-quarters around on the stool to watch. Their end of the bar could not be seen from the lounge. Chin was hunched over the table talking rapidly and punctuating his words with sharp jabs of his finger. Their voices rose, but Harry could make out no words. The other man raised his hand, as if to calm Chin. From his briefcase, he withdrew a thick manila envelope. He slid the package across the table to him.

  Albert Chin dropped the envelope into his briefcase as the waiter appeared with drinks. He threw his napkin down and shoved back his chair. With briefcase in hand, he marched angrily off toward the washroom.

  Questions raced through Harry’s mind. A payoff? What was going on? He slid off the bar stool and strode down the hallway in pursuit, leaving Stephen staring after him. He slowed his pace, then halted outside the washrooms.

  Following men into washrooms was a bit ridiculous, but some instinct drove him onward. Taking a deep breath and straightening his tie, he opened the door and sauntered in. The coast was clear. Only one of the three cubicles, on the far wall, was occupied. Harry entered the one next to Chin.

  Between the metal divider and the white-tiled wall of the stall was a space of about two inches. He saw the back of Chin’s head through the crack. Harry watched him count out—what, thousands, hundreds of thousands?—of dollars from the envelope.

  Was Chin getting some kind of payoff? For what? With just a twinge of guilt, he thought of the two hundred thousand he had tucked into the bank yesterday, and, of course, the trip to the Bahamas, courtesy of Mr. Chin and his conglomerate.

  The door to the washroom opened.

  “Albert?” The voice was low and angry.

  Chin flushed the toilet and exited the cubicle.

  Harry had no idea what his client and the other man said in Chinese, but he could not miss the underlying tones of angry insistence from both of them.

  After they left, Harry headed back to the bar and sat heavily on the stool beside Stephen.

  Chin and his companion had left.

  “That is really weird. Chin’s just been paid off for something. He was sitting in the can, counting a huge wad of money.”

  Stephen shrugged. “Money flows in mysterious ways, Harry. Best not to ask too many questions.”

  It was after seven when Harry left Stephen. Moving slowly up Bay Street toward the car park, he tried to approach the Chin puzzle logically. Of course, nothing prevented his client from dealing with anyone he wished. But the cash had to be a payoff for something. No legitimate deposit or down payment would ever be made that way. At that point, Harry’s thought process stalled.

  With the evening to himself, he debated whether to pick up a couple of files from the office and bring them home. On the other hand, the baseball game was on television. It was a chance to relax.

  On the broad plaza of the Old City Hall, a man with a guitar stood in the shadows beside a wheelchair.

  “Mister?”

  Harry knew it was a mistake to slow his pace. The man was young, his face thin and dirty. Except for the angelic smile, he looked like innumerable street people. He pointed to a black top hat on the seat of a wheelchair.

  With messianic zeal, the young man spoke. “Do not fear to reach out from the invisible cocoon that you are forced to inhabit.” His eyes seemed fixed on some world known only to himself.

  Invisible cocoon? What the hell? Harry tossed some coins into the hat and hurried on. Abruptly, he turned in the direction of his office.

  Out of the last rays of the setting sun, Harry buttoned his overcoat against the cold wind slicing into him. He picked up his pace as his building came into view. Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness.

  As he spun through the revolving door, he could see Hakim, the night watchman. He was a huge man crouched on a tiny stool behind a desk, no larger than one in junior grade school. The remains of Hakim’s lunch were spread out on the desk, covering the logbook.

  Startled, Hakim looked up. “Mr. Jenkins. Thought you was still upstairs.” He unearthed the logbook. “Your client must be waiting up there for you.”

  Harry stopped short in confusion. “Client? What client?”

  Oblivious to Harry’s mounting concern, Hakim bit into his sandwich and chewed slowly.

  “Hakim, who’s upstairs? Did he sign in?” Harry grabbed the book. Across from his suite number was an illegible scrawl. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

  Hakim stopped chewing and gulped hard. His round face darkened. “He say he have an appointment. I thought you was still up there.”

  Harry entered the elevator and jammed his finger into the call button. Fumbling for his keys, he watched the floor numbers light up with agonizing slowness. Each clang of the elevator reverberated in the silent building.

  At last it opened at his floor. Immediately, he saw the office door slightly ajar. Lights were on inside. He strode down the dark hallway and flung open the door.

  The waiting room was empty. A cool breeze wafted from his office. Heart pounding in his chest, he called out. When he saw the chaos in his office, his stomach wrenched. Filing-cabinet drawers were torn open. Files were pitched on the floor. Desk drawers were yanked open.

  Neatly stacked in the centre of his desk was a sheaf of papers. A silver knife was plunged through them, nailing them in place. Scattered around were handfuls of rose petals. The vase on the credenza held only stems of flowers.

  Harry knew at once that the papers were the Chin offers. He drew closer. The papers were not damaged in any way, except for a neat incision in their center. Jonathan Conroy of Cheney, Arpin, had them returned in the space of only two or three hours.

  A promising spring breeze filtered in through the curtains at the
window. He leaned out over the fire escape. Twilight prevented him from penetrating the depths of the alleyway below, but he could just make out a slight, shadowy figure swinging from the last rung of the fire escape. He heard a body thud on the pavement below, followed by a low groan and curses. Then he heard hurried, hobbling footsteps back down the alley toward the street. Harry did not call out, but turned back into the room. Surveying the ransacked office, he telephoned the police.

  Two officers arrived. The older one stared balefully at the disarray, and then slowly took out his pen and pad.

  “Did you touch anything?” he began gruffly.

  Harry shook his head. “Just the telephone to call you.”

  Stepping on the clutter, the officer moved behind Harry’s desk. “This have anything to do with the Deightons, you think?” He gazed steadily at Harry.

  “The Deightons?” Then Harry peered at the officer in the increasing gloom. Not until then did he recognize him as the one who had come to Marjorie’s house. “No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry, Sergeant Welkom. I didn’t recognize you.”

  Welkom shrugged as if this were no surprise. “You must have a pretty interesting practice, Mr. Jenkins.” He sat down heavily in Harry’s chair. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “It’s an old family practice. You know, real estate, estates…a little commercial work.”

  “Got clients with money outside the country?” asked the sergeant blandly, as he eyed the knife in the desk.

  “Oh, a few.” Harry was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He resisted the invitation, created by the sergeant’s silence, to continue.

  “Any idea what they were looking for?” Welkom gestured toward the knife and the petals. “Somebody’s obviously trying to give you a message.”

  Harry sighed deeply and sat down on a straight-backed chair. Welkom lounged in his chair behind his desk.

  “It’s a quiet practice,” he began stiffly. “Ordinary middle-class people, buying and selling houses and making wills and dying. That’s about it.” He was surprised at his own belligerent tone.

  Welkom stood up. The sergeant was at least six-foot-two. “You’d be real smart, Mr. Jenkins, to tell us anything you can think of. Whoever did this is telling you something, and I think you know what it is.”

  “Listen, I have no idea. My office is broken into, and suddenly I come under investigation. That’s ridiculous!” Harry rose swiftly, determined to gain control of the conversation. “The man on the security desk signed the person in. Why don’t you talk to him? Maybe he can give you a description.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Jenkins, somebody’s telling you something. You’d be smart to be careful.” Welkom nodded curtly. “Anyway, we’ll talk to security now. If you find anything missing, give us a call.”

  Waiting with the other officer, Welkom punched the elevator button three times.

  “You know, Samuels, something funny’s going on with that lawyer.”

  “Sir?”

  “Looks like a pillar of the community. But you can’t trust lawyers.” Welkom shouldered his way into the elevator. Closing his eyes, he leaned wearily against the back wall.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the young officer asked.

  Welkom’s eyes flew open. His lips curled downward. “My mother was cleaned out by a shyster lawyer. Even after he admitted it, she still thought he was a very nice gentleman.” The elevator doors opened to the lobby. “Who ever heard of a con artist who wasn’t? Right?”

  Samuels nodded and stepped back for Welkom.

  After they had left, Harry sat staring at the knife. Carefully, he lifted the corners of the offers. The vendor companies had signed the offers, but had increased the price. It would be most interesting to see Chin’s reaction to the condition of his paperwork.

  Harry lifted the phone to call Conroy. He left a message consisting of one question: who had delivered the counteroffers? Wearily, he turned off the lights and locked up. He would start the cleanup in the morning.

  CHAPTER 16

  In fury, the Florist ripped up a dozen petal drawings made on the copies of Katharine Rowe’s photograph and threw them on the floor. With his large, muscular hand, he could not catch the flow of the line. Such artistry evoked the entire range of human emotion. He stared bleakly at the torn pictures strewn on the floor.

  He had actually seen Katharine Rowe yesterday in the parking garage. She was even more beautiful than her photograph. But maybe she really deserved the name “Katie,” which he had read in the society column. So many grown women had childish names like Bunnie or Patsy. She was nothing but a high-class whore.

  Still, her beauty demanded his very best design. Lifting another copy of her photograph from a drawer, he sought his finest drawing pen. More technical difficulties beset him.

  A pen was not a knife. Paper was not flesh. The very first challenge of his art was to capture the freedom of spirit in the Matisse drawings. Only then could he hope to redeem these souls. A force beyond himself summoned the creator. Only withered souls refused the challenge. Katharine Rowe would be his masterpiece for the world.

  Lost in thought, he considered yet another technical difficulty. To create such a beautifully evocative line, the victim had to be absolutely still. Should he immobilize her first? He could easily obtain drugs that paralyzed muscles.

  He dismissed the notion. The pitiful thrashing was one of the most satisfying aspects of his art. The delicious dawning of terror drove him to intense, orgasmic delights of both mind and body. The deep pleasures of creation could not be achieved without pain, suffering, and challenge. No birth without blood. He would have to persevere until he could draw such a line under any conditions.

  CHAPTER 17

  On the morning of Marjorie’s funeral, Harry entered St. Timothy’s Church and took a seat in the second pew on the left. Marjorie had stipulated the full Anglican burial service, which would last more than an hour. Shifting uncomfortably on the unforgiving wooden surface, he tried to settle in for the lengthy session ahead.

  Reverend Sleem, rubbing his hands together, nodded and smiled at Harry. The church had been a beneficiary of Deighton charity for generations. Marjorie’s departure might or might not bode well for it. The church abhorred the uncertainty of not knowing where it stood.

  Angry restlessness possessed Harry. If it weren’t for the indifference of the coroner’s office and the lazy incompetence of the sergeant, there might have been an autopsy. Now it was too late. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at the vaulted ceiling.

  His anger mounted. The image of Chin, counting the cash, barrelled into his mind. Damn it! With all his sophistication and charm, his client had gotten him into the conflict with Marjorie. And then his office had been ransacked. Who could have stabbed the offers to his desk? The vendors were a series of faceless numbered companies, so it could be anyone.

  He glanced along the pew, only to see a man staring at him. Nodding politely, Harry decided it must be Bob, Katharine’s husband. Katharine sat between him and her sister. Suzannah appeared pale and vapid in a long floral skirt. Clutched in her hand was a small bouquet, which had suffered considerably from her twisting fingers.

  Frank, the depleter of trust funds, sat beside her, incessantly shifting his girth from side to side. He seemed to grow in bulk each time Harry saw him. But obviously he was unscathed from his encounter in the office with the man with the muscle, who must have been from the mob.

  The church filled up rapidly. A slight figure hitched and hobbled up the main aisle to the head of the coffin. Harry could make out the pinched features of a young man. From several rows back, Harry heard a whispered voice. “It’s Donnie…Gerry Deighton’s son.”

  It appeared that the boy was about to address the assembled mourners. A hush settled over the church. Nervous coughs flitted through the silence. But it was not to be. Instead, Donnie simply spread his hands with great care over the head of the casket and stood silently, with his chin lowered to his chest.


  Then Donnie raised his eyes, which were filled with anger. He scanned the first two rows of pews on either side of the church until he spotted Harry. The fury was so uncontrolled that the others in the pew turned to stare at him. Alarmed, Harry looked back at the boy quizzically. He could not imagine the cause of the rage. He had never seen Donnie before.

  Gerry Deighton stood abruptly and approached his son. Grasping Donnie’s arm, he attempted to lead him from the coffin. The boy held back, but then faltered. Seeing his father’s angry look, he consented to be led back to the pew.

  Donnie slumped beside his parents and bent his head. Marjorie Deighton was his great-aunt, but he called her “Gram.” Now that she was gone, nothing mattered. He was the only one who really loved her.

  Gram died last Tuesday, Donnie remembered. She was the only one worth talking to. His parents never listened. After school, he stayed in his room, hiding from his mother and her stupid bridge parties.

  Sometimes, he would go to Gram’s house to talk or to read to her. She seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t understand himself. At least she listened. Every day started and finished in the black pit inside himself. It took all his energy just to get out of bed and get dressed. What was the point? The only good days were when the diving club met and when he saw Gram.

  Something was different when he got to her house that day. A silver-gray Mercedes was parked in the laneway. Donnie stopped to run the palm of his hand slowly over the hood of the car, expecting any moment to be yelled at. Then he took his key and went in the front door.

  A loud, angry voice bellowed upstairs. At the foot of the stairs, Donnie held his breath. Frank waved a bunch of papers and then tore down the staircase.

  “What do you want, kid?” He squirmed into his overcoat, the papers spilling to the floor. Donnie watched in silence as Frank stooped to pick them up.

  “Hey, by the way kid, Auntie wants her tea. It’s in the kitchen, all ready. Take it up to her, willya?”

  Donnie nodded, but said nothing. Glancing out the window, he saw a tall man sliding into the Mercedes at the side of the house. .