“Okay. Well, suppose you got out and searched about with a flashlight on the ice. Maybe you’d find car tracks, eh?”
“Sure, complete with trolley wires and streetcar stops,” she said.
“Don’t be smart, Miss Smarty,” he said. “If people do drive up on the weekend, there might be tracks, eh? So if you got a direction to go, well, you might drive along and see lighted windows. And maybe the gas station nearest the turnoff would remember about cars going in there at this time of year.”
“Crazy. Mad. Mixed up,” she said. “You don’t know Muskoka. Why, your friends draw maps for you showing exactly how to get there, and you still get lost. What gives with this cottage anyway?”
“I don’t really know, June,” he said, “but everything in this case is so elusive. If I hadn’t followed some pretty slender threads, I’d be nowhere. I want to find that cottage, soon, fast. I’ve got to explore Gadwell’s activities. It’s the only lead I’ve got, really.”
“Like to go tonight? In all this cold snap?” she said.
“I can’t wait for tennis weather,” he said. “Frankly, yes. I can’t waste time. At least I can try the experiment.”
“All right,” she said. “You’ve got yourself a car and a driver. What else do you need?”
“Maps,” he said. “Muskoka county maps. Flashlights. Warm clothes. Thermos flask filled with coffee, well laced with brandy. And I’d like some means of making an illegal entry, in case I decide to.”
“I can get the maps,” she said. “And the thermoses and their contents. I will also round up some flashlights.”
“You think this is a harebrained scheme?” he said.
“Yes. But I like harebrained schemes. Please, please, let me come? Don’t say ‘We don’t want no girls in this gang.’”
“All right,” he said. “Go home. Eat a big meal. Get your stuff collected and stand by. I have other arrangements to make.”
The first arrangement was a further call on Sharon Willison, who was getting ready to go to the studio for further checking of her figures. “Just ask my agent if Sharon doesn’t know her arithmetic,” she said, and produced the actual book in which she had recorded her husband’s mileages.
The absolute minimum round-trip mileage for Gadwell’s Muskoka expeditions came to two hundred and eighty-four and a bit, but this figure appeared no less than four times—all, according to the record, in the summer. The lowest winter mileage came to a shade under two hundred and ninety.
“Hey, look at that!” Sidney said. “The minimum goes up in winter! Why? His hideaway is on an island and in winter he can drive right to it over the ice. A shade more than two miles. Miss Willison, you are a true scientific detective. Science is measurement. This minimum in summer must be the exact distance between your old house and the landing stage where he left his boat.”
“Golly! I never thought of that,” she said.
All that was needed from the songstress after that was the address of the house where she had lived with Gadwell, and, having obtained it, Sidney headed for the southeastern quarter of the city to make his other arrangements.
Nine
DURING HIS BRIEF CAREER at the bar, Sidney Grant had pleaded few cases before juries. The most successful of these had been a case before a county court jury involving one Snake Rivers, who had been charged with burglary.
The crux of that case had been Sidney’s cross-examination of Inspector Frank Young, of the Metropolitan Toronto Police, concerning a search the police had made of Mr. Rivers’s dwelling. The cross-examination had proceeded thus:
Q. “You obtained a search warrant and went to the accused’s house?”
A. “Yes.”
Q. “Did you discover anything of significance during this search?”
A. “No.”
Q. “You had some purpose in making this search? You expected to find something?”
A. “Well, we thought we might.”
Q. “You thought you might find stolen goods?”
A. “Well, maybe.”
Q. “Or burglar tools?”
A. “Perhaps.”
Q. “You had received information that these things were in the house?”
A. “We were acting on information. Yes.”
Q. “But this information was incorrect? You found nothing there that in any way implicated the accused?”
A. “Well—well, no. He…”
Q. “Never mind that. You found nothing at all. That is all.”
To the jury, Sidney was able to point out that the evidence against his client was extremely insubstantial and consisted solely of a chancy identification. He was thereby able to save Snake Rivers from a fourth term in jail.
After leaving Sharon Willison’s apartment, Sidney sought Snake Rivers in a low beer hall which he was known to patronize of a Saturday night.
The regular customers of the place eyed Sidney with some suspicion as he wove through the crowded aisles to Snake’s regular table, but Snake greeted him with boisterous affection.
“Gee, nice to see you, Mr. Grant,” he said. “Let me buy you a couple of beers.”
“No thanks, Snake,” Sidney said. “I’ve got work to do. I hope you’re keeping out of trouble these days.”
“I sure as hell am,” Snake said. “Listen, I’ve had all the stir I want, see? I got an honest job that pays real good—turning back speedometers on used cars up on the Danforth. No more of that old jazz for me.”
“Good,” Sidney said. “Can I talk here?”
“Sure. Just come close,” Snake said.
“When the police raided your place,” Sidney said, “they’d had a tip from a stool pigeon that you had illegal instruments in the house. Right?”
“Sure thing,” Snake said. “But they didn’t find nothin’, like you said.”
“Well, if you ever possessed tools of that sort, you won’t need them again, will you? They might just tempt you to use them one night.”
“Yeah, that’s right. But I’m through. No kidding. Next time up I’m liable to get twenty years.”
“All right. Can you tell me where I might get hold of some tools of that type? I may want to get into a house during the owner’s absence.”
“Gee—don’t do it,” Snake said. “They’ll get you sure as hell.”
“I’m looking for evidence—not loot,” Sidney said. “And I don’t intend to get caught.”
“Who does?” Snake said. “Gee, I can tell you where to pick up them things, but I don’t like it. Where’s this job?”
“Up north. Miles from anywhere.”
“Huh! This summer cottage jazz,” Snake said. “I know guys that used to go after outboard motors and stuff. You’ve got to watch out in case they got some local farmer watching the place. Listen, how about taking me along? You need experience on a job like this.”
“No,” Sidney said. “If I get caught, I’ll be all right. But you can’t afford to be remotely involved in anything. Where can I get this stuff?”
“I’ll have to line it up for you,” Snake said. “When I give you the green, you drive east along Dundas from here, turn right at the fourth street, then down half a block and turn left up the lane. Only before you turn up the lane, pull up on the right and park. A kid will come past and throw something over your license plates. You gotta have your lights out. Then pull into the lane, fast, with the lights out, and stop at a stable. It’s on the right-hand side of the lane. Make sure your trunk is open. Someone will throw the stuff in your trunk, and when you hear it slam, drive out fast, turn right and go about fifty yards and stop. Another kid will take these rags off your license plates and give you the go sign. Then start up, switch your lights on and belt the hell out of there.”
“Sort of elaborate, isn’t it?” Sidney said.
“Sure. But we figure the police know them tools is in the loft. They got a stoolie watchin’ for when they leave. We been meanin’ to get them out of there and dump ’em, so it’s all set up. Cost you twent
y bucks for time and labor. Now you run through the drill and see you got it straight. If you follow instructions real close, you can’t go wrong.”
Sidney repeated the instructions twice and told Snake that he would have to phone for his transport.
“Don’t call from here,” Snake said. “Take the outdoor booth at the corner of Dundas, then go one block west to meet your car.”
Sidney went to the corner, leaving Snake at the table, and called June.
“Look, Juney, this thing is a bit risky,” he said. “How about bringing the car down here and going back in a cab? I’ve got to do a lot of cloak and dagger work. Real underworld stuff.”
“The heck with you, young Gargoyle,” she said. “After collecting maps and flashlights and laced coffee, I’m not going to be bumped off the flight. You just tell me where to pick you up. Will it be really truly underworld?”
There was no arguing with her, and Sidney, whose conscience told him he should drop the whole thing, gave up. “Okay,” he said at last. “You’re as stupid as I am.”
And he gave her instructions as to where to meet him and told her to be sure the trunk was unlocked.
***
“All right, pull up on the right here,” Sidney said in a level voice. “Now, lights out. Watch this kid—Lord, they start them young down here —the little devil is as casual as all get out. Just look straight ahead, dearie. Okay, lights still out, pull ahead and swing into that lane. Go.”
June, who was a superb driver, gunned the Citroën into the narrow lane. A two-story brick structure loomed on the right.
“Stop. Right here,” Sidney said.
In less than ten seconds they heard the trunk slam. “Go girl, go,” Sidney said. “Swing right at the end. Good. Now pull over here.”
June stopped at the curb, and another boy, apparently about twelve, strolled past. He took something from the front of the car and continued on his way. But at that instant the rear door opened and somebody slid into the back seat. The door slammed.
“Okay, now drive. Go. Get the hell out of here,” a voice said. “Keep the lights off for a bit.”
Sidney’s blood froze, but June already had the car in motion. Sidney turned slowly and saw the features of Snake Rivers in the back seat.
“I decided to come,” Snake said. “You’re going to need a pro. Once you got out of that lane without your license being took you were okay.”
Sidney caught a picture of Snake Rivers being sent up for twenty years and June Beattie joining her brother in the criminal ranks, but they were under way, and there was no turning back.
They drove to the house where Gadwell and Sharon Willison had lived and recorded the mileage, and then June headed the Citroën up Avenue Road toward 401 and 400.
She was enchanted by all the hocus-pocus that had gone on in the lane, and Snake Rivers was happy to explain it all.
“See, one night I got word the cops were going to put the arm on me,” he said. “They was working on a tip. Well, I grab a suitcase and head out, and whoever is watching the joint follows me. That gives my chum enough time to get this stuff out the back way and dump it in the loft of that old stable. So I was arrested with an empty suitcase on me, and they raided the house and didn’t find nothing, so Mr. Grant was able to spring me.”
“I don’t want to know about this, Snake,” Sidney said. “I merely pointed out to the jury that the evidence against you was inadequate.”
“Okay, Mr. Grant, so you don’t need to listen, but the young lady was innarested…”
“Yes, Sidney, you just shut up and let Mr. Rivers talk. I want to hear about this.”
“Okay,” Snake said. “Well, we got to know that the police knew the tools was in that loft. So they put somebody to watch the joint and report when anybody took them out. Well, okay, so we had that stuff under police protection till we wanted to use it. This stoolie could phone in and maybe give the license number of the car that drug the stuff away. Well, okay, we had it fixed to cover the plates and move fast. A set of tools like this is worth eight, nine hundred bucks.”
“But you assured me that you were through with burglary,” Sidney said.
“Well sure, but this stuff may be useful to some other guy,” Snake said.
Sidney suddenly felt a little unhappy about the morality of helping to snatch a set of burglary tools out from police surveillance, but June, who had never met a burglar before, was far too interested in the mechanics of the craft and questioned Mr. Rivers closely about methods.
The learned discussion continued while the Citroën snaked its way northward on the almost deserted highway, cruising comfortably at eighty-five.
“Easy, girl,” Sidney said. “We don’t want to get pulled for speeding with that stuff in the trunk.”
But June was almost incapable of going easy on a clear four-lane highway, and the Citroën pulled into Bracebridge in less than an hour and three quarters after leaving the city. It was nearly midnight, and the town was asleep.
It was a cold moonlight night, without a breath of wind, but Sidney was appalled to note that there was a thin layer of new snow over everything. They stopped for coffee at an all-night eatery and learned that the snow had stopped falling and the sky had cleared less than an hour before.
“If our friend came up last night, there’s not much chance of finding any tracks,” Sidney said. “Let’s look at the map and figure out where the mileage will bring us to.”
June produced her map, and they spread it on the table. After a little arithmetical work, June stated that the end of the journey would come several miles before Beaumaris.
“There are some wharves along there,” she said. “We might pick out the right one, but driving out on the lake will be hopeless.”
“Having chased the wild goose this far, we might as well go on,” Sidney said. “We could see lights at quite a distance.”
They resumed the journey, but when they reached the Port Carling-Beaumaris turnoff, Sidney suggested that June pull off to the right of Highway 11 while he studied the snow on the Port Carling road.
It was a very light snowfall which the first wind would blow away. Sidney cleared a patch of road with his foot. Beneath the new snow the asphalt surface was clean. No car had passed along the Port Carling road in either direction over the smooth white surface, and as he stood beneath the stars in the awesome northern silence, Sidney began to feel a little silly about the whole business.
Miles away he heard a farm dog bark, and not so far away he heard raucous laughter and the slam of a car door. A Saturday-night party was breaking up. He heard a car start and drive away somewhere, then utter silence.
Ahead of him, to the west, two searchlights stabbed into the sky, wobbled and described a brief arc, then disappeared. Sidney watched them idly, vaguely wondering what searchlights they could be, when they shot up again, and he realized they were the headlights of a car going uphill. They continued to shoot up at intervals, moving from left to right, never reappearing in exactly the same direction as the last time, and then, far off, he heard the snarl of an engine.
He turned and looked back at the Citroën, where June and the burglar were in the midst of an animated conversation. Suddenly the cold got through to Sidney’s bones and he shivered.
He turned and started back toward the Citroën, but the snarl of the approaching car caused him to look back, and he saw its two headlights wink at him from a hilltop and disappear. The Port Carling road was hilly and winding, and the engine noises rose and fell as the car moved from hilltop to valley. It was moving fast.
“June,” he called, “turn your lights out.”
She rolled the window down and called, “What did you say?”
“Lights out,” he replied.
The Citroën went dark, and Sidney walked to the side of the Port Carling road, where he chose a station beside a tree. The headlights winked, half a mile away, then disappeared, but the engine noises were now continuous. In a few seconds the headlights
came again, illuminating the whole stretch of road between Sidney and the approaching car. He turned his head away to avoid being blinded. A truck was approaching from the south, changing gear noisily, and now its headlights also became visible, just as the big car from the west slowed down at the approach to the highway.
It was a Cadillac, and it swerved slightly as the driver braked, but he controlled it skillfully. It came to a stop and waited for the truck to pass, and the truck’s headlights flickered over the driver’s face. He was leaning forward anxiously, waiting his chance to turn onto the highway, and Sidney had no difficulty identifying him. It was Howard Gadwell. The truck passed. The Cadillac started up and swung to the south, leaving behind it a clear set of tracks on the new-fallen snow.
Sidney walked slowly back to the Citroën and got in beside June.
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” she said.
“You’ve already got it,” Sidney said. “That was our little pal. So, if you will get moving before the snow clears, we can find out where he’s been.”
“Sidney,” she said, “I’ve always heard that it’s better to be born lucky than rich. You must have been born with a horseshoe round your neck.”
“Don’t talk, woman, drive!” Sidney said. “You can only be lucky if you play it that way. We might still be sitting in Toronto saying that the whole expedition is impossible if we weren’t a bunch of lucky fools.”
The track of the Cadillac stood out clear and black, and there was no difficulty in following it, especially since it had insisted on staying on the road. Sidney did a countdown on the distance, and exactly three-tenths of a mile before the dead reckoning position of the landing stage, the tracks turned down a side road to the left through the bush.
June eased the Citroën down the bumpy side road, which led to a dilapidated boathouse with a long wharf in front of it. At that point the Cadillac tracks turned off onto a small bay beside the bathhouse, and from there out to the ice of Lake Muskoka.
“Lights out,” Sidney said. “Mr. Gadwell may have left pals behind. We can follow the tracks by moonlight.”
The tracks veered away to the southwest, through a narrow channel between two islands, swerved to avoid another island, then moved across an open stretch and finally reached a high, rocky island covered with what looked in silhouette like white pines. On the south side of the island the tracks turned into a small bay and up to a beach, from which further progress was impossible.
The Weird World of Wes Beattie Page 11