“What’s your cover story?” Frances asked when Claire climbed in.
“Taking in the double feature at the Capitol with a friend. Don’t wait up.”
“Where to?” asked Murray.
“Just drop us on Promenade du Portage in Hull,” said Frances. “Near the Chez Henri.”
In the rear-view mirror, she could see Murray arch his eyebrows. “Rough neighbourhood,” he commented.
“You think a couple of secretaries from the Bank of Canada can’t handle themselves?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. The tribe of Amazons.”
On the west side of the Chez Henri Hotel, a narrow lane ran north from Portage. A narrower shovelled path led to a green door which opened into a dim foyer where a large man with tattooed arms stood at a desk. “Hi Leo,” Claire said. She produced a membership card with “Bunny Wallingford” typed on it in capital letters. Leo checked it with a flashlight and wrote her name down. “And guest,” Claire added when Leo looked at Frances.
“Name?” he asked, his practised fingertips twirling a pen like a propeller.
“Queenie McCoy,” replied Claire. Leo made note. A head bob directed them up the stairs.
“Queenie McCoy?” Frances whispered as they climbed.
“Yeah. That’s your nickname at the office.”
“Queenie McCoy?”
“You are the queen of the place. Governor Towers and the Rascals all at your beck and call. Not to mention everyone from the governor general down to that chop suey slinger Huey Foo. Minions race to do your bidding.”
“Yeah, yeah. Am I the only one at the Bank with a nickname?”
“Nope. Mr. Meldrum is ‘Scottie,’ of course, and the governor is simply ‘G.T.’ Bridget is ‘Brid’ and Madeline is ‘Maddie’ and Brendan is ‘Gunner’ — for Bren gun.”
“Why don’t I know this? I’m supposed to be in charge of the place.”
“The peasants need a few secrets, Queenie.”
A waif with a narrow face and deep-set eyes stood at the top of the stairs. She looked as though she should have been home in her jammies with her teddy bear, but she ran the coat check. They doffed coats and walked through French doors into a large room. Round tables circled a dance floor. The jukebox was belting out Glenn Miller’s Chattanooga Choo Choo. A modest crowd milled, chatting in small groups. A few singletons sat at the bar along the far wall. There were doorways on either side of the bar. Claire pointed to the one on the left. “Warning about the washrooms,” she whispered. “They’re ‘neutral’ territory. Unassigned by gender. Each has two toilet stalls, a sink and a mirror. Don’t be surprised by whom you might meet in one.”
Frances bought two Molson Exports and they sat at an empty table. “How are we going to work this?” She spoke to Claire’s ear to be heard above the din. “It’s pretty noisy for a tête-à-tête.”
“What if you rented a room upstairs for a couple of hours? I could send people up to you one at a time.”
Frances’s eyes widened. “Won’t they think that . . . you know . . . ?”
Claire doubled over laughing. “Don’t worry, Queenie. I’ll say you’re just interested in a philosophical discussion . . . ” Frances relaxed. Kind of.
“What should I tell people you want to talk about?” asked Claire.
“Say I was a friend of Angel. I’m trying to contact this doppelgänger person about his death.”
“Remember, Ping Pongers will be cautious with a newcomer. This place is a secret garden. No personal questions.” She stood up. “Come on.”
Claire took Frances back to talk to Louie at the bar. “A quiet room for a couple of hours?” she asked casually, as though she were ordering a tuna sandwich. Without batting an eye, Louie handed over a key with a brass tag that said “six” and jotted down the time. Upstairs were three rooms on either side of a shabby hall. Number six was at the far end on the right. Sparse furnishings. A bed, a nightstand, a small dresser with a mirror. A single straight-back chair.
“Sit on the bed,” advised Claire. “Give the interviewee the chair. Go easy. They might be nervous. I’ll send you folks who socialized with Angel, downstairs or up. When one returns, I’ll send up another.”
Claire must have had trouble finding willing participants. It was fifteen minutes of Frances checking her wristwatch before she heard the first knock at the door. She opened it to a short heavy man who wouldn’t meet her eyes. Frances pointed to the chair and resumed her seat on the bed.
He looked down and sideways. “Bunny says you’re looking for Angel’s friend Dee.”
“Yes. Can you help?”
“Dee told me she was from Florida, but I never believed a word she said.” His face soured like he’d swallowed Tabasco. “Lady, you don’t want to find her. Not nice. Treated people like a rag to use and throw away. All appetite. No respect for people’s feelings. She probably didn’t know the effect she had on others, but that didn’t excuse her behaviour.” The round man shook and started to cry. He stood up abruptly and stumbled out.
An older woman with garishly dyed hair was next. She perched on the edge of the chair. “You’re lookin’ for Dee? You’re never gonna find her. Some say she went back to Brazil. She was a master of disguise. Could disappear in a phone booth. Like a magician. Yeah, like a magician and she was her own star trick. She never came to the Ping Pong Club without Angel — without Tweedledum. Funny now I think about it. She had a wild streak, but she needed him like an anchor. Like he freed her to be wild. Know what I’m sayin’? Now he’s gone, she’s gone. The end.”
A plain-looking man with sandy hair knocked and came in. “I wasn’t much interested in her. I was very interested in Angel. He was classy and generous . . . in more ways than one. He was never on the prowl, mind you. And for some of us, you know, just average-lookin’ joes, well, that was big for us. We all miss him. The doppelgänger not so much. She had a funny accent like she’d learned English from someone who wasn’t a native speaker. Claimed she’d grown up in Nepal and loved the food there.” His forehead wrinkled. “What kind of food do they eat in Nepal?”
A lithe young woman with a pixie haircut was next. “I’m Daphne, Claire’s friend. She says you’re not competition, but I just wanted to check you out.
“There was good and bad with those two. They had an incredible bond. You could see it in their eyes. They sure added some sparkle to the club. I’ll give them that. But they misbehaved. Like this was all a big joke and only they knew the punch line? They liked to take people in. They’d dress the same and make us guess who’s who. Sometimes they revealed, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they dressed as each other and laughed when they tricked us. We laughed too. How serious is all this after all? But the rest of us here, we were always on the outside, and those two were on the inside. Like they were in their own little private club, see? And sometimes when you’d go upstairs with one of them, or both of them, you liked to think you were being invited into their club, see? Like you were special? But you weren’t. They played with you and laughed when you were hoodwinked. It’s no fun bein’ duped.
“Everybody has insecurities, but Ping Pongers especially, because we know we don’t fit in. The church — all the churches — and society, and the law, teach that we’re wrong, we’re ‘queer’ to feel the way we do. We’re filled with selfdoubt anyway, so it’s not nice to be laughed at. Dum ’n’ Dee’d say ‘Can’t you take a joke?’ like it’s our fault for being deceived. A lot of people hated them both.”
“Would anyone have wanted to harm them?”
“Hard to say. Ping Pongers are accepting by nature. Forgiving. That’s what makes this club a sanctuary. We can be ourselves here. But some sure were hurt by them. Especially by Dee.”
Daphne had been gone five minutes when there was a just discernible scratch on the door and no response when Frances called, “Come in.” She went over and opened the door to find the coat-check girl leaning timidly against the sill.
“Hi,” said Frances. “Come
in. Sit down. I’m Queenie.”
The girl did not sit. She stood behind the chair with her hands on the back. A fawn ready to bolt. Finally, she said, “I’m Lise. I know your name’s not Queenie. My name really is Lise.” She paused. “It’s sad to lose Angel. He was kind. Gentle. A big tipper.”
“I’m trying to locate the friend he used to bring here. To advise him about the death.”
“You thinkin’ the friend was a man?” said the waif.
“Well, men who come here usually are looking for male companionship, aren’t they?”
“Lady, there is nothing usual about the Ping Pong Club. You’d be surprised what a coat-check girl learns about people. Angel’s friend was a woman.”
“Who sometimes dressed as a man?”
“Yeah, and a dozen other disguises. But a woman.”
“You’re sure of this because . . . ?”
Lise looked Frances dead in the eye. “Seen her naked. Recognized the plumbing.”
“You went upstairs with her?”
“Dee went upstairs with everybody. The Ping Pong Club was a buffet and she wanted to taste every dish. Male, female and those in between.”
“But you’re an employee. Not a club member.”
“Rich lady takes a fancy, she has a word with Gaston, the manager. Gaston has a word with me. What choice do I have? This job feeds my brothers and sisters.”
Frances swallowed slowly.
“She didn’t treat me mean. Slipped me a couple of bucks. But I knew it was just — you know — retail trade? Like buying soap flakes at the A and P? Some fell for her. You know — love?” Little Lise emitted a worldly scoff. “Mistake. Upstairs with Dee, it was just a bodily function. Like blowin’ your nose.”
“Any idea where I might find her?” asked Frances.
“Said she was from Montreal. But she said a lot of things. She had a tiny accent when she spoke French. They say Angel was from Cuba. Dee might have been from Cuba too.”
“You think she might be in Cuba now?”
“Maybe. She was here a week ago.”
“Alone or with Angel?”
“She always arrived with Angel but didn’t always leave with him. Angel made quite a few friends here. Male and female. Some were gun-shy about going upstairs. Too public. Wanted somewhere more private. Angel left with another guy. Dee was upstairs. He gave me taxi fare to pass to her.”
“Do you remember who he left with?”
“Yeah. Posh guy. English accent. Seen him a couple of times. Signed in as Roscoe, but that means nothing. Very nice coat.
“Being coat check is either busy or boring. When things got quiet, I’d check labels and pockets. Never stole nothing. Just passing time. Mom was a seamstress before she died. Did piece work at home. Loved the touch of fine clothing, things she’d never be able to afford. She taught me a lot about fabric.”
“Discover anything?”
“Well, for example, no labels in the coats Dee and Angel wore. Custom made. Expensive. And that posh guy who left with Angel? Roscoe? Had initials stitched inside his cashmere overcoat. Let me think . . . ‘JRCE’.”
“Any idea where I could contact Dee?”
“She in trouble with the law?”
“No, but it’s kind of odd. Everyone says those two were tight, but she hasn’t come forward to sign the condolence book at the Cuban consulate. Unusual, don’t you think?”
Lise gave a world-weary sigh. “There was lots unusual about that one.”
-22-
Dead Rat
Just before Frances’s alarm was set to go off at 6:30 a.m., the phone rang. Inspector Hollingsworth sounded hesitant, like he needed to talk but didn’t want to talk. “Sorry to disturb you. I’ve got news,” he said. “Bad.”
“Well, spill the beans.”
“It’s not telephone talk.”
“You want to come over for coffee? I’ve got news of my own. Spent a couple of hours last night at the Ping Pong Club.”
“Your apartment again? My wife is going to start to wonder about all this.”
“Bring her along.”
He chuckled. “Her eyes glaze over the instant I mention police work. Put the coffee on. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Inspector Hollingsworth stirred a heaping teaspoon of sugar into a steaming cup of java. “Scobie called me a half-hour ago. They pulled Cat Courchene’s body out of the Ottawa River this morning.”
“Oh, no!” said Frances. “I liked the guy.”
“You also liked that office portrait of Carlos Orinoco. Your ‘likes’ don’t seem to offer much protection against the fickle finger of fate. A logger spotted Courchene floating face down in the open water between the river ice and the Booth Mill log boom. Scobie sent the body over to Doc Thompson at the morgue for an assessment.”
“Suspicious death?”
“Scobie said the head had gashes and bruises. Could have got those going over the Chaudière Falls.”
“Or?”
“Or someone could have clubbed him and dumped him in the river. Scobie is going to call in Cat’s girlfriend, Lulu Torrance, for a positive ID and then bring her to the station for questioning. Want your seat behind the one-way glass?”
“Sure. Wasn’t Cat’s girlfriend named Maisie Dempster?”
“Maisie was from an earlier era. She was the one who fingered Cat, remember? Sent him down for two years in Collins Bay? Kind of put the kibosh on that relationship. Lulu’s a waitress at Bowles Lunch and a figure skater with the Minto Follies.”
“Does Scobie suspect a lover’s spat?”
“Scobie’s as bad as Philpott. Suspects everybody. Makes him a fine detective. Now tell me about the Ping Pong Club.”
“Señor Orinoco was popular. Big spender. Generous with his attention, in more ways than one. Carlota was less endearing. Beautiful, yes. Enchantingly mysterious, yes, but used people and tossed them on the trash heap. Many admirers, no friends. Told everybody a different story about where she was from.”
“No leads on finding Orinoco?”
“Well, I was working under a slight handicap, asking about the look-alike, not about Orinoco, because Orinoco is supposed to be dead, not the look-alike. Long story short — no leads, but a very strange world there at the Ping Pong Club.”
“Thinking of joining?”
“My life is complicated enough as it is.”
Sergeant Scobie was positively gracious when Frances and the inspector arrived at his office. He stood up, shook hands and cleared chairs of debris so they could sit down.
“Constable Lumsden broke the news to Lulu. Took her to the morgue for the ID and just brought her back here for questioning. She’s down the hall waiting for me. Lumsden said she was pretty torn up. Quite the crying jag. ‘Honest raw emotion’ says Lumsden, who has a neurotic wife and four daughters, so should know the signs. His gut says Lulu didn’t have anything to do with Cat’s death. Take a seat behind the glass. See what you think.”
Lulu Torrance was a wreck. Her hair was uncombed, or if once combed, had been pulled asunder. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she tortured a damp handkerchief relentlessly. She wore a plain green frock that drained what little life there was in her pale face.
Scobie, for Scobie, was gentle.
“Miss Torrance, I’m sorry about your loss. We’re trying to figure out how Mr. Courchene might have ended up in the river. Can you shed any light on that?”
“Maurice wasn’t ascared of much, but water spooked him. Watched his cousin Jimmy Steel drown with his own eyes — washed away in the spring flood back in ’26. Would never go anywhere near open water on his own. I could barely get him to drink it.”
“Might he have been walking along the river bank, tripped and fallen in?”
“Wouldn’t risk it. He couldn’t swim.”
“When did you last see him?”
“He took me out for dinner last night. Just to Murphy-Gambles, mind you, but that was a splurge for Maurice. We had plans to discuss.”
<
br /> “Plans for . . . ?”
“Gettin’ married at Easter. He was workin’ up a nest egg with overtime shifts so I could afford to quit my job and start a family.” The image of the vanished dream convulsed Lulu into a series of sobs. Scobie took a handkerchief from his suitcoat pocket, checked it for cleanliness and passed it over.
“Was there anything unusual about his behaviour last night?”
“Well, there was the splurge on dinner and he was real upbeat. ‘I’ve punched our ticket, Lue,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be in the gravy.’”
“You think he was back in the burglary business?”
Lulu was offended. “No way! His mother made him promise on her deathbed that he’d go straight. He swore on a stack of Bibles that he was through with that life.” Lulu sniffed. “I loved the guy, but I was not going to marry no crook. I’ve seen what that does to women, and it’s not for me. Yer always afraid o’ the knock on the door. And the shame. And waitin’ out your life for the guy to get out of the slammer. Not for Lulu Torrance. No sirree.”
“But the fire department found stolen goods in his back shed. If he wasn’t back in business, was somebody trying to frame him?”
Lulu shook her head. “Neither. You knew that people called him Cat, eh? Kids called him Alley Cat. ‘Hey, Alley Cat! Catch anything lately?’ they’d say. Maurice had this expression he used a lot. ‘Kid,’ he’d say, ‘if I had two dead rats, I’d give you one!’ Maurice and me, we said this all the time. You find something good to eat, or you buy something new, and you’d say ‘Hey! Got a dead rat!’ meaning, like, something to show off or share.”
“Now, I ain’t no squealer, an’ I’m not namin’ names, but a couple of kids, toughie wannabes, lived down his back lane and thought the sun rose and set on Cat Courchene. Always hangin’ on his stories, especially about his early days of fivefinger discounts. He was a bigger hero to them than Houdini. Them kids were just startin’ out in the second-storey business, testin’ their wings with little stuff, so to speak. My guess? They were leavin’ their loot in Maurice’s back shed to show off. To say, like, ‘Hey Cat! Check out these rats!’ Maurice doesn’t use his back door much in winter, so I don’t think he even knew the goods were there. Those kids weren’t trying to set him up. They loved him.”
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