Carbon Copy

by Ian McKercher

  “Don’t know much about Montreal,” said the inspector. “But you know who would — Captain Quigley. He spent the last three years posted there. Shall we treat him to lunch at the Bluebird Café?”

  Captain Quigley had surprisingly cosmopolitan tastes for an army officer. He relished oriental cuisine and was no novice with chopsticks. “Why have you been keeping this place a secret?” he asked. “Stale sawdust is tastier than what passes for food in the army headquarters’ canteen.” He licked his lips after a garlic shrimp. “What’s up?”

  “This murder investigation is a rat’s nest,” said the inspector, “but many stray pieces emanate from Montreal. Miss McFadden and I are going down for a day’s sightseeing. What rocks should we look under?”

  “To save time, go right to the top. Kid Baker runs the city.”

  “Baker . . . I’ve heard that name somewhere,” said Frances.

  “Eddie ‘Kid’ Baker is the edge man,” confirmed Quigley. “Took over when Harry Davies got sent to Saint-Vincent-de-Paul Penitentiary for drug trafficking. Eddie’s a very engaging chap as long as you don’t cross him. Or call him ‘Kid’ without permission.”

  “The ‘edge’ man?”

  “Yeah,” said Quigley. “The crime boss. He runs the gambling casinos, betting emporiums, bars, cabarets, bootleggers, brothels, loan-sharking, you name it.”

  “Isn’t all that illegal in Quebec?” asked Frances.

  “Of course. Baker pays off the politicians and the vice squad, so his business operations are overlooked. You want to run vice in Montreal, you don’t get a permit from city hall, you go see Kid Baker at the Rialto restaurant. You ask very politely and pay him a twenty percent cut. As edge, he buys off the three ‘p’s — the police, the papers, the politicians. They don’t ask questions and stay out of the way. Montreal vice attracts big-money gamblers and the fast crowd from all over North America. Great boon to the economy during the Depression. Nobody wants to slow the gravy train down now the war’s on.”

  “How about drugs?” asked Scobie.

  “There was some trans-shipping between Europe and the United States before the war. That’s what took Harry Davies down. However, German submarines cut seriously into profit margins. With supply issues, drugs aren’t the steady bread and butter that gambling and brothels are.”

  “Would Baker use someone like Orinoco as a courier?”

  “Maybe. Ask him. He’d tell you. He’s a very straightforward businessman. As long as you don’t cross him.”

  “Know him well?”

  “I do. Personally, and professionally. He owns Rockhead’s Paradise and the Café St. Michel — the best jazz clubs in Montreal. Gets all the big names up from the States. Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald. I used to hang out in both places for hours, listening to the music.”

  “And professionally?”

  “We occasionally swapped notes,” said Quigley.

  “You did deals with a crime boss?”

  “Hey — hold off on the moral high ground stuff. Kid Baker is a businessman, I’m trying to win a war. I had a fair information network. His was the best. Mind you, he could afford to pay a lot better than I did.”

  “Why would he trust you?”

  “Two reasons. My interests never crossed the line into his business areas, and he’s a Romanian Jew. Hates the Nazis. ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend,’ don’t they say?”

  “‘Kid’ Baker doesn’t sound very Jewish to me,” said Frances.

  “Or Romanian,” added the inspector.

  “Don’t know what Kid’s real name was. He came to Canada back in ’28. Started working, I think, as a kid pounding dough in a bakery, and got the moniker. Worked his way up in the crime system. Tough, yes, but smart too. Easy to deal with, as long as . . . ”

  “ . . . you don’t cross him,” returned Frances and Inspector Hollingsworth in unison.

  “Exactly.” Quigley beamed like a gym teacher whose klutzy student had just mastered the somersault. “Kid holds office hours every day from ten until one at the Rialto. Leaves early if there’s an afternoon race card at Blue Bonnets. Loves watching the ponies run.

  “Mention my name if you like. Kid never lies. Must have been a Boy Scout in his youth. He might say ‘not an open topic’ — meaning, ‘not for discussion.’ You might have to trade for information.” Quigley finished eating and set down his chopsticks respectfully, like a defeated general surrendering his sword to a worthy adversary.

  Frances and Inspector Hollingsworth took the seven o’clock train to Montreal, sharing a full breakfast in the dining car as they watched the snowy countryside stream by. They checked in at the Montreal Police Station first. Constable Nadon’s reluctance was palpable when pried from the warmth of the station house to take them over to the car pound for a look at the Triumph. The front grille and hood had taken a beating going through the ice. The insides were waterlogged. The key was in the ignition and the cement block wedged down on the gas petal was still in place.

  “Any idea how the car got there?” the inspector asked.

  Nadon shook his head. “Hole was reported by a watchman yesterday morning. Must have just happened. Open water freezes fast in February. Diver went down about noon. Hoist pulled ’er out about four. Checked the wire for stolen cars and called Ottawa.”

  “Cars often end up in the drink down here?” asked the inspector.

  “Nah,” said Nadon. “Usually hot cars are stripped down for parts, or repainted and sold. Don’t see many Triumphs. They aren’t wired for Canadian winters. Lots of grief starting up on a cold morning. Not much resale value. Too bad. They’re kind of stylish, don’tcha think?”

  “Can we see the bodies?” asked the inspector.

  “Um . . . sorry. I’ve other duties,” said Nadon, checking his finger nails.

  Inspector Hollingsworth’s stare bore into him until he finally added, “I’ll see if I can find somebody at the station who’s free to take you to the morgue.”

  Interrupting station routine to do police work seemed a major inconvenience. Finally, a rookie cop named Rougier was dragooned for the morgue trip. The doctor on duty rolled the bodies out of what looked like a very deep filing cabinet in a very cold room. Both bodies had distorted purple faces. The piano wire used to strangle them was still tied around their necks.

  “Not local talent,” said the young constable, reading from the file notes. “We ran their prints. Quebec City hoods named Joe Lapierre and Charlie Fitzsimmons. Both had rap sheets a mile long. Specialists.”

  “Specialists in?”

  “Take-out artists. Never had a murder rap stick to them in four tries by the prosecutor’s office.”

  “Did they luck into a good defence lawyer or a bad prosecutor?”

  The constable swallowed. “I wouldn’t be qualified to comment on that.”

  “Seems their luck ran out,” said Frances. “Any idea who took out the take-out artists?”

  “I wouldn’t be qualified to comment on that,” Rougier repeated.

  “Looks like it was handled professionally,” commented the inspector. “Kid Baker might know if you care to ask him.”

  Constable Rougier looked left and right and repeated his mantra, “I wouldn’t be qualified to comment on that.” For a young cop he’d learned at least one lesson well.

  “Any other possibilities?”

  “There were some Cuban heavies in town,” volunteered Rougier. “Very dark tans in business suits. Not railway porters or jazz singers. The vice squad was keeping an eye on them.”

  “On behalf of the police department or on behalf of Kid Baker?” asked Frances. “Or wouldn’t you be able to comment on that?”

  “The faces are pretty badly distorted,” said the inspector. “Could I get copies of their mug shots? I’d like to see if anybody in Ottawa can tie them into a murder up there.”

  The added request, or the sarcasm, tipped Rougier into silence, but he made a note.

  At
the front desk of the Windsor Hotel, Frances and the inspector met a third wall of unwillingness. “I’d be interested in checking your guest registry for a Carlos Orinoco and possibly two other Cubans,” Inspector Hollingsworth said to the front desk clerk.

  Frances fed the names. “A Señor Rodriguez and a Mr. Mofongo.”

  The front desk clerk cast lazy eyes over them. “It’s not hotel practice to share guest records. You’d need to speak to the manager.”

  “Fine,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “Can you get him?”

  “He’s in meetings all day.”

  “Look,” said the inspector, “I’m trying to solve a murder, and I don’t have all day.” He presented his business card. “Isn’t the hotel registry right in the top drawer under the front desk?”

  His Mounted Police identification carried all the force of a bubble gum wrapper.

  “Mounties got no jurisdiction in Quebec,” said the clerk. “Anyway, I think I’ve lost the key to the drawer.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth’s hand dropped into his coat pocket and flew out in a blur. He crashed a handcuff over the right wrist of the startled hotel clerk, yanked his arm forward and snapped the other cuff onto the brass rail that ran the length of the counter. “What a coincidence,” said the inspector, “I think I’ve lost the key to the handcuffs.”

  The trapped clerk looked at both ends of the cuffs in disbelief. “You can’t . . . ,” he began.

  The inspector put his thumb on the top of the wrist cuff and his index finger on the bottom and twisted ever so slightly.

  “Yow!” screamed the clerk, writhing in pain.

  “How’s that memory working?” asked the inspector. “About where the register drawer key is?”

  “I’ll get it. I’ll get it! Just undo me.”

  “Say ‘please.’”

  “Please.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please!”

  “This is the way it works, kid. You dig out the register, then we’ll discuss the cuffs.”

  The register quickly came up onto the countertop. Frances and the inspector flipped it around and searched through it. The inspector made notes.

  “Thank you,” he said and turned to go.

  “Hey! But . . . hey!” The clerk held up his cuffed hand.

  “Was that ‘please’?” asked the inspector.

  “Please!” He lowered his voice as the inspector freed him. “Please don’t tell the manager about this . . . misunderstanding.”

  “I won’t, if you don’t, kid. Mounties having no jurisdiction in Quebec and all.”

  Frances and the inspector walked outside and exhaled plumes into the brittle winter sunshine. They hailed a taxi for the Rialto restaurant.

  “I’ve just discovered something about myself,” confided the inspector as they settled into the back seat of the cab. “Two jerks in one morning is my limit.”

  “Remind me never to cross you,” said Frances.

  “You know — me and Kid Baker? We might just get along.”

  -25-

  Kid Baker

  The Rialto restaurant didn’t look anything special from the outside, but the interior’s mahogany wood trim and lush carpeting put the Grill Room at the Chateau Laurier to shame. The maître d’ smiled and held out two menus. “Reservation, monsieur?”

  “No,” said Inspector Hollingsworth. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Baker.”

  He nodded and led them to an alcove at the foot of a curved stairway where two big men sat smoking. A giant dog lounged on the carpet. Following an eye exchange, the maître d’ left.

  The men, one wide, one narrow, silently looked them over.

  “I was wondering if I might have a word with Mr. Baker.”

  “Who you?” asked the narrow man, stubbing out his cigarette.

  Inspector Hollingsworth reached for a business card and both men simultaneously reached for shoulder holster guns. The inspector’s arm motion froze, then he returned empty, open hands towards the men. “Name’s Hollingsworth,” he said. “From Mounted Police headquarters in Ottawa. I’d like Mr. Baker’s help with a file I’m working on. If you take my coat and suit jacket, you’ll find a business card in my inside pocket.”

  The large man did exactly that, noting the handcuffs.

  “A Horseman?” said the narrow man after reading the card.

  “In a manner of speaking,” replied the inspector. “May I?” he pointed towards a pen on their table. He scribbled on the back of the card.

  The thin man read. “Friend of Quigley’s?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” repeated the inspector.

  The men exchanged looks, whereupon the heavy man took a biscuit from a bowl on the table and stood up. He lobbed the biscuit underhanded in a high arc towards the sleeping dog. The dog leaped up, caught it in his mouth and lay down chewing — all in a split second. The heavy man trudged up the stairs and was down again in two minutes. He nodded towards Frances and the inspector. Being biscuitless, they gave the dog a wide berth and followed the man up the stairs. He pressed what looked like a doorbell that didn’t ring. In seconds, a small light came on above the bell. He opened the door, nodded them in, then closed the door behind them.

  On a large sofa to the left was another massive dog, twin to the one downstairs. It opened a slow right eye on them and then closed it again. A man sat at a table by the window reading the racing sheet. He looked like an accountant, although his face had seen some wear. He took off dark-framed reading glasses and turned to them. “You really a Horseman?” Kid Baker asked the inspector. He spoke through a nose that had been broken several times.

  “I’m an inspector with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

  He looked over at Frances. “This your Ottawa tart? Coulda saved her train fare. Got six brothels over on Clark Street with the finest whores in Canada.”

  This comment fired an adrenaline rush in Frances of such magnitude that the dog jumped to his feet and bared teeth. Kid Baker processed this development with a head nod. He picked up a biscuit from the bowl on his desk and threw it in a lazy arc to the dog. The dog caught it on the fly, swallowed it in one gulp, then lay down again.

  “Thank you, Brutus,” Kid said to the dog. “I’ll be careful.” Kid turned to Frances. “My dog doesn’t want you to kill me. I don’t want you to kill me. I mistook your identity. I apologize.”

  Frances’s blood pressure dropped to normal as her anger evaporated.

  “You’re . . . ?”

  “This is Miss McFadden,” said the inspector. “A colleague from Ottawa.”

  “They have woman Mounties?”

  “They should have, but they don’t. Miss McFadden is a banker by profession. We’re working on a case together.”

  “Dogs sense a lot about human nature,” Kid said. “Saved my bacon more times than I can count.”

  “More than your quick-draw artists downstairs?” asked the inspector.

  “Kelso and Slim pulled heat on ya?”

  “I thoughtlessly reached for a business card,” said the inspector.

  Kid Baker had a raspy laugh. “Reaching for a business card doesn’t happen much in our line of work. Good to know they’re on their toes, but they’d still be saying grace when Brutus is finishing dessert.

  “So. A Horseman. You ever play the horses?” He glanced down at the race sheet with an air of disgust. “I can’t pick a winner for love or money.”

  “When I was a cadet,” said the inspector, “I was required to take horseback riding lessons at the police academy in Regina. Never felt at ease on a horse. Horse felt less easy with me up.”

  “Why join the Mounties then?”

  “Grew up in Toronto. Could tell a horse from a cow, but that was about it. Liked the idea of police work. Was interested in travel within Canada. Seemed like a good ticket.”

  “You couldn’t pick the trifecta at Blue Bonnets this afternoon out of the race sheet?”

  “I had a lot of experience pic
king horse manure out of my hair from the times I was thrown. That’s about it.”

  “And you know Quigley?”

  “Met him recently in Ottawa. We’re working on a case.”

  “Now, Quigley could pick horses,” Kid said with enthusiasm. “Had his own system. Didn’t check breeding stock, owner, trainer, jockey, track results. Not Quigley. He eyed the nag and he checked the name and made his call. He favoured squirrelly colouring. Piebalds, or a white forlock or a mismatched sock. And loved names that suggested Scotland. ‘Bonny Dundee’ or ‘Firth of Forth’ or ‘Craigellachie.’ We always had a little side bet for drinks on a meet. I’d be betting at the hundred-dollar window, and Quigley’s at the two-dollar window. He always had to buy drinks. He was the luckiest stiff I ever met. Could have made a fortune playin’ the ponies, and what’d he do? Joined the army, for God’s sake.

  “You probably didn’t come here to talk about horses.”

  “No,” said the inspector, pulling out his notepad. “Do the names Gib Seguin, Joe Lapierre or Charlie Fitzsimmons mean anything to you?”

  Kid Baker looked slightly pained. “How long you been a Horseman, Inspector?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Horsemen got a pension plan?”

  The inspector nodded.

  “Well, Kid Baker Incorporated has a pension plan too. Two plans, actually. Plan A and Plan B. People come to work for me, this is care-full-y explained. Do what you’re asked, quickly and competently, you earn pension Plan A. Should you suffer an unfortunate accident in the line of duty, next of kin gets tidy compensation.”

  “And Plan B?”

  “Let’s just say, some don’t do what they’re asked, or don’t do it quickly and competently.” He shook his head. “Well, that group takes ‘early retirement.’ Next of kin still gets a compensation package.”

  “Seguin, Lapierre and Fitzsimmons?”

  “Early retirement.”

  “I see,” said the inspector. “The main reason I’m here is that I’m looking for a guy named Carlos Orinoco.”

  Kid Baker laughed and slapped the table. “You’re looking for that son-of-a-bitch? I’m looking for him everywhere.”

  “He was staying at the Windsor Hotel last I knew, but he checked out,” said the inspector.