A Victim Must Be Found (17 page)

“Hey, that’s a little hard on the abstract expressionists. In what way is he so good?” She took a deep breath and began exploring her opinion while she talked.

“Well, Lamb has a way of dividing up the proportions in a painting between the subject and the background that … that tells you it’s a Lamb. You don’t have to look for his signature, you just know a Lamb when you see one. That’s just one thing.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He came from some place north of Toronto. A place called Varney. Have you ever heard of it?” I shook my head and she nodded, agreeing that Varney wasn’t a familiar landmark in her life either. She went on:

“I only know what Arthur Tallon told me about him. About his drinking and womanizing. That sort of thing. His life story would make a great book.”

“He was an important painter for Tallon, wasn’t he?”

“Well, yes. Tallon kept Lamb alive. Gave him enough to go on painting at a time when there was no market for his work. Tallon created the market by selling a batch of his paintings to a well-known diplomat for a song. The diplomat announced that he was supporting Canadian art, and Tallon said ‘The price was right.’”

“You liked Arthur Tallon, didn’t you?” I deduced this from the smile that accompanied Tallon’s
bon mot.
It was her first big smile, and it was worth waiting for.

“He was ‘Uncle Arthur’ to me when I was little. I can still remember the thrill of running up the stairs to that chilly, white-walled gallery on King Street He taught me to open my eyes and really look at things. Oh, I loved that man. I told him I wanted to marry him when I was seven or eight and he said he’d wait for me. He never did marry, you know.”

“Oh? What was that all about?”

“He just wasn’t sexy at all. He was really the ‘uncle’ type. That’s as close as he wanted to get to people. To women, anyway. The bigger I got, the farther apart we got, as though he was afraid of me. But we were always good friends. He was like Lewis Carroll. You know, the man who wrote
Alice in Wonderland.”
I was familiar with the book, but the private life of the author was his own business, something unconnected with missing lists and paintings.

“Carroll was ‘funny’ about little girls and couldn’t abide little boys at all.” I nodded, trying to put an end to the digression, since neither little girls nor boys seemed to be involved in the present investigation. I made a stab at restoring order.

“Did you finish telling me all you know about Mary MacCulloch?”

“You’re still on her are you?” She made a gesture that I knew would mature and become useful in middle age, if she lived that long. I kept my eyes on my hands folded neatly on my desk.

“I just asked a question. No need to snap off at me like a sick cat. Why does she make your back hair stand up?” She gave her mouth a tug that showed me that she didn’t like to be questioned about anything. She enjoyed having the conversation on her own terms.

“What do you want me to say? She’s pretty, right? Okay, she’s even better looking than pretty. She has a way about her. She’s rich enough to do what she wants and has a husband who is prepared to look the other way. Daddy says she’s no better than she should be.”

“What does he say about MacCulloch?”

“Isn’t that hearsay?”

“It would be in a court of law, but this is still 200A St. Andrew Street and not the new court house. I withdraw the question. I’ll ask him myself.”

“It’s just that …”

“Forget it, Anna. It’s not important.”

“That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

“It’s considered good technique in cross-examination. It disarms the witness. Why are you so suspicious of me?”

“People are always gouging Daddy. Always taking advantage.”

“Oh, fine! I was in bed when he called me to come over last night. He sent a car to make sure I wouldn’t disappoint him. I’m sick of rich people and their tender sensibilities.”

“There’s an exchange between Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway about rich people being different from other people.”

“Yeah, they have more money.”

“Oh, you know it then? Why do you pretend that you never read anything more complicated than the comics? I saw you talking last night. You let Daddy do a lot more explaining than he had to do. You know a lot more than you pretend to know.”

“That’s an occupational hazard. A lot of the time I pretend to know a lot I don’t. It works out.” I kept on going without taking another breath. I asked, “Did Mary Mac-Culloch have a grudge against Pambos Kiriakis, the man who was killed?”

“I don’t know. I heard she did. But who knows about things like that? I may have a grudge against you, but I’m not going to kill you.”

“I hope not.” I felt my collar getting tight again. “Now don’t forget to call your father.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Look, Anna, your old man isn’t paying me to shoot the breeze with his daughter. I’ve got work to do. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of.”

“I’ve heard that before somewhere.”

“Well, drop me a line when you figure it out. Meantime, look, I really have to show some work for the money. Okay?”

“Well …”

“Look, if you’re around the Beaumont Hotel around ten tonight, I’ll buy you a drink in the bar. The place they call The Snug.”

“You can tell me about the progress you’re making,” she said, getting up. I breathed a sigh of relief. She was actually going.

“Yeah, that’s right. Around ten, in The Snug.” A moment later she was gone and this time I didn’t even have to twist her arm.

FOURTEEN

For twenty minutes I enjoyed the silence, played around with the names on a list I’d been making, names that included everybody I’d heard about recently except for Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald and Lewis Carroll. Then the phone brought me back to the world of the convenience store and the six o’clock news.

“Hello?”

“Hello, there. I just looked you up in the yellow pages and there you were. Just where a real detective should be. This is Mary MacCulloch.”

“I knew that. I’m pretty good on voices. Your ears must have been burning, I was just talking to someone about you.”

“Look, Mr. Cooperman, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t bandy my name around like it was an old pingpong ball. I should think a reputable detective would know better.”

“Detective’s the wrong word, Mrs. MacCulloch. I’m an investigator, just like it says in the yellow pages. You get to be a detective by wearing brass buttons and a badge first. And speaking of buttons, you’ve lost one from your jacket.”

“Oh, damn! I’m glad I’m not sitting in my slip. Mr. Cooperman. How did you know that? I’ll never match it. Double damn!”

I had not imagined that she’d still be wearing the same jacket, but I didn’t mind having a reputation for X-ray vision over the telephone. Her response sounded innocent enough. I would have liked to have warned her about where the button was found, but I was sure that Chris would recognize true innocence but might get confused by her response if I warned her. So, I dropped the button. “What can I do for you, Mrs. MacCulloch?”

“I thought we’d got to first names. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to know if you intend to drop the investigation now that Pambos is dead. Poor Pambos.”

“Are you offering me honest work, Mrs. Mac-Culloch?”

“Why no! No, I was just asking. My husband and I have no secrets from one another, Mr. Cooperman. He told me about your visit. I could shoot you for letting me ramble on in your car and at the club the other day. You should have told me about that absurd list.”

“If I stopped every flow of free information, I might not make the rent, Mrs. MacCulloch. You can’t say I led you on.”

“Well, let’s shut up about that for now. Why would anyone want to kill poor Pambos?”

“Are you going to miss him?”

“Mr. Cooperman, I’m more discriminating than that. Pambos made me wish there was a table with a white tablecloth between us at all times. He had that headwaiter manner.”

“When did you start collecting paintings?”

“Finished with Pambos already? You must be able to think of more to ask me about him than that. Oh, well, I’m my own favourite subject, so let’s talk about me. I don’t mind. But, you have to understand that Peter’s the real collector. I dabble the way poor Pambos did. I watch Peter at auctions, but I don’t bid. I’ve just learned about pictures from watching people. I watch the prices and the look on people’s faces.”

“Faces like that of Jonah Abraham?”

“The very face I was thinking of. I must never talk to you fresh from the shower. You are an amazing man, even if you aren’t a drinker.”

“You have a picture he admires, I think.”

“Admires’? He practically begged me to put a price on it. I rather like the idea of a millionaire wanting something that I won’t let him have. It’s almost medieval. Like something in an opera.”

“Did Arthur Tallon help you in your art education? He seems to have been running classes around town. Were you in on any of them?”

“Arthur was very sweet, yes.” Here she paused while I could hear her lighting a fresh cigarette. She coughed and then went on. “He always let me know when some particularly nice pieces were coming up for auction in town or across the lake in Toronto. That’s how I got the Lamb Jonah wants.”

“Too bad Lamb didn’t live to see the fancy prices people are paying for his pictures.” I heard a laugh at the other end and quickly reviewed what I’d said for hidden witticisms. I didn’t find any. The laugh was repeated.

“Lamb? Dead? What are you talking about? He’s as alive as I am!”

“I thought all painters were dead. Where is he keeping himself these days?”

“Oh, he’s not social. He keeps to himself. He drinks and recites Shakespeare from the balcony. The neighbours call the police. Happens all the time. He doesn’t go to openings.”

“That’s how I’ve missed him. Where does he live?”

“The last I heard he was living with a woman on Facer Street in the North End. Wentworth Apartments, I think. But, Benny, if I may call you Benny once more, be careful! Watch him! He’ll rob you blind if he’s sober, and never turn your back on him if he’s drunk!”

“Charming!” I said.

Instead of taking the car in to have the snow tires removed, which was item number one on my own personal list, I drove the Olds out Pacer Street to the Wentworth Apartments. It gave me the opportunity to see my favourite street sign announcing “Elberta Street.” For some reason a misprint in cast iron was funnier than one on paper. But, maybe the joke was on me. What do I know about given names? I know some people make a study of them, noticing which names are in and which are out of fashion. Information like that I have to get from women like Martha Tracy. Women make a study of names. There’s an endless fascination there somewhere, but it escapes me.

Facer Street, on the northern side of the old canal, never had class. Not even when steamships were running up and down carrying the produce of the western provinces out to the St. Lawrence and the Atlantic did Facer Street reap any joy from what was going on under its nose. And now that the canal has moved to another setting altogether, and even the scar left by the old canal cut is now more or less buried under suburban streets, Facer Street has lost even the promise of happier days. The street runs straight for the most part, making only one big curve before it gives up at a railway siding. There are a few warehouses along one side and a messy run of frame houses along the other. Aluminum doors with flamingos decorate the houses that have been cared for. The others stood peeling under a hot sun, as I parked the car a few houses down from the apartment building.

A three-storey structure of red brick, the apartment’s appearance among a row of frame bungalows caused less sensation than you might imagine. The general state of dilapidation that began in the makeshift porches and rough fences was continued in brick that needed repointing and windows that needed reglazing. In one apartment a generous portion of aluminum foil applied to the picture windows blocked out the sun completely. Inside the front door, the lobby smelled of stale beer. To the right of the door, the metal frame of what was once a directory of tenants hung from one hinge. Little white letters in plastic clung to the corners like confetti. A pile of a former tenant’s belongings was stacked against the front inside wall. Battered lampshades and a floor lamp leaned over a carton of magazines and newspapers. A piece of Danish modern furniture from the 1950s, minus one of its four legs, rested as well as it could against the cardboard carton. When I pressed the elevator button, I smelled urine by the emergency exit’s stairs.

“Hey, Mister, lend me a buck!” It was the boldest of three kids ranging from nine to maybe thirteen. They looked at me not with expectation but already getting ready for the blow or the hard words that would follow their leader’s request. It was the smallest who spoke in front of his taller friends. Before I could answer, a woman opened a door.

“Get out of here, you kids! Blast off! Beat it!”

“Aw, screw off!” said the youngest.

“You don’t live here. I’ll call the police like last time! I’ll tell your mother, Alvin. I know who you are. Now go on home!” The woman lifted her ample arm to show that her threat had fire and vinegar in it. The kids didn’t wait for an exit line, they left in a tight group laughing through the front door. “And what do
you
want?” It took me a moment to realize
you
meant me.

“I’m looking for Wallace Lamb’s apartment.” She looked like I’d cracked a joke. I didn’t know how to top it.

“
Him?
You gotta be kidding. You from a collection agency?”

“Not exactly. Is he here or not?”

“Look, I could tell you he died, or went off with a registered nurse, but you’d find out anyway, so who’re we kidding?” I wasn’t sure what I was nodding to, but I nodded. “He don’t have nothin’ worth repossessing if you ask me. All they got is that colour TV and that’s it.” I tried my testy look and got the apartment number, just like in that old play: the third floor, back.

I could hear the sound of the television as I rang the bell to the right of the door-jamb. I tried to look pleasant at the beady lens in the middle of the door. It must have worked; the door was opened by another large, middleaged woman in a housedress like the kind my father used to sell in his store.