Authors: Ted Wood
Now Murphy burst out. "Pardoe could've done that. Winslow never slugged anybody."
"He was pushing speed," I reminded him. "I know the guy was your buddy, Murph, but you have to admit he was into a dirty business. He could've picked up a few dirty habits, in private."
Murphy stood up. "I'll go get some more water for the tea," he said angrily and stumped out.
Fullwell said, "I think this is the scenario. It all fits."
"It almost fits," I cautioned him. "We still haven't found Pardoe, and the girl has gone missing. If we could get a line on them we could tie up the whole case and go home and watch the late movie on TV."
Fullwell stretched slowly and deliberately and crushed out his cigarillo on the edge of his saucer. "We have got to find Pardoe," he said.
W
e both sat still for a moment, looking like Moses must have looked when the Lord laid the tablets on him. Then I said, "There's one thing we still have in the hole."
"What's that?" Fullwell stopped in the middle of lighting another cigarillo.
I reached into my sweaty shirt front and pulled out the envelope that Angela Masters had given me. "This is the key to whatever the hell Pardoe wants to talk about."
Murphy came back in with the kettle. He looked at the envelope and said, "Jeezuss! How come you're carrying that around, Reid? That belongs in the safe."
"I'll put it in there later on. Right now, I've got it and as far as we know, Pardoe wants it, so he or the girl is going to come looking for it."
Fullwell was the first to take that one up. "I hope you're right, Chief, because otherwise we have to wait for the OPP to come up with them in their car, and that could be a couple a' hundred miles from here."
"I'm not holding my breath. This is a holiday weekend and the OPP are all there waving cars through tieups, blowing their little whistles. They'll never find a car just because we're looking for it, unless it has an accident."
Fullwell clenched his teeth on his little cigar. He reminded me of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. "Well, if that's the case, and I figure it will be, I should get myself back to Toronto and start our own people looking for Pardoe and the girl."
It had to happen. Our help was shrinking. Once Fullwell had driven away and Murphy had turned in for the night, then the whole case would turn back on me and Sam, one man and his dog.
"If you can get some gunpowder under the American police, maybe we can come up with them. Meantime, I'm gonna keep looking around here," I said.
Fullwell nodded. "That's all we can do. But what're you gonna do with that envelope from the girl?"
"I'll put it in a safe place," was all I promised.
He stood up, reaching down to lean on the table and stare at me. "Make it good and safe."
"It will be."
He nodded, then thanked Murphy formally for supper and went out to thank Bertha. She responded with a little ripple of talk that lasted while Murphy said, "He's right, you know, Reid, that's the only goddamn thing we got. Hang on to it good."
I stood up and pushed the chair back, politely. "Listen, Murph, except for this thing, we're nowhere. Believe me, it's going in the safest place I know."
He looked at me with an intensity beyond words, then slowly nodded. "Good."
"Don't worry. Take the night off, see if you can relax, have a few beers. I'm gonna take Sam around town and settle the place down."
He stretched back in his chair, the weariness showing in every line. "Forget the beers, but I'll be happy to lay back a spell."
I banged him on the shoulder. "Thanks for the supper. I'll drop Fullwell back at his car."
He nodded again and I went through to the little room where Bertha was operating the phone. It was a curious forward projection on the picture of the wartime woman helping her man. Everything in the room dated from the forties, from her marriage; only Bertha was older, in her mid-fifties now and slower than she had once been. But she still had the same efficiency that had made her the go-getter of Murphy's Harbour when she married Murph in 1946. I thanked her and she waved an "it was nothing" wave and went on chatting on the phone.
Fullwell looked at me expectantly and I led him out again, giving Sam the nod to follow us out of the house. We went out to the car and I let Sam into the back. He coiled down immediately, leaving Fullwell and me alone to discuss the case. Fullwell was drowsy from the unaccustomed sunshine of his afternoon. I took him back to the station, and he got into his car like a sleepwalker. Then he wound down the window and called across to me. "There's gotta be a tie between Pardoe and this place. Maybe it was one of his bosses, maybe there's a mob heavy staying up here, something. I'll get on it."
"It would sure help," I said.
He waved, casually, one copper to another, and drove off. When he had gone into the gathering dusk, I turned back and glanced through the screen into the rear seat. "Looks like me and you take care of things, old buddy." Sam looked up briefly and bumped his tail, then closed his eyes again.
I sat and thought for a while, then decided what had to be done next. I drove off, back down the road to my house. It was dark, of course, and I went into the kitchen, the logical place anyone would expect me to visit first. I switched on the light and opened the refrigerator. Inside there was the inevitable row of beer bottles and a half-empty can of dog meat. I took out the can and set it on the countertop. Then I went out to the dog run, making a little pantomime of walking lowly and rubbing my neck as if I were weary, just in case anyone should be tuned in from the shadows. Sam's dish was here. I picked it up. Then I went back into the house and drew the blinds in the kitchen. I had a roll of tape in the drawer and I used it to tape the envelope Angela Masters had given me to the underside of Sam's dish. After that I tipped the rest of the can of dog meat into the dish and carried it out to the dog run. Sam followed, wagging his tail at the unexpected promise of goodies in the dish.
I set it down inside the run and gave Sam his go-ahead. He got through the meat in his customary three swallows and I called him back to the scout car. I felt sure that nobody would suspect I'd put anything as important as the Straiton envelope on the flip side of a dog dish, and I felt just as sure that it would be perfectly safe there, especially when I came back and put Sam in there for the night.
He got back in his old spot on the rear seat and we drove to town. The parking lot at the tavern was full. I guessed that murder was a big drawing card. Saturday was always busy, but tonight was frantic. The noise of the band flooded the scout car even before I'd shut the engine off. I got out and called Sam after me.
We walked in through the back door, into the kitchens. The Chinaman on duty grinned at me and I grinned back, two functionaries showing professional courtesy. I went on by him, through the savage heat of the barbecue pit where he was flipping steaks for the big spenders out front, and on to the side of the bar.
Frank the barman was running draught beer, his hands moving continuously in a choreography that never let up. As fast as he could fill them, the water was putting them on a tray and shoving them out into the crowd. He looked up and winked and gestured toward me with a glass. I shook my head. One would do nothing for the heat, and two would take the backbone right out of me.
I walked past him and stood at the edge of the tiny dance floor as the four-piece group did their best with the golden oldies from the forties. Clem, on trumpet, was pretty good. He was handling "Poor Butterfly" with the proper respect and I heard him out, my eyes checking all around the room for anything suspicious. There was nothing. Nobody too noisy or drunk, nobody strange. All of them had the correct amount of tan that meant they had been here for at least today with nothing else on their minds but getting brown.
When he finished I waved to him and went back out to continue checking my patch, my whole moribund patch.
The marina was locked up. Walt Puckrin's dog, a big snarly castrated shepherd, was on duty inside the boathouse, so that was safe. The few front doors on the street facing the marina were all closed up, except for the restaurant. I stuck my head inside but there was nothing happening except for a few kids ordering up the specialty of the place, hamburgers and shakes. They looked at me straight faced and I nodded and went on out again. The big thermometer on the dock was registering close to eighty and the mosquitoes were humming. I felt glad be living here, not spending hard-earned city dollars to rent an overheated bedroom in town.
Everything was fine. And then I got wind of the trouble. A car came roaring by me in second gear. It was full of teenagers and they exploded out of it, leaving the doors hanging open, and piled into the beverage room of our other hostelry, the local's local.
I called Sam to heel and trotted over to the back door, again, entering through the kitchen. Nobody ever expects a policeman to come at him the same way as his order or chow mein. Sam was right behind me as I came through the swinging doors and found myself at the back of a crowd that was standing on chairs and jumping up to see what was happening in the middle of the room.
There was so much shouting going on that nobody would have heard me even if I'd been stupid enough to shout. Instead said a quiet little thank you to my patron saint and told Sam speak. At once his amiability dropped off him like a mask. He became a barking slavering monster, his lips curled back to expose fangs like daggers. The crowd parted like magic, admitting the pair of us to the main attraction, a fight.
Big Eddy Crowfoot was taking on two very pale-faced cottagers. He was reeling drunk but still light as a ballet dancer on his feet. In his right hand he had the neck of a broken whiskey bottle, the remains of the brown bag he had covered it with still hanging down around the ugly jagged edges. One of the cottagers was bleeding freely from a cut hand. He was clutching his wrist with his other hand, looking around him and swearing in a frightened voice. The other man was tougher, holding a chair out in front of him, facing Eddy, waiting for a chance to pin him once he jabbed.
Eddy was cursing them in a flat, uninterested voice, urging them to come on, come on. It was as routine as Chinese theater. A couple of waiters were hovering around the edges of the fight, shouting, for what that was worth, and standing by pick up bodies if Eddy did his thing.
Slowly they all became aware of Sam and me. The waiters backed off and the two cottagers begged for help with their eyes as they circled. I told them, "You two stand still. Eddy, drop that bottle."
He turned and focused on me and his face lit up with delight. "Hey. It's the tough guy. Eh? Eh?" He waved his bottle at me. "C'mon, Killer."
I took no notice and he raised the volume. By now the room was silent, except for him and Sam, still slavering and threatening, giving tongue like a whole pack of hounds.
I kept my own voice calm. "Drop it, Eddy."
He waved his bottle again. He was enjoying himself. A fight would not scare him. He would keep going without malice until one of us was in hospital. Fighting was fun. I had gotten to know why Indians used to call their menfolk "braves."
"Come on, Killer," he said. And other voices were taking it up. "Hey! Killer! Hey! Come onnnnn Killer!!!" Eddy looked around, cunningly. He was among friends. He could take my face off with his bottle. It was okay.
He waved the bottle again and I lost my patience. I told Sam, "Fight!"
Sam stopped speaking. Silent as the Angel of Death he lunged forward and grabbed Eddy by the wrist of the hand holding the bottle.
Eddy dropped the bottle and in the same moment he wet himself in shock and fear.
I told him, "There, see what you've done now. You oughta be ashamed of yourself."
The crowd had stopped calling out. They shared his shock he strained back, tugging his arm against the clenched jaws. Desperately he kicked out at Sam, and then screamed as Sam automatically increased the bone-crushing pressure on his arm. I took out my handcuffs and hit him shrewdly on the free wrist with the edge of the cuff. It opened and flipped around his wrist, clipping shut on his hand. Then I whistled once, shrill and loud. Instantly Sam released the other arm. I could see deep puncture marks in the skin, but there was no blood. I asked Eddy, "You gonna make trouble?"
"Not me, Chief, honest." He sounded like he meant it. The crowd was jamming closer, one or two of the bold ones were reaching out to pat Sam, but drawing back when he fixed his big eyes on them.
I led Eddy by the handcuff I had snapped on him, giving the other two men a nod to follow me. They all came, quiet as mice, back to the space behind the bar where the empty beer cases were stacked eight deep. The barman hovered over us, anxious to get his word in. "Thanks, Reid, I musta phoned a dozen times, but the station line was busy."
"People calling in about Ross Winslow," I told him. I gave Eddy a gentle shove, sitting him down on a couple of low-set beer cases. "Relax," I told him. I opened my notebook and wrote "8:50
P.M.
investigate disturbance, Murphy's Harbour Arms. Arrest Eddy Crowfoot, create disturbance." I took the names of the cottagers. One was a regular with a place at the Harbour, the one with the cut hand was a friend, up for the Great Canadian Weekend of helping to build the cottage extension.
I looked at his hand. It was nasty, a cluster of gashes that was going to need stitches and a month or so of healing. Compared with Winslow's throat it was nothing. "That needs care. Better get to the hospital, right away."
The man swore, bitterly. "Goddamn hotel. You come in for glass o' beer an' you get half killed." He was bigger than he had looked in his fear, maybe five ten with a good build. He was in his late twenties and his voice had the burbling, oddly stressed phrasing of the Maritimes. He verified it for me with his next action. Without batting an eye he lashed out with his right foot and caught Eddy neatly on the kneecap.