Death in a Family Way (2 page)

Nat leaned back into his swivel armchair and puffed on his foul-smelling cigar. “I'll tell you this much, George, I would settle for some nice, middle-aged woman if she was able to type without making too many mistakes and could make some kind of order out of this mess.”

“Well, how's business anyway?”

“Picking up. Couldn't be any worse than last year, for Pete's sake,” Nat answered, tapping the ash off his cigar. “And the cases are getting more interesting. Not so many deadbeats and missing husbands.”

“It must be nearly four years since you quit the force.”

“Would you believe six last month?”

“Well, we still miss you at the precinct, but you were wise in leaving when you did. That Mulligan affair sure tainted the force.”

“Yeah? I'm no saint, George, but I draw the line at all that
graft and greed. Hell,” he continued savagely, “I thought I was in the force to protect people, not turn a blind eye while the chief of police is lining his pockets.” He paused and took a drag at his cigar. “We were all taken in by Mulligan. All of us.” He leaned back into his chair, his thoughts returning to the days when he had been a rookie on the vice squad. “He was going to clean up the city, remember? What a joke!” He took another drag at his cigar. “I thought he was for real, you know, but being on vice I found out what was really happening. Even though I managed to get a transfer to homicide, the force had lost its appeal. Maybe I was too much of an idealist. I admire you, though, for sticking with it.”

“Yeah? Well I admire your guts for getting out. But it's different for me. I've a wife and kids depending on me. I can't afford the luxury of idealism.” George got up from his chair. “Things are a lot better under George Archer, you know, but I still miss your ugly face.” He smiled as he reached up and took his coat down from the bamboo coat tree. “But that guy Farthing they moved into your spot is one goddam pain in the ass.” He gave a huge sigh. “Ah well, see you around,” he said as he opened the outside door. “And I expect to see that beautiful blonde sitting at the front desk the next time I come.”

The phone gave a shrill ring.

“There's your blonde,” Sawasky grinned as he went out.

“No such luck,” Nat answered as he reached for the instrument. “Hello.”

“Oh . . . excuse me. Is it . . . ? It's about your ad . . . in the paper?” Margaret suddenly felt very foolish. “I expect it's taken,” she finished lamely.

“No, as a matter of fact, it isn't, not yet,” Nat replied, reaching for a notepad. “How'd you like to give me some particulars? Starting with your name.”

“My name . . . oh, my name is Margaret . . . Margaret Spencer, and your ad did say ‘experience not necessary,' and I'm afraid that's it. I've very little.”

Nat laughed and Margaret liked the sound of it. An open, confident laugh, she thought.

“That's okay, then,” he said, “but do you fill the other requirement—mature person?”

Margaret found herself laughing too. “Oh yes, that one I do fill,” she answered, looking directly over at Harry's birthday card propped on the mantelpiece.

“Could you come down to the office for an interview—say this afternoon around two o'clock?”

“This afternoon? I guess so,” she replied slowly.

“Where do you live, Mrs. Spencer?”

“Kerrisdale. On Elm.”

“That's perfect,” he answered. “My office is 1687 West Broadway, Suite 301. Do you know the area? It's between Fir and Pine. It'll take you about twenty minutes or so by bus.”

“Yes,” Margaret answered slowly. I know the district quite well. Whom do I ask for?”

“The name's Nat. Nat Southby. It's on the door.”

“All right, Mr. Southby. I'll see you at two, then.” She replaced the receiver and sat down with a thump on the chair next to the telephone table, a dazed look on her face.

I didn't ask any of the right questions . . . What kind of business is he in? What salary does it pay? It's absolutely out of the question . . . what will Harry say? I should call him back and say I can't make it.
But instead, Margaret went to the hall mirror and looked herself up and down. And, without fully realizing it, she took the first timid step toward changing her life.

It was close to lunchtime and Broadway was thick with people, buses and parked cars. Margaret soon gave up the attempt to find a parking spot for her small red Morris Minor on the main drag, and instead turned off onto Fir, where, even though the traffic was lighter, she was still lucky to find a place just being vacated.

Most of the buildings in the 1600-block were two and three storeys high, with offices and garment factories on the upper floors and shops at street level. The business of selling spilled out onto the sidewalk: right next door to a second-hand shop where old books and magazines were displayed on a rickety table was a small Italian bakery, and next to that a Chinese grocery with pails of cut flowers, boxes of vegetables and potted plants. As Margaret joined the lunchtime strollers, the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the rich aroma of ground coffee and made her realize that in her nervousness to be punctual, she'd forgotten to eat lunch.

Halfway down the block, she found number 1687 easily enough and saw that although the brick building was old, it was not quite as rundown as the neighbours that hemmed it in on either side. A photo shop occupied the ground floor, but next to it stood a glass door leading into a kind of small lobby area.

Resolutely, she pushed it open. Immediately in front of her was a narrow staircase, and beside it an old elevator waited for passengers, its sliding steel gate open, all lights off. One look at the elevator convinced her to choose the stairs, but by the time she had climbed the three flights, she wished that she had accepted the dingy elevator's invitation. Puffing with exertion, she walked along the dimly lit corridor to number 301. “Southby's Investigations,” she read on the grimy sign. “Please Walk In.”

The room she entered overlooked Broadway. She just had time to notice a wooden desk with a Remington typewriter on it, and next to it two battered green filing cabinets, their open drawers spilling out buff folders bulging with photographs and papers, before a man's voice called, “Come in.”

Looking around, she realized that the voice was coming from a partly open connecting door. As she pushed gently on it, clouds of cigar smoke wafted out over her head, forming eddies and swirls before slipping through an air vent in the ceiling of the outer office.

Hesitantly poking her head around the door, she saw a rather untidy man sitting behind a desk piled high with more buff folders and papers. He stood up as she entered, immediately tried to hitch up his sagging pants, stubbed a half-smoked cigar into an overflowing ashtray and, with a nod, indicated a chair.

“Sit down, Mrs. . . . uh . . .” He rummaged through the mess on his desk and finally came up with a scrap of paper. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Spencer, isn't it?”

Margaret nodded, at a loss for words.

He brushed cigar ash off his already stained jacket and sat down. For a moment, he just looked at her. The blue of her smart Chanel wool suit matched her eyes perfectly, and the March wind had given her cheeks a healthy glow.

“Have you done any office work at all?” he asked suddenly.

“A long time ago,” she answered, not so winded anymore. “I worked as a legal secretary in my husband's office. I'm afraid my typing is very rusty.”

Nat's face lit up. “A lawyer's office. Hey, that's great. That's the kind of experience this job needs.”

“What do you mean?” Margaret said, startled. “What kind of agency are you? It doesn't say on the door.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” He rummaged through the papers once again and came up with a grubby business card, which he thrust at her. “I thought you understood, I'm a detective. Nat Southby, Private Investigator,” he proclaimed proudly.

She read the card and then looked at him again. He certainly didn't look like Humphrey Bogart in
The Maltese Falcon
or any of the other detectives she had seen in the movies, for that matter. He should have been leaning back in his swivel chair, his .38 revolver in a shoulder holster, and his feet on the desk, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, staring defiantly into her eyes. Instead, Nat was somewhat overweight, probably in his mid-fifties, dressed in baggy grey slacks and a blue-striped shirt—a nondescript blue-and-red tie lay on the desk—with an ash-spotted, brown tweed sports jacket completing his ensemble. There was no drink and no gun.

“Don't look the part, eh?” he said with a smile, which lit up his plump face. His brown eyes twinkled out of the creases at their corners.

Margaret blushed, and to hide her confusion, asked, “What kind of investigative work do you do, Mr. Southby?”

“I take on anything. Business espionage, stolen goods, dead-beats, missing persons, fraud. You name it and I'll have a stab at it. Don't touch divorce, though.” He paused for breath. “I also do a lot of leg work for different law firms. That's why I said your experience would come in useful.”

“But that was years ago,” she said in alarm, “before I had my two daughters. And they're in their twenties now.”

“It'll come back,” he said confidently. “It's like riding a bicycle. Now, let's have some particulars, such as . . . are you still married? I mean, divorced or anything?”

“I'm married.”

“What about your girls? Still live at home?”

“One's married and the other's a nurse at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster.”

“And your husband's a lawyer, eh? Criminal, I suppose?”

“Corporate. He's a partner in Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer.”

“Oh yes, I've heard of them, though they're not one of the firms I work for.” Nat rose from his chair. “I really don't know what else to ask you,” he said. “I started this agency five years ago, you see, but the office help I've had up to now's been a disaster.”

“What would I have to do?” Margaret asked.

“Come into the outer office and I'll show you,” he answered, leading the way. “It'll be, you know—taking phone calls, typing up reports. Things like that.” He walked over to the two filing cabinets. “These contain all the files on my clients.”

Margaret sat down tentatively at the scratched wooden desk and took in the matching wooden filing trays, which were overflowing with letters and documents. “Is all this to go into those filing cabinets too?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “You can see things have sort of gotten out of hand. I've tried a series of girls, but since it's just a part-time job, it attracts mostly young ones fresh out of school and on their way to something more permanent.”

“And the hours are from nine to one?”

“That's right. Yeah. Will you give it a try?”

She got up from the desk and walked over to one of the
windows to look down at the busy street, and then back at his earnest face. “Yes,” she said at last. “I can't promise miracles. But I'll give it a try.”

“Could you start right away—say, tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

“Well . . . I don't . . .” Then she nodded.

“Nine o'clock?”

“Well, yes. All right, I'll be here.”

A half hour later, she sat sipping a cup of tea in the Aristocrat Restaurant on the corner of Broadway and Granville.
Margaret, what have you done . . . ? How can I tell Harry about this?
The waitress placed a sandwich in front of her, and Margaret absent-mindedly took a bite.
I didn't ask how much it paid. Harry will never approve . . . his wife working in a seedy office. And a detective's office at that.
She was still turning the problem over in her head as she slipped behind the wheel of her Morris to drive home.

The solution came to her as she was fumbling for her keys to the front door.
Why tell him at all? Just keep the whole thing to myself. It'll save all those I-told-you-sos if I should fall flat on my face.

•  •  •

HARRY AWOKE THE
next morning to the smell of brewing coffee. He realized that Margaret must have risen early, and as he struggled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, he peered over the banister and was surprised to see her fully dressed in a navy-blue skirt and a cashmere twin-set in a pretty shade of coral. Before going downstairs, he showered, shaved and dressed, and when he descended to the kitchen, he found her already sitting at the table, sipping a glass of orange juice.

“You're up early,” he commented as he sat down and picked up his morning newspaper. “Off somewhere?”

“Thought I'd spend my birthday money.” She felt a telltale blush starting, but she had no need to worry, as Harry was already
immersed in his paper and munching on a piece of toast. Quietly, she picked up her plate and cup, put them in the sink and started for the stairs.

Harry looked up. “Mmm . . . sorry, dear. Where did you say you were going?”

“Shopping,” she answered shortly.

“Have a nice morning, then,” he said, before sticking his nose back into his paper. “Going to spend my gift on something pretty?” But Margaret could see he didn't really expect an answer, as he was totally engrossed in the financial section.

•  •  •

THIS TIME MARGARET
was lucky and found a parking place quite close to the office; to her relief, she was five minutes early. She hesitated at the door before pushing it open.

“You're here. Great!” her new boss greeted her with an affable smile. “I was afraid you'd have second thoughts.”

She shook her head, and slipping her coat off, looked for someplace to hang it.

“Here, give it to me,” Nat said, taking it from her. “You can use this little closet for your things.”