Good Year For Murder (19 page)

“What about it, Tretheway?”

“Sir?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“I know that. Why?”

“I don't know.” Tretheway shook his head. “It should've.”

“It should've! What kind of an excuse is that?”

“No excuse, Sir.”

Zulp appeared at a loss for words, but just for a moment. He shook his finger as discreetly as possible under Tretheway's large nose. “The only thing that saves you is that hardly anybody knew about it. Like the
Expositor.
Secrecy. Security. Pays off.”

Tretheway didn't answer. Zulp continued.

“Needless to say, you'll stick to traffic from now on.”

Tretheway nodded.

“No more of this Thin Man crap.” Zulp chuckled at his accidental humour. “And if you get any more ideas about this case, you come to me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tretheway turned to go.

“One more thing.”

Tretheway turned back. Zulp smiled.

“Don't get any more ideas.”

So Tretheway had immersed himself in traffic problems. For the next week, he checked traffic patterns and lights, commended the men who had written the most tickets—including the perennial champion, “Two-book Cluett'—planned his radio safety show for December, made several court appearances and generally caught up on neglected paper work. The weekend arrived quickly.

Sunday was spent catching up on the war news in the
Expositor.
It reported that early in November Hermann Goering had ordered a change in policy. Throughout the week his German Luftwaffe had concentrated entirely on the night bombings of cities. That night the population of Fort York went to their safe beds while their hearts went out to the people of Coventry.

On Monday, the news was closer to home.

The initial alarm came from a wizened, puffy-faced man named Hercules who operated and lived in the Downtown Fort York Billiard Emporium across from the Cenotaph. According to the story he told Wan Ho, Hercules was awakened at approximately two a.m. by a number of regular bangs and one loud one. He ran to his second floor window and saw a dark figure, arms and legs stiffly outstretched, lying in the snow at the base of the monument.
Far to the right, in the shadow of Sir John A. McDonald, Hercules thought he saw a group of blurry figures milling about suspiciously. But because of his daily intake of cheap sherry, blurry figures doing peculiar things were not too uncommon in Hercules' world.

Throwing a worn, stained parka over his long underwear and stepping into a pair of torn overshoes with broken buckles, he ran downstairs. As he approached the fallen figure, he saw that it was an army officer with a large service revolver clutched tightly in his right fist. And although Hercules didn't remember his name, he recognized him as the Alderman who usually wore a uniform and saluted a lot.

Hercules bent over the body far enough to detect a small black hole between Wakeley's eyes. He straightened up, shivering. More out of curiosity than courage, Hercules followed Wakeley's last footprints into the shadows toward Sir John. He circled the statue, but encountered no one. Someone, however, had scratched a message in the snow on the far side of the statue's base. Hercules read it, squinting the same way he did when he read wine labels. He didn't understand it, but it scared him badly anyway. Hercules ran, slipping, unsteady in his loose overshoes, across the street to what he had always thought was a police call box. When the Yellow Cab dispatcher at the other end of the line figured out what was going on, he relayed Hercules' call to the police. They responded in less than five minutes.

Tretheway was notified shortly after in the general alarm. By the time Jake had wheezed life into the Pontiac and he and Tretheway had driven in from the west end, the preliminary investigation was well under way. Most of Tretheway's information had to be gleaned from Wan Ho or his squad. Dr Nooner, who was almost getting used to his monthly emergency calls, had already been and gone, accompanying the body to the morgue for further examination. But he had left the pertinent medical facts with Wan Ho.

“Four bullets,” Wan Ho said. “Probably small calibre. All in the upper body. Chest area.”

“The report said several regular bangs and one loud one,” Tretheway said. “I take it that was Wakeley's service revolver.”

“Wakeley didn't fire back,” Wan Ho said. “He tried. Doc Nooner said there was real pressure on the trigger.”

“Then why …”

“His safety was on.”

Tretheway looked puzzled.

“One more thing.” Wan Ho pointed at the ground. “It looks like Wakeley walked back here, then turned around and was shot.”

“While trying to fire his own gun?”

“Right. Here, look at this.” Wan Ho walked beside Wakeley's footprints. Tretheway and Jake followed with two of Wan Ho's men. They stopped about halfway between the Cenotaph and Sir John A. McDonald. Wan Ho pointed down again. “There.” Wakeley's tracks suddenly ran into a maze of other footprints that marred the snow the rest of the way to the statue. “It looks like several people.”

“Maybe four or five?” Tretheway asked.

Wan Ho nodded. “They either stayed here and fired at Wakeley. Or walked back there,” he pointed at the statue, “turned, like Wakeley did, and then fired.”

“Like a duel?” Tretheway said.

“Like a duel,” Wan Ho repeated.

“Damned unfair one,” Jake said.

“Just a minute,” Tretheway said.

They looked at him.

“Do you mean to tell me that early this morning at least five people, maybe more, had a duel with a city Alderman, shot him dead in downtown Fort York and nobody saw or heard anything? Where the hell were the beat men?”

“I know it sounds incredible,” Wan Ho said. “But I've already checked with Central about the policemen on the downtown beat. And there is a hole in there. And it wouldn't be too difficult to find out when. Ask a few questions. Watch a few nights.” Wan Ho looked at Tretheway. “You should know the police can't be there every minute.”

Tretheway agreed grudgingly.

“So for over a quarter hour,” Wan Ho went on, “if there was no other traffic—and Sunday night is usually quiet—they'd have clear sailing.”

“They took an awful chance,” Jake said.

“They did with every murder,” Tretheway said.

“You're right,” Wan Ho said. “But this time, there's a witness.” Tretheway started. “Who? Where is he?”

“Over there.” Wan Ho inclined his head toward an official car parked across the street. “In Zulp's car. His name's Hercules … ah …”

One of Wan Ho's men produced a notebook. “Goodfellow. Hercules Goodfellow.” He pointed to the second storey poolroom. “His observations were made from up there.”

“That's Here's place,” Jake blurted out. “The poolroom.”

“Do you know him?” Wan Ho asked.

“Sort of.”

“You play pool?” Tretheway asked, surprised.

“Maybe a little English billiards,” Jake apologized. “Only sometimes.”

“Is this Hercules reliable, Jake?” Wan Ho asked.

“I'd hate to go to court with him,” Jake said. “He drinks a bit.”

“That's what I thought,” Wan Ho said.

“Did you talk to him before Zulp took him away?” Tretheway asked Wan Ho.

“Yes. Long enough.” Wan Ho took five minutes to relate all the details of Hercules' story. “And he's a little vague about everything except the message written in the snow,” he concluded.

“What'd it say?” Tretheway asked.

“You'd better look first,” Wan Ho said.

They followed him around to the far side of Sir John. Wan Ho shone his flashlight at the statue's base, now clear of snow. “There,” he said. “The message was there, he said.”

“He said?” Tretheway questioned. “You never saw it?”

“No,” Wan Ho said. “It could've blown away.”

“You mean, if it was ever there.”

“That's true.”

“And he remembers what it said?”

“Word for word.” Wan Ho flicked a finger at one of his men. Tretheway and Jake waited while the detective flipped through his book again. He cleared his throat before speaking. “War is nothing but a duel on an extensive scale.”

After a few seconds, Tretheway broke the silence. “Now what the hell does that mean?”

Wan Ho spread his arms in ignorance.

“This Hercules remembered that?”

“Can't shake him,” Wan Ho said.

“I'm surprised he could read it,” Jake said.

“Another thing,” Tretheway said. “What's the occasion?”

“Pardon?” Wan Ho went blank.

“The special day. The holiday. What's November 18?” Tretheway turned to Jake. “Do you know?”

“Ah … not offhand. The first was All Saints' Day. Last Monday was Armistice.” Jake thought for a moment. “End of the month is St. Andrew's Day. But the eighteenth …” He shook his head.

“Any ideas, Wan Ho?” Tretheway asked.

“No,” Wan Ho answered. “I'm really in the dark on this one.”

“I think we're about to be enlightened,” Jake said, craning his neck and peering around Tretheway in the direction of Zulp's car. They all turned to see Zulp approaching with Hercules Goodfellow in tow. Zulp was smiling.

“How's it going, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Fine, Sir,” Wan Ho answered. “Just going over the facts.”

Zulp stopped smiling when he saw Tretheway. “What are you doing here?”

“General alarm,” Tretheway said.

“Oh. All right, then.” Zulp seemed unsure of himself. “You were seven days out, you know.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And I suppose you have a theory about this?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, then.” Zulp's confidence strengthened. “If you'd all pay attention.”

The group tried to look more attentive.

“I've been interrogating our star witness here.” Zulp indicated Hercules, who was enjoying being the centre of attention. “And I've come up with a few facts. Ideas. Solutions. Thought we should discuss them. Feel free to add your own.” He glanced at Tretheway. “Within reason. Now. First.” He clasped his hands behind his back and appeared to stare at the sky. “Does anybody know who owns that place?”

No one answered right away.

“Ah … what place?” Wan Ho asked finally.

Zulp lowered his eyes and pointed across the street.

“There. That place. The poolroom. Where Mr Goodfellow works.”

Hercules nodded adamantly in agreement.

“No,” Wan Ho said. His two men said the same thing.

Tretheway and Jake shook their heads.

“Pennylegion. Joseph Pennylegion.” Zulp waited a dramatic moment so the startling revelation could sink in before he went on. “The Controller!”

Nobody said anything again.

“Well,” Zulp urged. “How about that?”

“I didn't know that,” Wan Ho said.

“Neither did I,” Tretheway said. “But what's it got to do with Wakeley's murder?”

“The observation point. Mr Goodfellow here, saw almost the whole thing from up there.” Zulp pointed again. Hercules nodded adamantly again.

“Yes. But how does that tie in?” Tretheway asked.

“You know Pennylegion's lifestyle.” Zulp looked around the group. “Unsavoury companions. Dark shirts. White ties. The funny names. Big cars. This was obviously a gangland-style killing.”

“With twenty-twos?” Tretheway asked.

“What the hell's the difference?” Zulp shouted. “Who cares about calibre?”

“It's just that you associate gangland stuff with shotguns,” Wan Ho intervened. “Or machine guns. And more violence.”

“Murder isn't violent?” Zulp asked.

“But I still don't see the connection,” Tretheway said.

“Why not?” Zulp said. “He's a politician.”

“We can't arrest him for that,” Tretheway said. “Or because he has a poolroom.”

“He owns seven of them,” Zulp countered.

“That's still no crime,” Tretheway said.

“And I'll wager that today is an occasion.” Zulp ignored Tretheway. “A special day. A meaningful one to the criminal element. Like John Dillinger's birthday. Or the founding of Alcatraz. Or even some anniversary of the Fort York Jail.”

“But what's it prove?” Tretheway persisted.

“Dammit, Tretheway! Use your head. Think of something. Imagination.” Zulp turned to the others. “I can't do everything for you. I've given you the germ. The nucleus. Make it grow. Run it down. Like good policemen.” He was distracted by the approach
of the
Fort York Expositor's
star reporter and a cameraman. “Here comes trouble,” Zulp said under his breath. “Let's get on with the job. Remember. Mum's the word again.” He straightened his hat and pulled his tunic into place before he turned to face the intruders.

The investigation proceeded routinely—or as routinely as a sixth murder in as many months could. Hercules Goodfellow had a field day telling his story to the press. His actions became braver and his deductions more profound with each retelling of the events.

By now, the police knew what to do without being told. Uniformed men cordoned off the whole park. Wan Ho's squad searched the ground thoroughly for more footprints, fingerprints, and clues of any importance, while other detectives went, once again, door-to-door seeking information. Squad cars patrolled in ever-widening circles around the area. Zulp kept appearing at different vantage points with unnecessary commands.

Tretheway, meanwhile, walked the periphery of the park with Jake beside him. He had been put in charge of the uniformed men stationed around, but away from, the murder scene—an inspirational last minute assignment from Chief Zulp.

“I wonder if they've found anything?” Tretheway said.