The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  On this evening, however, there was little possibility of solitude. The walkways were busy, mostly with families trying to keep their children preoccupied until the fireworks began. Behind the walkways was a grassy field covered with blankets, more parents, and squirming kids. Young couples huddled affectionately on cold grass, and older adults reclined contentedly on beach chairs.

  Ben settled into a park bench a few yards from the gazebo. Anne walked by him, the second suitcase in her hand. They exchanged no sign of recognition. She stopped where two walkways intersected. The corner of the intersection widened into a small plaza in the middle of which stood the gazebo.

  The gazebo was large, intended more as a historic edifice than a recreational facility. The inside was open. The walls carried murals depicting the Charlottetown Conference, the meeting at which the idea of a Canadian nation was conceived. She stepped cautiously inside as if to read one of the commemorative bronze plaques.

  The gazebo was empty. Strangely, Anne thought, so was the surrounding plaza. Earlier, pedestrian traffic there had been steady and, given her vulnerable situation, Anne could not help but note the change. Perhaps the warm-up acts performing their sound checks had lured some of the crowd back toward the stage on the commons, she thought. Perhaps the imminence of the fireworks drew them away. It grew quiet, too, as if some announcement were about to be made. Voices fell off, and the music from Peake’s Quay mellowed.

  Then Anne heard a clatter of feet behind her from garden side of the gazebo. It was a dark corner, in the shadow of the lamplight. She started to swing around, but she was struck from behind. She yelped in fright. Someone grabbed the hem of her jacket. Her heart raced. Then two shrill screeches cracked the air. They came from the children who had run through the rear of the gazebo, one chasing the other in a game of tag, Anne in the middle.

  “Sorry,” each cried between peals of laughter. They circled her twice, ran out the gazebo, and scampered down the path to the commons. Loose sandals scuffed and clacked as a harried, frumpy woman appeared and disappeared in pursuit of them.

  Anne’s heart was still pounding when she turned back, but it took a skip when she saw a man standing nose to nose in front of her.

  “MacLaren! What are you doing here? Where’s my Client?”

  “He couldn’t make it. He sent me.”

  “The hell he did! I made it clear. He had to be here! Not you. Him!”

  “I can’t help it. He told me to get it or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  MacLaren lifted a corner of his sweatshirt. His hand gripped the butt of a nickel-plated revolver, and his left hand reached for the valise beside Anne. He took two careful steps back. Then he strode quickly out of the gazebo and down the same path the children had escaped on.

  Ben Solomon was staring into the emptiness of the harbour when MacLaren drew abreast of him.

  “He’s got a gun!” Anne shouted.

  At that warning, Ben sprang up and grabbed MacLaren’s right wrist and upper arm. He levered the elbow forward and the wrist back, and MacLaren tumbled helplessly to the pavement face first. With his knee pinning MacLaren’s back, Ben cuffed him.

  44

  “Well, Ollie, this is a fine mess you’ve got me into,” said Ben. MacLaren was handcuffed in the back seat of Ben’s car. Ben and Anne were leaning against the hood.

  “Ben, you’re talking in riddles,” she said.

  “Sorry. A Laurel and Hardy reference.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. What I mean is, what do we do with him now?”

  That question had rolled around in her mind already. But it was something she would rather not have to deal with – like a cheating boyfriend rapping on her apartment door for forgiveness.

  Nailing MacLaren for armed robbery and possession of counterfeit money should have been gratifying. It wasn’t. Her goal had been to take down the Client, but that failed. Now he remained just as invisible and just as elusive as before. And just as dangerous.

  It was back to a stand-off. She had the money, and he had… nothing yet… but if he was the man in the straw hat, he was on the trail to getting what he needed to tip the scales in his favour, and to stop him she had to do something.

  “What are the options?” she asked.

  “I could take him downtown and book him,” he said. Anne detected ambivalence in his answer.

  “Or?”

  “We could take him somewhere and have a long chat.” Ben waited for Anne to reply. She didn’t. So he explained further. “If I take him in, he’ll go to jail for x-number of years. No doubt of that. The downside is that is you’ll lose the only link to your Client. The phoney money will be confiscated. The Feds on both sides of the border will put their bloodhounds to work. Maybe they’ll find the Client. Maybe not. They may be pissed at you for holding out on them, and they may decide to punish you for hindering a police investigation, or they may just pick you as a convenient scapegoat.”

  Ben idly drew a pattern in the dust of the parking lot with the tip of his shoe and let his words sink in.

  “What’s the downside if we do the other?” she asked.

  “It means that MacLaren walks.”

  “On the gun charge, too?”

  “Yep. Technically he’s under arrest right now. If I read him his rights, then he’ll probably clam up and we get nothing. If I start raking him over the coals without having read him his rights, then everything he says… everything… is useless in court, and it puts the whole arrest process under close scrutiny. That will screw me. My showing the probable cause for arresting him would bring us back to the counterfeit money again, and that’ll screw you.”

  “I think I like the idea of talking things through privately. Whaddya think?” Ben grimaced and nodded.

  “My place or yours?” she asked.

  Anne’s office was five blocks from the waterfront. The pyrotechnic show had begun by the time Ben pulled MacLaren from the car. Mortars popped. MacLaren flinched at the sound of them. Sky rockets whined. A white star burst glowed against the cloud cover and revealed a fright in MacLaren’s eyes, but the fright turned to panic when the cell phone on his waistband buzzed.

  “I’ll get that,” said Anne. “You can take him upstairs, please, Ben.” She grabbed the cell phone. Ben shoved MacLaren toward the door to the stairwell.

  Buzz buzz buzz.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked MacLaren.

  “Shut up! You’ll know soon enough.”

  Buzz buzz buzz.

  “What do you want? Why aren’t you taking me to the police station?”

  “What makes you think I’m a cop?” laughed Ben. MacLaren tried to look at the handcuffs binding his hands behind his back. Ben laughed again. “Those?” he said. “You can buy those at any quality hardware store.”

  Buzz buzz buzz.

  After Ben and MacLaren disappeared through the door, Anne looked at the glowing dial of MacLaren’s phone and pressed the answer button. The Client’s voice was clear and crisp and impatient. Anne said nothing and, in response to the nothing, the Client’s voice grew sharp and angry and threatening. Anne ended the call in the middle of the Client’s sentence. Then she slipped the phone into her jacket pocket and mounted the stairs.

  Ben led MacLaren into Billy’s office. A worn leather sofa backed against one wall. Ben pushed him toward it. “Sit down,” he ordered. Then he shut the door, leaving MacLaren to the workings of his imagination in the shadowy, street-lit darkness of the room.

  Anne told Ben about the Client’s call. Ben mulled it over for a few seconds. Then he nodded approvingly.

  Ben let MacLaren stew for half an hour before he returned. It was clear that MacLaren was steeped in fear but, as he questioned him, Ben became convinced that he wasn’t willing to give up any new information. MacLaren insisted he had never met the
Client. He had no knowledge of him whatsoever. The Client was blackmailing him, over what he wouldn’t say, except that it involved smuggling into Cuba and a few other Central American countries.

  That unanswered phone call must have hung heavily on MacLaren’s mind, thought Ben. MacLaren seemed to have a greater dread of the Client than he had of Ben and Anne. A half-hour of threats and the odd slap hadn’t budged him, and Ben wasn’t prepared to go further. So Ben left MacLaren in the dark and returned to the reception area where Anne was sitting behind her desk.

  “I got nothin’,” he grumbled. “So what are you grinnin’ at?” he said to Anne. He was annoyed at the self-satisfied smirk on her face, and he was equally perturbed at his own failure to squeeze anything out of MacLaren.

  “I just got a call,” she said and stopped short of explaining.

  “C’mon, c’mon, I don’t do twenty questions.”

  Ben’s no-nonsense attitude deflated Anne.

  “For heaven’s sake, Ben, you don’t have to suck all of the fun out of this job,” she said.

  Ben just stared back.

  “Okay, it was the Client. Again. On my land line.” That admission restored a gleam of interest in Ben’s eyes. Anne continued: “He accused me of holding out on him. I played dumb. Told him I played it straight. I delivered. Then I pretended to be angry and accused him of stiffing me out of the twenty grand he promised. I told him that, if MacLaren double-crossed him, it served him right. Then I hung up. He bought it. He bought the whole act,” said Anne, gleefully slamming her hand on the desk.

  “Hmmph,” said Ben. The sternness in his countenance melted away. A soft contented smile replaced it. “Good bluff, girl.”

  “I think the hook’s baited,” she said. “Now it’s time to dangle it over the right fishing hole.”

  45

  The Client checked out of his west-end motel room and started his car. He sat there for a few minutes and watched the windshield wipers snap back and forth. A film of road oil streaked the glass, and he waited for it to clear before he pulled away.

  The Client didn’t know what had happened to MacLaren, but a double-cross was a good bet. A million and a half to a worm like MacLaren was incentive enough to run, he thought. It would buy a nice little hideaway on the islands, and he could live there happily ever after because he thought the money was legitimate.

  The Client could only speculate on what rattled around in MacLaren’s mind. He wouldn’t know for sure until he found him, and there were only two places to search: MacLaren’s ship, which would leave port in three hours, or his house. Both were in Summerside.

  But MacLaren’s intentions really were irrelevant, the Client thought. He would have to kill him regardless. The unanswered cell phone call had said it all. If MacLaren was hesitant to answer, then the effect of the blackmail was weakening. MacLaren was teetering on the edge of indecision. And that was unacceptable. Even if he found MacLaren and MacLaren assured him that he still intended to deliver the money to Cuba, the Client couldn’t count on him. He could still jump ship in Halifax or another port and disappear. Recovering the money and killing him was the only option now. He would make it look like an accident, of course. A broken neck tumbling down a ship’s ladder or something like that.

  Ben and Anne discussed what to do next. Ben supplied most of the input, and his strategy was simple: make MacLaren the cheese; his freighter, the Arctic Growler, the trap; and the Client, the hungry mouse. If everything worked out, the Client would be jammed up between one of Ben’s fists and a steel bulkhead. Case closed.

  Anne’s role was to set up a watch at MacLaren’s house. It was the least likely spot for the Client to head. Therefore, the safest for Anne. That’s how Ben explained it; that’s how he wanted it, and she didn’t argue. She was becoming sick of the whole thing and wanted it over. No more spinning wheels. No more danger. No more complications. Done. She had MacLaren’s cell phone. If there was a problem, she was to get out of MacLaren’s house and call Ben.

  Before they left town, though, Ben and Anne stopped at a drive-thru window and picked up a tray of coffees, sandwiches, and donuts to go. It was an hour’s drive to Summerside where MacLaren’s ship was preparing to depart. Anne was happy for the coffee. Ben was desperate for some sugar. MacLaren was content to be ignored in the back seat and to be left sifting his head full of jumbled fears.

  The journey to Summerside was quiet. Darkness swallowed up details of the countryside, and the din of rain washed away the urge to talk. The outskirts of Summerside traced the shoreline for a couple of miles. A string of motels, restaurants, and small stores flashed by. Then they entered a compact business district. The lights of a small mall glowed dimly on the seaward side of Water Street. It had closed for the night. So had the Holland College Marine Centre, the Eptek Centre for the Arts, and the gift shops of Spinnaker’s Landing. Only the blaze of amber lights from Queen’s Wharf shone with a forlorn cheer in the steady rain.

  Ben made a sharp right, gained a bit of high ground from the shore, and, in less than two blocks, he entered a residential neighbourhood of century-old homes. MacLaren pointed out his house. For a bachelor he had kept the place in good repair. It was a two-and-a-half-storey Victorian with a steep peaked roof and carved verge board. A full veranda covered the front of the house and wrapped around one side.

  The headlights of Ben’s car lit up the front door of the house long enough for Anne to key the lock and open it. The headlights flashed again when Ben backed out of the driveway and made for MacLaren’s ship.

  The walk from the parking lot to the wharf where the Arctic Growler tied up was windy and wet. Amber lights illuminated the wharf. The ship’s deck lights blazed away. He uncuffed MacLaren and walked him aboard the ship. He warned him to stay aboard and do his job as first mate. If he did, he could leave with his ship in the morning. If he tried to run, he’d be dead before he reached the end of the wharf, and, with that threat, Ben pulled back a flap of his jacket and revealed his service revolver. Then he let go of MacLaren’s arm. MacLaren disappeared down a companionway to the engine room, and Ben headed for the bridge.

  The bridge was empty, damp, and dark. He melted into its shadows, and from behind its big windows he had a perfect view of every possible approach to the ship, and a perfect line of fire as well.

  46

  A peculiar odour struck Anne when she stepped into the vestibule of MacLaren’s house. It was not offensive, but it smelled like a bachelor’s dwelling: a hint of sweat, dead air, and mustiness.

  A street lamp cast a ghostly pall through the windows. She stood there until her eyes adjusted enough to step forward. Then she checked the house.

  Ahead of her an L-shaped staircase led to the second floor. To her right was the front parlour. It probably had not changed in decades: a formal room, little used, and furnished with good-quality but stiffly comfortable chairs and a sofa. To her left was the library. Half-empty bookcases rose to the ceiling on two walls. A massive desk set near them. It was cluttered with stacks of papers, technical manuals, and a computer. Sliding doors allowed entry to both parlour and library. The hallway and staircase separated the two front rooms.

  Behind the library was a dining room, and opposite it lay the pantry and kitchen. The pantry led back down the hallway to the staircase. At the top of the stairs, above the pantry, was the bathroom. Anne fingered through the drugs in the cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary there. What did strike her, though, was that MacLaren’s toiletries were gone. No toothbrush, comb, razor, shaving cream, or shampoo. That suggested that MacLaren had not intended to return to the house before he left on his voyage.

  Bedrooms filled the rest of the second floor. One back bedroom was used for storage. The bedding in the bedroom over the dining room was rumpled. A pair of socks, a T-shirt, and stained work boots had been tossed into the corners. The two front bedrooms were neat and long unused. Heavy
quilts covered four-poster beds. Ornate frames hung on the walls. Bucolic scenes and countrified characters filled them.

  The real surprise and delight for Anne was the fifth bedroom, a small one above the vestibule. Half of it protruded beyond the front of the house and over the veranda. It looked like part of an octagonal tower. Three windows made it the brightest room in the house, and it had a warm feel to it. The little room was en suite to the master bedroom. So it probably had been a nursery. Now it held a large wicker arm chair which faced the street. Several wicker tables and side pieces surrounded it.

  Anne plopped down in the chair, sank back, and propped her legs up on a wicker footrest. The front and the side windows provided a panoramic view up and down the street. It would make a great place to keep watch until Ben came, she thought. First, though, she had some work she wanted to do.

  Anne was curious about MacLaren’s role in the smuggling and counterfeiting and about whether or not he had a more personal connection with the Client than he had led her to believe. So far she knew little about him. She figured that he had come from money. The house and its location suggested that. The condition of the house and its furnishings also suggested that those gravy days were over for his family. In fact, the absence of current photos in the house suggested that no close family members were still living. Anne also found no hint of a woman about the place. No stray lipstick tubes, cosmetic cases, or hair clasps. No decorative tissue boxes or scented soap. And a filthy dish rag was wadded up next to the tap.