by Warren Court
“No, no. It’s my fault. Won’t happen again.”
“What was it? You working a case?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Anyway, there she is. Looks sound to me,” Mason said, and pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the car.
“See you, Mason, and thanks again.”
The mechanic went back into the bay and Armour turned around slowly, examining the cars. Which one was his? The small four-digit plates attached to their bumpers gave no clue. He was fairly certain his car was a new model, so he discounted three pre-war cars. They were in good shape but just too old. There were also two Dodges in the lot. Armour was certain he drove a Ford.
Armour scratched his head and removed the jangle of keys from his pocket. He looked around once more at Mason’s service station; the mechanic was nowhere to be seen, and his two men were still down in the service pit. There was the clanking of wrenches and one of them swore.
Armour went up to each car, trying the door key. He hit pay dirt on the fifth car. It was a nice Model T; black, of course. The interior was grey mohair. One of the Bakelite gearshift knobs was chipped. Armour sat down in the car.
“Hello there,” he said softy. He examined the gears and levers. Now to get this started, he said to himself.
Start? The starter, of course. Armour searched for an electric starter button; there was none. He got out and went around to the front of the car, where a lever stuck out from the bumper. He reached back into the car and flipped the magneto to on and then went back to the crank.
Armour cranked it once, and it backfired and caught his wrist, almost breaking it. Armour held his arm and grimaced.
“You okay?” Mason called from the door to his office.
Armour straightened and spoke to him over the roof of the car.
“Fine. Just fine.”
Armour put the palm of his hand on the handle again. This was how you did it. He pushed it around smartly but was ready to back away in case the starter bucked again. It did not. Instead, the car jumped into a steady high-RPM growl; then, ten seconds later, it smoothed out to a barely audible tick tick. It sounded like there was a sewing machine under the hood. Armour, with a pleased look on his face, got back in.
He put-putted to the corner of Temperance Street and Yonge, saw Billy in his stand and waved at him. Billy, cigar in hand, looked confused and waved back.
It took him three blocks to the get hang of it, before it all came back to him like second nature. The more he drove the car the more familiar it became, like an old friend. He was convinced his was the nicest Model T on the road, and he beamed from ear to ear.
Streetcars commanded the centre of Yonge, and there were worn-out, haggard ponies hauling coal and ice wagons. Cars and delivery trucks zigged and zagged in front of him, and at every opportunity, pedestrians crossed back and forth. The intersections were controlled by policemen.
Armour pulled up in front of number 34 Rose Glen Road. The house had a wide front porch supported by stone pillars; above it was a balcony with graceful plaster pillars. Attached to the right of the house was a turret with large circular rooms on the ground and second floor. The turret was topped with a fluted copper spire.
As Armour approached the front door, it was opened by a woman in a black maid’s outfit with a feather duster in her hand. Armour removed his bowler and held it in front of him.
“Good morning. I wonder if I might speak with the lady of the house.”
“Regarding?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“She isn’t taking any visitors today.”
“I have information regarding her husband.” A little white lie.
The maid eyed Armour suspiciously. “You a reporter?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a private detective.”
“Who’s that, Shirley?” A call came from inside the house. It was a woman’s voice.
“Just some private investigator, Mrs. Holt. I’m sending him away.”
Armour stood on tiptoes and shouted over the maid. “Ma’am, I need to speak with you about your husband.”
Shirley turned violently and screwed her face up tight. Armour heard the woman approach the door.
“It’s okay, Shirley. I’ll deal with this.” The unseen woman’s hand came around the edge of the door. The woman kept her back to Armour as she addressed Shirley, who reluctantly backed off. “Please put out the refreshments. Our guests should be here soon.”
“But Mrs. Holt, I have to get home to take my mother to the orthopedist.”
“Don’t worry. You can go as soon as the monsignor gets here.”
Mrs. Holt finally turned to see who was at her door. Her auburn hair was done up in a bun. Her dress was simple but elegant, studded with rhinestones at the seams. She wore a long string of pearls doubled up at her throat.
Armour put his hand to his mouth. She was the spitting image of his wife. “Bess,” he croaked.
“Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. I have no time for inquiries into— Mister, are you all right?”
As she was speaking, the world around Armour went black and he felt it close in until just this woman, Bess, his dear departed wife, was visible. Then the darkness crept more tightly around her face and her words were choked out, though her lips continued to move. Then the blackness closed in altogether. Armour tried to shout “No!” but the words stuck in his throat.
Then he saw that form, cloaked in a white sheet. The sheet being peeled back to reveal her face, battered and bruised. Men in dark clothes standing nearby. He heard those words: “We’re sorry, Mr. Black, but is this your wife?”
Then the image of her was gone and the whiteness of her skin turned to grey and then black and he heard a man laughing. The darkness was punctuated by a blazing ball of light high above him, and then there was blue sky and it was the sun beaming down on him. The vision shot down to the ground and below him was brown earth and petunias. And hands—Armour’s hands, scraping at the dirt. He could feel it between his fingers, cool and damp and then… nothing.
Chapter 7
“Is he going to be all right, Mrs. Holt?” Armour heard Shirley say.
He opened his eyes slowly.
“I mean, shouldn’t we get him to a hospital?” Shirley said. She was leaning over him. Armour felt something cold and wet against his forehead. The soil he had been scraping at? No. It was a cold cloth, and Shirley was holding it to his head. It was more civilized than a bucket of water thrown on him.
His eyes were adjusting now; he could see why a bucket of water would be inappropriate in this setting. He was in the ground floor of the turret off the main wing of the house. There was a white baby grand piano in the centre of the room and another instrument that looked like a baroque-period harpsichord against the wall. There were pictures of Mozart and Bach and some others he didn’t recognize.
“Mrs. Holt, he’s awake,” Shirley shouted, and Armour winced.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Mrs. Holt’s music room. Mrs. Holt is expecting company. If you’re okay you’ll have to go,” Shirley hissed.
“And if I’m not?”
“Come on, buster. This some kind of con to get in the door?”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’ve been coming around—con artists, private dicks.” She had his wallet. “Armour Black. What kind of name is that?”
He snatched it back from her. “Private property.”
“Had to find out who you were. You’ve been out half an hour. We called the police department. They say you’re legit. What information do you have about her husband? Tell me.”
“Why should I?”
“I say one word, like ‘rape,’ and you’ll be out of here so fast your head will spin. Belmont the gardener is in the back—you ever seen him? He could lift a wheelbarrow full of bricks over his head. He’ll fix you good.”
“Isn’t that nice.”
“You don’t have any informati
on about her husband at all, do you? You’re just a flim-flam man.”
Armour heard someone approaching, high-heeled shoes on the hardwood floor. He steeled himself for another vision of his wife, yet wanted it more than anything else.
Mrs. Holt—Bess—appeared at the partition to the music room.
“Is he conscious?” she said.
“He is,” Shirley said, and Armour sat up. “There’s something strange about him, Mrs. Holt.”
“That’s okay, Shirley. I can handle it from here.”
“But Mrs. Holt—”
“I said that’s okay, Shirley.”
He was on a love seat in the corner of the room. Armour could just see the end of a coffee table in the other room. There was a platter of sandwiches on it for the company Mrs. Holt was expecting.
Mrs. Holt stood in front of Armour, and he took her in from head to toe. She was an attractive woman; she had a nice figure, and she carried herself with grace. She noticed the prolonged review. So did Shirley.
“I was telling him if he’s well, if he can walk, then he has to leave.”
“Thank you, Shirley. You have duties to perform?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shirley left the room. Armour noticed she had a slight limp.
Mrs. Holt sat on the piano bench. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“The way you looked me, I would say…”
“I should go.” Armour made to leave and the room spun and he collapsed backwards.
“If this is an act, then you should be on the stage. You’re that good.”
“At the Pegasus,” Armour murmured.
“Um, no. I was thinking the Alexandrian. Maybe Stratford. Here.” She handed Armour a glass of water and he sipped it gratefully.
Armour said. “I apologize for earlier. It’s just that you look like…”
“Like someone you know. I get that a lot. Usually by door-to-door salesmen. Listen, I do not mean to be rude, but as Shirley said, if you are well enough you will have to leave. . . at some point. I am expecting company.”
“Shirley said you weren’t taking calls today.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Holt said, irritated. Then there was the clanging of a bell from deeper in the house. Not the front door. She let out a sigh and left the music room.
Armour heard her say something to Shirley, who had reappeared outside the doorway. Then Mrs. Holt disappeared from view. Shirley limped towards him.
“Okay, drink up and hit it,” she said. “She wants you to leave.”
“We haven’t spoken about why I came here yet.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that con job, do you?”
“It’s about her husband’s assistant, Foley.”
“What about him?”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
Armour stood up and found to his surprise he didn’t need the support of the piano edge to do so. His head no longer felt light and airy. Shirley moved in to take the glass of water just as he was about to place it on the wooden bench.
“I’ve been hired to find him.”
“Who hired you?
“I can’t say. Client confidentiality.”
She huffed. “He’s gone. Ain’t no one ever going to find him. My advice is don’t poke your nose in other people’s affairs.”
“I’m paid to,” Armour said as he collected himself and moved to the sitting room.
He could hear talking coming from the rear of the house and saw Mrs. Holt and two Catholic priests in long black frocks in close conversation. One of them, an elderly man, was holding her hands. All three of them looked to Armour as he exited the music room. He felt Shirley’s hand on his elbow, pushing him to the front door.
The trio at the back door turned back to their conversation. Mrs. Holt opened a door off the kitchen and led the holy men to the basement.
Armour reached the front door and stiffened up against Shirley’s guidance.
“She taking two priests to the basement?” he said.
“She has a shrine down there. It’s beautiful. It was in the papers; the reporters had a field day. She’s a good Catholic.
“She’s a Catholic?” Armour repeated.
“Yeah. What of it?”
Armour spied a silver cross at Shirley’s neck. She put her hand over it.
On his way out the door, Armour saw again the full spread of sandwiches and also a bottle of claret.
“Prayer followed by fellowship and sandwiches… and wine,” he said.
Shirley scrunched up her face at him one last time and opened the door. Armour tipped his bowler at her. The door slammed behind him.
Chapter 8
Armour pulled away from Mrs. Holt’s house, drove a block up the street and then parked and left his car idling. He found the small rear-view mirror mounted to the dash of no use, so he had to turn his back and look out the rear window. It was oval and small, too, but he adjusted himself so that he could see the Holt residence.
The pain in his neck and back had just reached excruciating levels—damn that couch—and he was about to give up when he saw Shirley leave. Off to her mother’s appointment with the orthopedist.
She was coming straight at him. Great. Armour pulled out his notebook and held it up ridiculously close to his face. He needn’t have bothered; Shirley was in a world of her own. Her quick pace, despite her limp, told Armour that she was late. He let her get a block away before putting the car in gear and following her.
Shirley kept that pace up for two blocks until she got to Jarvis Street. Armour crept along behind her, pulling in to park when he could to maintain the distance. Now she was at a streetcar stop, along with a dozen other people. Armour pulled over and waited.
Shirley didn’t have to wait long, and Armour found it easier to follow a streetcar.
She got off the streetcar in Cabbagetown, a poor Irish section of Toronto. She went into a large run-down Victorian home that had mismatched curtains in the window. There were several overflowing garbage bins in front of it. Armour figured it was a boarding house. He parked in front of a druggist’s and stayed in his car until He saw Shirley exit the home, accompanied by an elderly lady whose arm she held. When the pair had disappeared from sight, Armour went into the drugstore.
There was a sandwich counter in the shop and Armour ordered ham and cheese on rye and a bottle of milk.
The man behind the counter, big, burly and bearded, watched Armour eat his lunch.
“Say, Mac, you want anything harder than that, just gotta ask,” the man said.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, pal. Don’t play dumb. You want to go in the back, we got a bar back there. Nice place.”
“Sounds intriguing, but I’m waiting for someone.”
“Really? Hold on, then.” The man disappeared into the back and came back with a bottle tucked into the crook of his arm. “Here.” He poured into Armour’s milk a good stiff shot of what looked like brandy but smelled like turpentine.
“Go on, drink up.”
“No, that’s quite all right.”
“No, I said drink it.”
Armour heard some scuffling behind him, and in the mirror behind the counter he saw that the two men who had been engaged in conversation had turned in their chairs to watch. Armour had caught them looking at him when he first came in, but they must have grown bored. Now they were alert again.
“It’s a little too early for me.”
“Drink it, pal.” The man had an apron on, but Armour heard something concealed behind it at the man’s waist click hard against the metal counter.
“All right, then.” Armour took the milk and drank it down.
“There. Feel better?”
The moonshine, even diluted, burned the back of his throat and Armour coughed.
The druggist laughed. The men at the table laughed.
“I guess you ain’t no probie after all,” the druggist said, and left him alon
e.
Despite Shirley’s elderly mother being hunched over and slow, Shirley had her back to the house in an hour. From his position at the counter, Armour spied their return and waited until they’d gone inside. Armour left a dime on the counter for the food. Since he hadn’t asked for it, he figured the hooch was on the arm.
There were several metal mailboxes inside the front foyer of the house, which confirmed Armour’s suspicion: the house had several tenants. Almost a dozen, by the looks of it.
He had no idea what Shirley’s last name was, but he surmised the old woman probably didn’t live on the upper floors.
There were two doors on that first level and a hallway that led out to a backyard. Armour could see green grass, flowerbeds and a metal birdbath out back.
Armour counted out Eeny, meeny, miney, moe and rapped his knuckles on the door on the right.
An elderly man with an enormous gut and a belt stretched to the limit opened it.
“Sorry, sir. I’m looking for Shirley.”
“Huh? Shirley?” the man said, his voice booming down the hall.
“I think I have the wrong door.”
“Shirley, huh? Who are you?”
He heard the door behind him open.
“You,” Shirley said.
“I was just in the neighbourhood.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You followed me.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“You can’t come in here. This is my home.”
“How about I buy you a drink? I know a place.”
She pulled back a bit, then nodded. “Ma, I’m going out.”
Chapter 9
“Back so soon?” the man behind the counter said. When he saw Shirley come in behind him, he raised his eyebrows.
“Shirley, you’re with this guy? I didn’t know.”
“That’s okay,” Armour said. “I was just waiting for Shirley here to come home. She took her Ma to the orthopedist.”
“Hope there’s no hard feelings, pal,” the man said.
“None at all.”
“What’s he talking about?” Shirley said to Armour.
“Say, listen, Mac,” Armour said. “That room in the back. Any chance?”
