by Warren Court
Melanie was briefly taken aback, then recovered. She huffed and started down alley to the theatre’s side entrance. Armour followed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Listen,” Armour said, and grabbed her arm, a little harder than he intended to.
“Hands off, buster,” she said. “Or have you forgotten my little friend?” She patted her purse.
He let go of her arm. “I don’t like being lied to. You were Holt’s mistress.”
“You’re off your rocker.”
“Am I?” He pulled the playbill out of his pocket. “This was found on his yacht. Also, there’s a witness to your little dockside escapades.”
She kept walking.
“You’re a private dick. Do you get upset every time someone is… not forthcoming about the truth?”
“Is that what you call lying?”
“I saw my relationship with Colin as none of your business. I still see it that way.”
“What happened to him?”
“How should I know?” She reached the door.
“Were you involved?” That worked; she paused. “Do the police know of your little tryst?”
She came back at him. “No, they don’t. I was just trying to protect him, okay? The newspapers had enough to feed on. I didn’t need to give them anything more. Besides, I really don’t know what happened to him.”
Armour believed her. Or maybe she was just a good actress on top of being a good singer and dancer. A triple threat; that’s what they called performers like her. He wondered if there were more threats. He remembered the silver pistol in her pocket.
“Is that why you’re carrying a gun? You’re afraid?”
“This?” She pulled the silver pistol from her purse and pointed it at him. Armour remained very still.
She pulled the trigger. A little spark of flame shot up from the ejection port and wavered there. It was just a cigarette lighter.
“Neat trick, huh? I won it at the Exhibition.”
“The Canadian National Exhibition?” Armour said, keeping his voice level. Jesus, this was some girl.
“Yeah, it’s on until Labour Day. I was there two days ago.”
“I want to go,” Armour said to under his breath but she heard him.
“I was planning on going back tomorrow. I could use an escort,” Melanie said. “It’s rough down there sometimes. I might ask Tom.”
“What?” Armour said, and shook his head. “I’ll take you.” He didn’t notice her coy smile. “Where could I meet you? I don’t know where you live.” Heck, I don’t know where I live, Armour thought.
“Easy, fella. Meet me in front of the Theatre, eleven o’clock. I might even tell you all about what Colin and I got up to.”
“Really?”
She laughed. “Not a chance.”
Armour got the joke. “Break a leg.”
She was halfway through the door when she paused and turned back to him. “Geez, thanks...” She raised one leg, showing off a taut, muscular calf, navy blue pumps and sheer silk nylons. “…but I gotta swell pair of gams. I wouldn’t want to see anything to happen to them,” she said, giggling, and disappeared into the theatre.
“Neither would I,” Armour said.
Chapter 13
“Smells like Chinatown in here,” Olive said when she arrived at the office the next morning. There were several cardboard cartons on Armour’s desk, takeout from the night before. He was stretched out on the couch again, his jacket draped over him.
Olive started clearing the Chinese food containers.
“Good morning, Olive.”
“Mr. Black.”
Armour sat up and groaned.
“More Aspirin?” she asked.
“Please. This couch, it’s like sleeping on concrete.”
She left the bottle on his desk and put a glass of water next to it. “You might as well keep them if you’re going to keep sleeping in here.”
“I know what it looks like.”
“Did you get thrown out of your apartment?”
“I have an apartment?”
“You’ve mentioned it before. But no, sorry, before you ask again: I still don’t know where it is. I checked the records. There’s nothing that has any personal address of yours on it, no payments or anything. Everything comes here.”
Armour rubbed his neck and swallowed the pills. “It’s okay. I’ll get a hotel room.”
“You should get your head examined.”
Armour laughed.
“No, really. If you’ve had some sort of injury and you can’t remember. . .”
Armour stretched his arms. “I need a chiropractor is what I need.”
“A chiro-what-or?”
“A doctor who can crack my joints.”
“My fiancé lives down in Chinatown. Don’t ask me why. He goes in for that thing with the needles.”
“Acupuncture?”
“Yeah, that’s it. He tried to get me to go. ‘No way,’ I said.”
“Get the address off him, please.”
“Okay, Mr. Black. In case you’re wondering, the YMCA has drop-in rates. They have showers there, too,” she said as she left.
Armour smelled himself. He was a bit ripe. He had a couple of hours before he met with Melanie. His suit looked like he had slept in it, which was true.
He straightened himself as best he could. “Olive, is there a men’s clothing store around here?”
“Stollery’s up the street.”
He counted what he had left of the Roscoe down payment. This wouldn’t really be an expense, but he could shave some off the final bill for him. Finding his own domicile could wait. For now, he had to shower and change into some fresh clothes.
It was a quick walk up to Stollery’s clothing shop at the corner of Yonge and Bloor. The attendants were all men and the one who waited on him gave Armour a skeptical look when he asked for a couple of outfits.
Armour looked at the tag hanging from the first suit the man showed him, then pulled out the wad of bills and counted them in front of the man.
“Yes, I can handle that,” Armour said. The attendant’s attitude did a one-eighty.
Armour spent forty-five minutes with him and was outfitted with an off-the-rack suit that fit him reasonably well. He ordered a second suit that needed some tailoring; they took his measurements and said they’d have it done by the end of the day.
Armour also picked up three white Arrow brand shirts and some detachable collars that were stiff as cardboard. Finishing it off were some socks with diamond patterns on them and two ties.
“Now I need to get cleaned up,” Armour explained to the attendant, who, with the money flowing his way, had become Armour’s new best friend.
“You could try the YMCA across the street.”
Armour paid for his clothes and crossed Bloor. He requested a room to change and a shower. Cost was a buck a day. Armour paid for two days and was given a key and two towels after he read and signed a form.
Chapter 14
Waiting for Melanie, Armour felt like a schoolkid again. His stomach was a swarm of butterflies flittering around. Since awakening in Toronto in this particular circumstance, he had been operating like he was in a fog, not quite able to wake up from a dream. Now this jolt of excitement had done what even the altercations with Tom and the strike breakers had failed to do: woken him up.
His senses were alive—he could hear the sounds of the throttles of the cars streaming by; the smell of their heady lead-filled exhaust choked him, but he was not upset by it. Horse-drawn carts clopped past, their drivers calling out “Ice and fresh vegetables!” as they made their way down Yonge Street. He revelled in the clanking of the streetcars as they crossed intersections and the buzz of their pantographs on the electrified wires overhead.
“Hello, there,” Melanie called to him as she emerged from a group of men discussing business on the corner near the Pegasus Theatre. They all stopped as she weaved thr
ough them. He felt both jealousy and pride at that; she was, after all, coming to see him.
“Morning, Melanie. My car is parked just across the way.”
“Let’s take a streetcar. The number nine goes right down there.”
“As you wish. Parking a nightmare?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, and gave him a funny look. “But, yeah, I guess you could say that. That’s a funny expression.”
Armour shrugged.
They caught the streetcar and settled into their seats. The car jolted and she grabbed his arm. He caught her perfume; it was simple and sweet. She was dressed down in a skirt that rode just above the knees, black stockings, and a tweed riding jacket with brown buttons over a grey blouse. A man’s tie hung loosely around her neck and on her head was an oversized beret. The butterflies kept doing their thing.
There were several families on board the streetcar with excited kids playing with tin toy soldiers. At the back of the train was a young war veteran with an eye patch and missing an arm. He held a cup out in front of him for donations. Armour spied one of the kids looking cautiously at the disfigured hero before resuming the battle on the wooden seats. Armour put two bucks in the young man’s cup as they disembarked.
“Wow, you’re generous,” Melanie said as they got off the car in front of the Princes’ Gates. “Or are you just trying to impress me?”
“It saddens me. Those men gave so much, and now he’s begging on a streetcar.”
“What did you do in the war?”
Armour swallowed hard. “Not much,” he said.
“You were overseas?”
“I never saw front line action,” Armour said. He didn’t want to lie to Melanie, but he had no recollection of doing anything in the war. “I was a police officer. They needed me here.”
“Oh, I see,” Melanie said. “My brother was in France.” By the way she said it, Armour knew she didn’t want to talk about it.
The cost to get in the Exhibition was twenty-five cents for adults.
“A bargain,” Armour said. “Where are the rides? The rollercoaster?”
“There’s a Spin-a-Whirl over there,” Melanie said. There was long line of kids waiting to get on ride with a series of large, swirling red-and-white painted cups. Next to it was a funhouse.
“You’ve never been here before?” Melanie asked.
“Oh, yes. Many times,” Armour said. “That was years ago, though. Everything is… different.”
A band struck up behind them. A procession was coming through the gates—hundreds of firefighters in dress uniforms. Their banner proclaimed their annual parade. Melanie and Armour stopped to watch. There was a brass band and a bagpipe band finished it off.
With smiles on their faces, Armour and Melanie moved deeper into the Exhibition.
“Look,” Armour said, pulling at Melanie’ sleeve jacket excitedly. “The transportation building. Let’s check that out.”
Inside, large fans swirled above dozens of shiny new cars. Armour was wearing a straw boater he’d found in his office. Most of the men at the Exhibition were wearing them. It was lighter than the bowler, but the straw scratched his forehead.
Melanie tugged at her tie and pulled it off. “Here—souvenir.”
“Thanks,” Armour said, and tucked it in his pocket. “Look at these beauties,” he said as they walked arm in arm through the Exhibition. There were dozens of automobiles: sleek two-seat runners and stately squared-up models. Packard, Ford, Chrysler, Cadillac, Dodge and Duesenberg.
There was a crowd gathered at the end of the building around a large, square mechanical device with lights shining on it. A sign next to it read “General Electric Locomotive.”
“It’s the prototype for a diesel electric switcher,” Armour said. “Fantastic. Bye-bye, steam,” he said. A man turned to him.
“Don’t think so,” the man said. “Steam will be around for a while.”
“Oh, sure. At least until after the war, and then diesel will take off,” Armour said without thinking.
“What are you, some sort of fortune-teller?” the man said.
Armour’s face went red and he looked at Melanie, who couldn’t hide her astonishment.
“What war?” Melanie said.
Armour stammered. “I don’t know.” He was being truthful. This window he had into the future was fuzzy at best. He knew something bad was coming their way, but could not have said what it was. It had to be war.
“There is a fortune-teller here at the Exhibition,” Melanie said. “Maybe you should speak to him.”
“Oh, come on,” Armour said.
“No, I’m serious. Let’s find him.”
She led Armour out of the transportation building. They walked past carnival attractions until they came to a large area filled with multicoloured tents. There was a large sign out in front of it that proclaimed “The Gorgeous Oriental Exhibition,” and several smaller signs with painted scenes of Arabians on camels and belly dancers peering from colourful Bedouin tents. On one sign was an Indian boy levitating ten feet off the ground, a green turban on his head.
“That’s him. He’s from the Orient.”
“India?” Armour said.
“Yes, that’s right. One of the dancers I work with spoke with him. He told her she was going to get married and sure enough, a day later, her fella in New York sent a wire—he proposed. She’s leaving the show at the end of the month.”
“That’s nice.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I believe he said that and then it happened. I also believe it’s possible to make that prediction with a young, attractive woman and have it come out right… eventually. He didn’t give a deadline for this proposal, did he?”
“Skeptic. Maybe if we sat you in front of him, you’d think differently.”
“Melanie, really—I just made a comment back there. It meant nothing. I’m always looking to the future. And what I’m talking about could come true… eventually—that steam will be made obsolete by modern technological advances, and that there will be another war eventually. Would that make me a fortune-teller?”
“Just come on. This one’s on me.”
She paid ten cents for the two of them and they entered a large tent. The air was thick with incense.
“I can barely breathe,” Armour said.
“No excuses. Just be patient.”
Everyone in the tent was standing, and several men were smoking cigars that mixed with the exotic atmosphere. It really was unbearable. There was a stage at the far end of the tent, and torches seemingly automatically came to life, casting light onto the crowd, which “oohed” and “aahed.”
“Here we go,” Melanie said.
A middle-aged Indian man in a dark suit climbed onto the stage. He spoke in an exaggerated accent; it was almost comical.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I will soon introduce you to one of the living wonders of the world, our Magnificent Muthu, the prognosticator and mystic from the subcontinent. This wonder of the oriental world…”
“He’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t he?” Armour said.
“Hush,” Melanie said, and she craned her neck to see over the crowd in front of her.
There was indeed a hush as the man stepped to the side and a curtain was drawn back. Levitating in the air, just like on the poster outside, was a small Indian boy bedecked in a bright green costume adorned with gold and jewels. On his head was the green turban. He hung there, suspended in mid-air, his outstretched hand holding a cane that touched the floor. The crowd fell silent, and then a murmuring began.
Armour raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“My god, Armour—do you see that?” Melanie said.
Armour could barely see the boy over all the heads in front of him.
“I can’t see,” Armour said.
Melanie pushed him forward. “Go on. Get in there.”
Armour reluctantly started to shove through the crowd. They were
so mesmerized they didn’t seem to care. When Armour was twenty feet from the stage and had only three rows of people in front of him, he looked up. The levitating boy caught his eye and they stared at each other.
“Gim,” Armour said. “Gim!”
“Say, watch where you’re pushing,” a man beside Armour said.
“Black,” the boy said, softly.
“Hey, quiet—he’s saying something,” the man said.
“Gim,” Armour said. “It’s me.”
Melanie was beside him now. “You know him?”
“I think so,” Armour said.
“Black,” the boy said again, and then said something in a foreign language. His eyes sparkled with recognition.
“Looks like he knows you too.”
“Gim, it’s me,” Armour repeated, more loudly this time.
Someone behind Armour said “Who cares?” and he was shoved from the back.
Shut up! We want to hear.
“You shut up,” Armour said to the crowd. There was another push, then more from the front and the side.
“Gim!” Armour yelled one last time. The Indian man rushed back on stage and drew the curtain across, and the first punch was thrown. It wasn’t aimed at Armour, but there was the distinct smack of fist on flesh.
“Let’s get out of here,” Melanie said.
Armour ducked down below the swinging arms and pulled Melanie through the crowd, away from the only exit. They hurried to the edge of the tent, and Armour knelt down and yanked it up. Melanie scooted through the opening and Armour followed.
He heard the sound of police whistles, and Armour saw a mounted officer charging towards them on a black stallion, billy club in his hand, whistle in his mouth. He led Melanie through the throngs of people, all straining to see what was going on at the sideshow tent. They made it to the Princes’ Gates just in time to see the streetcar pulling away from the stop.
“Oh, darn. It’ll be a half hour before another one shows up,” Melanie said.
“Why don’t we walk down to the next stop?” Armour suggested.
Clouds had come in over the lake, giving them a reprieve from the sun.
“I need to go back and see him,” Armour said, after they’d walked for ten minutes in silence.
