by Warren Court
“The Exhibition closes tomorrow,” Melanie said.
“It’ll have to be tonight.”
“Oh,” Melanie said.
Armour detected disappointment in her voice. “What?”
“I was going to invite you back to see the show. We’re putting on a new number. That reminds me—I have to get to the theatre for rehearsal.”
“A new number?”
“Yeah. Harry, our show manager, hired this magician. I’ve seen him— he does lots of things with flash bombs, lots of smoke and firecrackers.”
“What do you mean, flash bombs?”
“You know—poof.” Melanie made an exploding motion in the air with her hand and said “poof” again.
Armour’s stomach tightened. He had a vision of running through the flames.
“Melanie, has that theatre been inspected by the fire marshal?”
“How should I know? Believe you me, I’ve played in worse.”
“Those gaslights, the ones along the walls, scare me.”
“You know how much it costs to put electric lights in a place that big? Last place we were at, the dressing rooms were lit by candlelight.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about it, is all.”
“Like you had with Gim? I saw the look on your face, and it wasn’t one of joyful recognition.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“You’re a dark horse, Mr. Black. Your name is quite fitting.”
“How do I compare to Colin Holt?”
“Oh, Colin was all right. He was harmless. It’s a shame what happened to him.”
“You don’t sound so broken up.”
“I wasn’t in love with him, Armour, if that’s what you mean. He was just someone I saw a couple of times.”
“Down on his yacht?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“People saw you together, down at the yacht club.”
“I went down twice, and the first time was with three other girls from the show. We thought he’d take us out on his boat. It was really hot out, and I like boats, okay? He didn’t take us out the first time. He said it was too choppy.”
“Did he take you out the second time?”
“No. He said he didn’t know how to run it. We had a big laugh about it—you know, the harbour commissioner being terrified of going out on the lake. Then he got down to brass tacks, why he had me down there. I refused, politely. He got a little aggressive. I slapped him and left. Never saw him again. Why? Are you jealous?”
“No. I mean, yeah. Sure. Who wouldn’t be? But you said he was terrified, so do you think it’s odd that he went out alone at night?”
“Odd? It’s downright preposterous.”
“The police need to hear that. If there is someone out there who wanted to do him in…”
“Listen, one thing I knew about Colin Holt was that he had a lot of friends.”
“Meaning some of them maybe weren’t… friendly?”
“There’s a lot of money floating down there around the new waterfront development. A lot of interested parties. He didn’t make that much money, right? So how does he afford a boat like that? Picked me up in a Cadillac. You ever hear of a civil servant driving around in a car like that?”
“You think the mafia were involved?”
“I don’t know what that means, Armour, but it doesn’t sound nice.”
“What about your friend Tom?”
She said nothing.
“I ran into him.”
“Where?”
“When I went down to look at Holt’s crazy expensive yacht. Tom and some of his friends were trying to break up the strike. It got violent.”
“He’s a bum. He’s no good. Hangs around the theatre like he owns it.”
“Who does own it?”
She put a finger to her nose. “I wouldn’t know.” By the way she said that, Armour suspected she did know, but he didn’t want to call her a liar.
A cab came by. “Enough of this walking,” he said, and stuck out his arm.
“Big spender,” Melanie said.
The cab was bare bones and the driver was a daredevil, but it got them to downtown quicker than waiting for the next streetcar.
When they got to Yonge and College Street, three blocks south of the theatre, Armour asked the driver to pull over.
“We’re getting out here?” Melanie said.
“No, I am.”
“Police headquarters?”
“Yes. Little mystery I need to solve first before I can solve the one of the disappearing harbour commissioner and his assistant.” Armour pulled two bucks out of his pocket and handed it to the driver.
“And what mystery is that?” Melanie said.
“Just who the hell I am.”
Chapter 15
Police headquarters was more like a church, or a morgue, than the centre of crime-fighting Armour thought it would be. It was dead quiet. Walking into it brought back no memories at all, making him question further all this business about having been a cop in the past.
The polished floors gleamed, and there were several flags in a corner on either side of a plaque mounted to the wall. Armour went over to take a look. It was a memorial to police officers who had died in the Great War. Armour scanned the names, recognized none of them. A sergeant with mutton-chop whiskers was manning the front desk, shuffling through papers, ignoring Armour.
Armour moved on to another display that showed several soldiers in uniforms; it looked like it was from the Boer War rather than the great one. Armour was scanning across the line of kneeling soldiers when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. Mutton Chops was standing there.
“The inspector wants a word with you, Black.”
“Sure,” Armour said, not letting on that he was excited to be recognized. This trip would be worth it after all.
A portion of the front desk was on hinges and could be lifted up. The sergeant slammed it down hard after Armour passed through. He led Armour across a large room with dozens of desks to a glassed-in office. “Inspector Tomkins” was written on the open door. The name meant nothing to Armour. The sergeant ushered him in.
“Here he is, Inspector,” Mutton Chops said.
The inspector was big at the shoulders and was wearing a white striped shirt with suspenders over it; a dark blue tunic hung from a hook in the corner.
“Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all.”
“As you like, sir.” The sergeant closed the door on the way out.
“Sit down, Black.”
“Sir,” Armour said, not moving.
“I said sit.”
Armour relented and took the swivel office chair in front of the inspector’s desk. He studied the man’s soft features; they were almost pasty and gave him a childlike look. But the eyes were cold steel, and the hair was buzzed short: a military man. Armour did not feel a shred of recognition for him.
“You have a hell of a nerve showing your face back here.”
Armour shrugged.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“We go way back, right?” Armour said.
The inspector pushed away from his desk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, how long have we known each other?”
“Okay, Armour I’ll play along. A long time. I don’t know—twenty-five years? Since you were a kid.”
“Great,” Armour said. “I was a cop? I worked here at headquarters?”
“What is this?”
“Listen, Inspector Tomkins. . .”
“’Inspector Tomkins,’ is it? Not ‘Barney,’ but Inspector Tomkins?”
Armour groaned inwardly. So he was speaking to a friend, or at least a former one. And now he was insulting the man.
“I mean no offence. I’ve suffered some sort of injury.” There was a sharp pain in Armour’s head as he said that. He remembered the blackout he’d had at the Holt residence. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like another one was coming on. Hang in
there, buddy. “I think I’m suffering from amnesia.”
“Isn’t that convenient? We booted your arsehole out of here, and now you can’t remember. I find that hard to believe.”
“Booted me out?”
“Yes. You were drummed out. You forget that? Again, I say, how convenient. I wish the department could forget.”
“Why? How?”
“McKelvie. That name doesn’t ring a bell? As in the McKelvie affair?”
“No, sir. I’m, afraid it does not.”
“Armour I’m a busy man. I was walking by and saw you. Rather than make a scene in the lobby in front of civilians, out of courtesy to you, I had the sergeant bring you back here. That was a mistake, I see now. I should have had him throw you out onto the street. Or better yet, lock you up for drunk and disorderly.”
“I am not drunk. Although I could use a drink now.”
The inspector smirked. He opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey and two glasses. He poured Armour a stiff one and another for himself, and they clinked glasses.
“Maybe this will restore your memory.”
Armour winced as he downed his drink.
“O’Rourke says he saw you in the old town yesterday. Said you didn’t recognize him, thought you were pulling some kind of dodge. Now maybe it was this memory thing, or maybe he’s right and it is a dodge.”
“O’Rourke,” Armour said quickly, remembering the encounter he’d had in Cabbagetown. “Yes, I ran into him in the washroom of a speakeasy.”
“I don’t want the details.”
“Is he a friend of yours… of ours?”
“Yes, Armour, he is. I brought the two of you on together after the war.”
“So, I was in the Great War?”
“No, for Christ’s sake. I mean our war.” The inspector pointed at a picture on the wall. Armour could make out the same old-style uniforms as the ones in the photo next to the World War One memorial. It was a picture of three soldiers: Inspector Tomkins, O’Rourke and Armour. In the background were orderly rows of pup tents.
“The Boer War?”
“You forget those two years in Africa too, I gather?”
“Uh huh.”
“You were wounded in the head. It was just a graze, but what do the doctors know, eh?”
Armour felt a dull ache in his head but ignored it.
The inspector poured him another shot. “This is great. Town’s gone dry and the chief inspector is getting drunk with the most disgraced officer ever.”
That wounded Armour greatly. “How was I disgraced?”
“Oh, come off it.”
“No, seriously. Walk me through it.”
“I don’t have the time to go through all that again. Suffice it to say you are persona non grata around here. And I swear to god, if you blow O’Rourke’s cover in Cabbagetown, I’ll ruin you. You got one cop killed. That’s enough.”
Again, another stinging blow. He’d gotten a cop killed?
“What the hell were you doing down there, anyway?”
“I’m on a case.”
“Right—private investigator. The boys had a good laugh when the licence application came through. I could have stopped that, you know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Guy’s got to make a living. So, spill it. What case brought you to Cabbagetown?”
“What do you know about the disappearance of the harbour commissioner, Colin Holt?”
“He drowned. Body will wash up eventually.”
“And his assistant? He disappeared after he quit his job, two months after his boss drowned.”
“Foley? I remember him. Had him down here for a talk.”
Armour hadn’t used O’Leary’s name yet, but the inspector still knew who he was talking about. That did not escape him, but he played it cool. “You interviewed him because his boss drowned?”
“No, it was on a different matter.”
“But is he a suspect?”
“He was in the drunk tank the night of Holt’s disappearance. I’m going to give you some advice, Armour. Not asking if you want it, because you never did. Keep your nose out of those micks’ affairs. We have enough trouble with the bloody IRA or Sinn Féin or whatever they call themselves running around, trying to raise money for the boys back home. They’re a dangerous group. Their buddies are getting killed back in the old country. They wouldn’t think twice about taking their revenge out on us.”
“Is that who O’Rourke has infiltrated?”
“Did I say infiltrate? Just stay out of Cabbagetown. Now drink up. I have work to get to.”
Armour finished his second shot quickly. He was more relaxed now, more confident. He stood and, holding his hat in his hand, said, “This sounds crazy, but Inspector—Barney—do you know where in the hell I live?”
“Damned if I know, Armour, and damned if I care. Leave by the back way in case the press is out front.”
Armour checked his watch. It was four in the afternoon. The Exhibition closed at nine. Plenty of time to get down to see Gim, but first he had to go back to his office for something.
Chapter 16
The weight of the revolver felt good in his hands. Armour figured he could bash someone out cold with it as easy as put a bullet in them. There was a holster tucked in behind the weapon in the desk drawer.
Olive was at her desk reading a glamour magazine and yawning incessantly. She explained that her fiancé had taken her out to the King Edward hotel the night before. Armour was surprised at that; the King Eddie was one of the most expensive hotels in town. Had this fiancé sprung for a room? Is that why she’d been kept up all or night? Or were the yawns her way of telling him she was bored, that she intended to get another job? Might be the best thing, he thought.
When he’d gotten back to the office to pick up his gun, she’d handed him a slip of paper. “James Roscoe called at two pm asking for a progress report,” she’d told him, and had yawned as she’d handed it over to him.
Another check-up, Armour thought.
Armour put the holster on and slid the revolver into it. With his jacket on he was confident you couldn’t even tell he was armed. He left the slip of paper on his desk.
The drive to Cabbagetown gave Armour time to think. He was worried about Melanie and that fire trap of a theatre. Something bad was coming her way. Would he be able to stop it? Was his involvement bringing the “bad thing” to her?
Having Tom hanging around was not helping things. Trouble followed men like that. He should tell him to leave Melanie alone. If Tom had a beef with him personally, they should settle it in the alley like men, although that might make things worse, he thought. Especially with a gun under his armpit now. Guns had a way of escalating things.
Armour saw O’Rourke coming out the front door of the drugstore, the one that had the blind pig in the back. His steps were a little unsure; all part of the gig. He couldn’t very well try and infiltrate a gang that was operating out of a speakeasy and not be seen to take a drink.
The message from Roscoe asking for a progress report had been a wake-up call for Armour. Whatever had happened in the past must be put on hold. He had to do his job and find the missing assistant, Foley, and then see if he was linked to Holt’s disappearance. And then and only then could he spend his energy finding out more about this black hole of a past of his.
O’Rourke crossed the street and headed Armour’s way. When he was ten feet from Armour’s Ford, Armour got out.
“Give you a lift, friend?”
O’Rourke stopped in his tracks and then slowly approached the car.
“Get in, O’Rourke,” Armour said.
O’Rourke glanced around and complied. “You trying to get me popped?” O’Rourke said when he was in the car.
“What?”
“Don’t ever call me that on the street again. You know my work name?”
“What is it again?”
“Seamus O’Brien.”
“That’
s cute.”
“I ought to bust your mouth for you. Those guys wanted to murder you, you know.”
“Why? Because I was rude with Shirley?”
“What? No, they thought the cops sent you there. They were sure you were an infiltrator.”
“But you’re the infiltrator?”
“Get this heap moving, would you?”
Armour pulled away from the curb and as he passed the drugstore, O’Rourke slid down his seat into the footwell. Armour told him when they were clear of Cabbagetown.
“I’m just informing, keeping a low level,” O’Rourke said.
“Against your own kind?”
“Those aren’t my kind. Besides, it’s my job.”
“You don’t sympathize with the cause?”
“What cause? They’re more interested in running booze to the States and muscling in on the Italians.”
“I don’t care about all that. I’m just trying to find this fella here.” Armour handed O’Rourke the picture of Foley. He’d had Olive cut it so that only the man’s head and shoulders were showing. It looked like a mug shot.
“He’s gone. No way you’ll find him.”
“Why?”
“He has a price on his head.”
“Who’s putting up the cash?”
“Who isn’t? Guy made enemies all over. He blew town two weeks ago. Might be dead; who knows.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“On Water Street. Big boarding house. But you won’t find him there.”
“I understand that. Thanks. Anywhere I can drop you?”
“Right here is fine.”
“I saw Tomkins.”
“When?”
“An hour ago. Headquarters.”
“He let you in?”
“We had some drinks, reminisced about old times.”
“I’ll bet.”
Armour pulled over, but O’Rourke didn’t bolt from the car.
“He says I’m disgraced. I told him I don’t remember. I wanted him to fill me in,” Armour said.
“You’re kidding. That’s the same dodge you pulled in the john.”
“It’s no dodge. No con job. I can’t remember a thing. We served in the African war together? Tomkins says I was wounded.”
“Yeah, in the head. Wasn’t that big of a deal. You got a week’s leave in Cape Town. Came back with a dose, if I remember.”
