by Warren Court
“But something about me in particular?”
“Something about that theatre. It’s almost like it’s cursed. Doomed.”
“You talk about it like it’s a living thing. Maybe you’re from the future,” she said, and laughed.
“Maybe,” he said. “I can’t discount it.” That stopped the laughter.
“Do you have any insight into us?”
“I know that we are good friends, for a long time to come, but…”
“But what?”
“Do you have to work tonight?”
“Yes, Armour. Our show is a hit. We’re wrapping up our last couple of nights here, and then we’re leaving town next week.”
“Right. Winnipeg and Calgary.”
“And now Vancouver, and we’re trying to get Portland and Seattle. Maybe San Francisco. Boy, would that be something,” she said, and stretched her hand across to his. It was warm from the coffee mug.
“I know,” he said. “The show must go on.”
“I’ll be all right. It’s you I’m worried about. What are you up to?”
“This whole thing with the Holts. I need to find his body, close that case.”
“Whatever for? The reward?”
He nodded.
“Every amateur sleuth and bloodhound in the country has been looking for him. I heard she upped it to twenty-five grand. That’s an amazing amount of money.”
“I thought I knew where he was buried.” Armour put his head in his hands. “I was so sure of it.”
“Premonition again?”
“I get blackouts,” Armour said. “I see things.”
“And what have you seen?”
Armour said, “Did the police ever come and question you?”
She got all serious. He was bringing up her past again.
“No,” she said. “They never did. And I’d like to keep it that way. That’s all I need, to be caught up in a scandal. It would be bye-bye Winnipeg, bye-bye Calgary and bye-bye San Francisco.”
“I have reason to believe that Holt was being blackmailed over his affair with you.”
“What affair? I told you, Armour. I went down to his boat twice by myself and once with two other girls. The time I went down alone, I knew what he wanted but nothing happened. I slapped his face and ran out of there. You can blackmail someone because they have a red cheek?”
Armour shook his head, and then remembered what Elizabeth Holt had said before he’d cut her off: “I thought he would get over her. He always does.” From the way Melanie told it, though, it had never even got started.
“What about his other women? You weren’t the only one.”
“I know. He told me. When I didn’t come across, he said that he’d had plenty of women, that he didn’t need the likes of me. Way he said it, I believed him.”
“Do you know any of these other women?”
“Not personally, but...”
“But what, Melanie? It’s important. You have no idea.”
“He had a letter on him when I was down at the boat alone. He went to get. . . more comfortable, if you know what I mean.”
Armour nodded.
“Anyway, he left his jacket in the main cabin. The boat rocked and it fell open. A letter fell out. I picked it up to put it back in. It was written in this crazy way, with cut-out letters from different newspapers. It was scary. It was a blackmail note, like you said. That’s why I knew it wasn’t about me. That’s why I turned him down. I didn’t want no part of that.”
"What did the note say?”
“That if he didn’t give them what they wanted, they were going send his wife the pictures. I put the letter back in his jacket before he came back into the cabin. He was in his underwear and a bathrobe. He was getting a little ahead of himself there, so I told him off. He pawed at me, wouldn’t let up, so I slapped him. He never called me again, thank god. You believe me, Armour?”
Armour nodded. “I’ll do what I can to keep you out of it,” he said. “Promise.”
“My protector.”
“Hopefully.”
Chapter 43
Armour spied Foley’s landlord pushing a mower around to the back of his house. He pondered for a second whether Foley had put Holt’s body back there, but quickly discounted it. Too public a place to dig a grave, and Armour had no inkling, no tingly feeling about it. Something told him when he finally stood over Holt’s unmarked grave, he would know it.
As he approached the house, he heard the metal shearing sound of the push mower. The front door was open and he moved through the long hallway and found the stairs to the basement.
In the basement, past the boiler and the coal bin, were stacks of cardboard boxes marked with people’s names. Foley’s boxes were on the top and he pulled them down.
There were the usual odds and ends in them one might expect a bachelor to have. A frying pan, oven mitts, a couple of trashy detective pulp magazines. And clothes, some suits that were rolled up in a bundle and shoved in the box. Armour guessed the landlord didn’t care about protecting the clothes from getting wrinkled, just wanted them out of the apartment. Armour remembered the landlord speculating that he wouldn’t get two bits for this stuff, and he agreed with that estimate. A donation to the Salvation Army was in order now that Foley wasn’t coming back to reclaim them.
There was a manila envelope lying flat on the bottom of one of the boxes, and he took it out and opened the flap. In it were a dozen enlarged black and white photographs. Most of them were too blurry to make out the subjects. At the bottom of the pile, however, was one clear one. It was of Holt lying on his desk with a woman straddling him. The woman was leaning back, her head thrown toward the ceiling. Blonde, curly hair obscured her face but Armour was pretty sure it was Shirley, the former maid.
Armour heard the metal screen door slam upstairs and heavy footsteps on the floor. He tucked the photos back in the envelope and put that in his jacket. He lifted Foley’s boxes back into their spots and headed up the stairs.
“If they don’t shut that baby up, they’re out of here,” Armour heard the landlord saying from the kitchen at the rear of the house.
“Oh, Paul, relax. It’s just a baby,” a woman replied.
The baby was still crying as Armour ran out of the house.
Chapter 44
Armour pulled up across from the druggists. He couldn’t see the man behind the counter; maybe he was in the speakeasy. It was almost noon; he figured Shirley was a creature of habit and would be imbibing by now. At least he was going in there armed this time.
He got out of his car and had just started across the street when he spied Shirley, with her distinctive limp, ambling towards the drugstore. Perfect timing. He sped up to intercept her; he wouldn’t need to brandish his gun after all. Then there were the sounds of tires squealing and engines revving, and he looked to his side to see a black Lincoln barreling down the street, the distinct muzzles of two Tommy guns protruding from its windows and the barrels swinging towards the drugstore. Armour stopped and stepped back up on the curb to avoid the speeding cars. He saw the man behind the counter now, his head turning at the approaching noise. Everything slowed down. Then the machine guns opened up.
Armour dived back behind his car. The street was suddenly alive with the sound of gunfire, and as he got to his feet, Armour saw the man behind the counter, still wearing his apron, come out and fire a handgun at the fleeing motorcars. The Lincoln swerved and crashed into a pole. Power lines came down, wrapping themselves over the car. Armour saw the man with the apron fall to his knees and clutch his chest. The apron was suddenly soaked with blood, and the man fell forward onto his face.
Armour ran to Shirley. She was lying on her side, jammed up against the drugstore. Her chest was deflated and peppered with bright red holes. Armour touched her face but knew she was gone. In her death fall, her dress had hiked up, exposing her legs and girdle. One of her legs was withered, probably from polio. Armour pulled her dress down.
There
was a buzzing sound coming from the Lincoln. Sparks shot off the roof of the car. Armour could see Tom, in profile, slamming his shoulder up against the door. It had buckled on impact and wouldn’t open.
“Tom, don’t do it!” Armour hollered at him. “Stay where you are.”
There was blood streaming down Tom’s face, and he didn’t hear Armour, just kept ramming himself into the door until it finally opened.
“No!” Armour shouted, but it was too late. Tom stepped out and stiffened immediately as he grounded himself. Sparks shot off the door and his face went from dazed to a silent scream of agony as the current raced through his body. Smoke rose from his clothes and finally he collapsed back into the car.
Chapter 45
Armour was still shaken up even after several blocks of driving. He had to pull over to get some air. He opened his car door and put his feet on the ground and bent over, breathing deeply, holding his head in his hands. The folded-up envelope in his jacket bulged up and stuck him in the neck. He tossed it on to the passenger seat. One of the pictures slid up through the flap and he looked at it. It was the clear one, the one that showed the woman he thought was Shirley riding Holt. It had to be Shirley. That made sense. The maid and the owner of the home. He was just glad it wasn’t Melanie.
Armour picked the photo up now and looked at it more closely. It had definitely been taken in Holt’s office; that was his desk. Foley must have drilled a hole or something in the wall and put a camera through. Or maybe the door had been unlocked and he’d poked his head in, and the two lovers had been in such ecstasy they hadn’t noticed him. The office was very open, lots of windows; a photographer would not have needed a flash.
Armour looked closely at the woman again, at her left leg, the only one visible in the picture. He remembered Shirley’s leg, how withered it had looked. The woman’s leg in this photo was perfect – quite a good-looking gam, as Melanie would say. It couldn’t be Shirley after all. But what difference did it make now? Armour had not swayed the morning’s events; Shirley was still lying there dead.
He looked at the picture again; the positioning of the desk was wrong. Then it came to him. The desk –that was what had caught his eye the first time he’d seen the photo, not the blurred image of the woman. The picture slipped out of his hands, down to the floorboards. It was the desk.
Chapter 46
The harbour commissioner building was deserted; it was a Saturday, after all. There was a strong breeze coming off the lake, and Armour could see boaters out there dodging back and forth against each other, heading for an unseen marker in the lake.
He tried the front doors of the building. They were locked tight. Armour peered inside. There was a light on deeper in the building, past reception. Armour knocked on the glass.
He saw a man coming towards him. The man was black; he wore blue denim trousers and a blue jacket and had a matching hat on. He unlocked the front door.
“Help you?”
“I need to get up to the commissioner’s office.”
“We’re closed, sir. This building opens up again on Monday.”
Armour shoved his way in.
“Sir, we’re closed.”
Armour noticed the man had a bandage on his ear.
“You’re Arnold. I know your friend, the elevator attendant.”
“Sir, you have to leave.”
“He told me about you and him getting caught up in that riot down here a couple of days ago.”
“Sir?” Arnold said.
“I left something important up in Mr. Chambers’ office.” Armour had the badge he’d gotten from Tyler in the palm of his hand. He doubted Arnold would clue into the fact it did not say Detective on it.
Armour knew he had to get rid of that uniform, and quick. Posing as a cop, flashing a badge – that would land him in jail. Or worse. Tomkins might have him taken out back and shot.
“Sir, I’m not supposed to—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take the stairs.”
“The offices are all locked, sir.”
Armour notice the ring of keys around the young man’s belt.
“I’ll need those.”
“No way, sir. I’m responsible.”
“Then come with me. You can make sure I don’t steal anything.”
“All right, then.”
Chapter 47
Armour was out of breath when they reached the top floor. He tried to hide it from Arnold.
“You work every weekend?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s a job.” Arnold pulled the ring of keys off his belt and sorted through them, coming up with the one for the outer door to Chambers’ office.
Armour went through the outer office into Chambers.’ That door was not locked. Arnold followed him but stopped at the doorway.
Armour went to Chambers’ desk, picked up the paperweight and examined it. He couldn’t tell if the dent was new or if it really was a dented baseball under that bronzing. He weighed it in his hand; it was a good couple of pounds and fit his palm perfectly. A nice little weapon. Armour put it down and walked around the desk, looking at the legs. He saw what he wanted and pulled at the desk, lifted it up an inch and moved it. Damn, it was heavy. Solid oak and filled with god knows what.
“Arnold, come here and help me, would you?”
Arnold looked around like someone in the deserted building might see him, then went to help. Together they moved the desk a foot to one side, uncovering a dark red stain on the polished hardwood floor.
“You see that?”
“What’s it mean, sir?”
“Means everything.”
There were new pictures up on the wall; Chambers had finished taking over the office. They were of Chambers, all right – him with dignitaries and the mayor, men decked out in sashes of the Order of the Orange. Fine organization if you have the right stuff. Armour remembered Chambers saying that to him. Did Chambers have the right stuff? He had gotten away with murder. Well, almost.
One final picture was of Chambers standing on the prow of an impressive sailboat; behind him was the clubhouse of the Royal Yacht Club of Canada. Below the photo, a brass plaque said “Commodore Chambers.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Sir, you have to go now.”
“Yes, I do,” Armour said. “Any idea where this Chambers fellow lives?”
“No, sir.”
“Let me see if I can find out.” He rummaged through the desk and came up with a Chambers family photo; Chambers, his wife and two young boys. Then he pulled out the picture of Holt coupling with the curly-haired blonde and compared them.
“Goddamn it,” Armour said.
“Sir, please.”
Armour found an envelope with Chambers’ home address on it and a letter inside. It was probably from Foley, or maybe Reagan himself. He read the letter quickly and nothing about it astonished him. A day ago, it would have. Included with the letter was the original, smaller photo of Holt and Chambers’ wife. Despite it not being a clear enough shot of Mrs. Chambers, it had done the trick. Armour scooped it and the letter up and slammed the desk drawer shut.
Chapter 48
There was a large mother-of-pearl Duesenberg in Chambers’ driveway. The front lawn was well kept; the first leaves of the approaching autumn had been raked. Armour could see an expansive backyard with a stand of birch trees at the rear of the house, and then a drop-off to a road; on the other side of the road was a church.
At first, Armour was just going to go to the front door and rap on it as hard as he could. Shove the photos of Holt and his wife in his face. Tell him about the blood on the floor, soaked into the hardwood and impossible to get out. About the dented souvenir from Babe Ruth, the probable murder weapon.
He had been piecing together things on his way out here. Foley had blackmailed Holt when he’d found him screwing his colleague’s wife. Maybe her husband was out sailing and she’d nipped back across the
harbour for a quickie. Foley must have decided to have Holt taken out, despite getting the money to buy the guns. Maybe it was because Holt would not budge on giving contracts to the unions. He must have figured that, when he was told about the affair, Chambers would fly into a rage and do something drastic. Armour remembered the angry scene in the hallway when Chambers had pushed the elevator attendant.
Armour forgot all about going to the front door. Instead he was drawn, pulled, around to the back of the house. Perhaps he would find Chambers there, hard at work maintaining this lovely home.
When he came around the side of the house, he saw a large ivy-covered pergola. Cedar bushes flanked the sides of the lawn, creating a natural fence. And there were flower beds.
Armour felt ill; he clutched his stomach. The dizziness came on strong. He focused on one flower bed. The earth was turned over and it was dark and wet and, unlike the other beds, no flowers grew in this one. Armour’s vision started to swirl. His tongue seemed to swell up and he felt terribly thirsty. He could feel it – the earth between his fingers. Armour fell to his knees in front of the flower bed and started to dig.
He didn’t have to dig down too deep before he felt something hard, but not a rock. He tugged on it and then started to scrape the dirt away from around the object. It was a skull. He scraped away the dirt around the eyes and down to the jaw. There was still skin on it, dried out like sandpaper and peppered with holes.
Instead of becoming sickened by his grisly find, he plowed on with increased frenzy, scraping away the earth around the shoulders. There was a soiled tie around the skeletonized neck, a ragged suit around the bony shoulders. Armour patted the corpse’s chest and felt the sharp outline of ribs. There was something solid there, and he peeled up the man’s jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. In it was Colin Holt’s driver’s licence. A damp picture of his wife holding a baby. He turned it over: Rosalie and Madison, together forever.
