by Anna Porter
“Mrs. Hayes is here, sir,” he announced cheerfully, his eyes grazing on Judith’s bright auburn hair and the front of her navy-beige suit. It had not occurred to him that she had no appointment.
“Mrs. Judith Hayes.” He listened to a few words from Parr, straightened his back, pulled his shoulders up and adjusted his collar with a curled finger. “Yes, sir,” he said, then “yes, sir,” and “yes, sir,” as he replaced the receiver and swallowed before looking at Judith.
“He is here?” Judith spoke gently to help him cover his embarrassment.
“Yes. He’ll see you now, Mrs. Hayes. 410. Take the elevator to the fourth floor.”
As the elevator doors opened, Judith turned to wave at the young constable and was gratified to see that his eyes had followed her.
Parr’s office was sparse, his desk black metal, his chair a matching straight-back with wheels. On the left, a large corkboard littered with pinned paper. Otherwise bare white walls. The papers on the desk were arranged in four neat piles. There were in- and out-baskets; the “in” was empty. Sole concession to the personal, a small picture-frame stood near an old-fashioned black telephone, facing him.
Parr came to his feet as Judith entered.
“Mrs. Hayes, you’re becoming quite a detective. How did you know I would be here this morning?” he asked.
“I didn’t. I took a chance. I could hardly have phoned for an appointment because you wouldn’t have seen me.” As a matter of fact, Judith had phoned to make sure Parr was in his office, but had hung up before she was connected.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Parr said, and motioned toward the second chair. “I’m sorry if I was a little short with you the last time. It’s traditional police behavior. Once a case is over, it’s over, and if it’s solved as well as over, we tend to shelve it gratefully and move on.”
Parr sat tilting his chair back as far as it would go. He crossed his arms over his stomach. Relaxed. His furry-thick eyebrows rose toward the crinkled forehead. He wore a gently indulgent expression and the same tweed jacket he had worn when they first met. He looked more like a college professor than a policeman—a professor about to humor one of his errant students by listening to some outlandish theory.
“So what brings you here, Mrs. Hayes?”
Judith attempted to return his benign smile. “I thought you deserved another chance.”
“Thank you.”
“After the funeral yesterday, I went to see Francis Harris, at Fitzgibbon & Harris. He was anxious for me not to mention his father’s…suicide in the article I’m writing. He said it would hurt his father’s memory.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Well, I’ve thought about it a great deal, and I don’t think it is reasonable. Francis has been planning to sell Fitzgibbon & Harris for some time. That’s no secret. He’s never been interested in running a publishing house. Well, one hypothesis is that Francis found a buyer, told George—and George said ‘No deal.’ Francis threatened him, they had a showdown last Monday night, and, in despair, George killed himself.”
Parr was nodding.
“Possible,” he said. He had been careful not to say anything until after Judith had finished.
“He’s been looking for George’s briefcase. Right?”
“Right.”
“He wants to find it because he’s worried there may be some incriminating evidence in it. Maybe even a suicide note pointing to Francis. You haven’t found it, have you?”
“No. It will probably show up though. They haven’t been through all his personal effects yet.”
“Have you asked the other people on the platform when he was killed whether he was carrying a briefcase?”
“We didn’t think he had a briefcase with him.”
“But Francis thinks he did?”
“He seems to.”
Judith dug out a cigarette and looked for an ashtray. When she couldn’t find one, she asked, “Is smoking allowed?”
“If you must,” Parr said and pulled out a plain plastic ashtray from the top drawer of his desk. He pushed it toward her. “It’s so unnecessary.”
The worst kind of nonsmoker. Preachy.
“Can you reopen a case like this?” Judith asked.
“Probably. But there would have to be new evidence. Causing someone to despair and commit suicide is, oddly enough, not a crime. It’s a rotten thing to do, and having met young Harris I wouldn’t put it past him, but even if it were true, I’d have no reason to reopen the case.”
“Right. But if you were to find the briefcase, and if there was something in it that proved I’m right, I could use the information in my story. Wouldn’t that be justice?”
Parr thought for a moment.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That would be just. However, if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, I would lose my job. And I don’t think that’s particularly just. Do you?”
“No one would find out. We’d call it privileged information. Journalists don’t rat on their unidentified sources, some have even gone to jail…”
“I’ve heard about it,” Parr said, “but I wouldn’t want to take the chance.”
“I’m serious,” Judith insisted, seeing the grin on Parr’s face. “If you find the briefcase, you could let me take a fast look at what’s in it. Or you could look for yourself and tell me. If I’m right, you could tell me?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He saw Judith to the elevator.
“I don’t suppose there is a chance you’d give me the names and addresses of the witnesses to George’s death?” Judith asked from the doorway.
“Whatever for?”
“In case one of them saw something.”
“No chance. But I’ll let you know if we find the briefcase.”
Judith took that to be a minor victory
In the elevator she wondered whose photograph he had on his desk.
Nine
JUDITH’S MOTHER HAD always lived in the same house on Park Drive, off Rosedale Road. Her father had bought it in 1909 and she had been born there. When she was twenty, she had married Judith’s father in a simple Methodist ceremony in the parlor. When Judith was growing up her room on the third floor was the same one her mother had occupied as a child, and it remained very much as it had been during her mother’s childhood, with the old illustrations from The Wind in the Willows and the black and white etchings from Hansel and Gretel still on the wall. The somber blue drapes and matching bedcovers remained, both hand-embroidered with tiny blue and white birds. Two hundred altogether, eighty on the bedspread, the rest on the drapes. Judith had counted them when she was ill with pneumonia. She had not been an enthusiastic reader then, and her mother did not believe in toys. Especially not in dolls. She had discouraged everyone from giving Judith dolls for her birthdays and when Judith did receive a pink-cheeked, dark-haired doll for her sixth Christmas, her mother tried to include it in their annual parcels for the poor. But Judith had already named the doll Christina and wouldn’t give her up. She didn’t care that she had become a lesser human being for keeping it. Her mother knew how to make guilt gnaw at the pit of Judith’s stomach.
As she approached her mother’s house, Judith felt the customary unease of her childhood. She rolled down the car windows. The air cooled her face. She would not stay long.
Her mother was wearing her oversized white apron.
“Come on in, stranger,” she said. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She bustled ahead through the long hall and the dark, oak-paneled dining room into the kitchen.
Judith put on the old iron kettle and perched on one of several tall stools. “I would have been here yesterday, but I’m working on a story with a deadline.”
Judith’s mother resumed peeling potatoes with a thin-bladed knife. She disliked labor-saving devices like potato peelers. Judith knew how her mother felt about her free-lancing, and about journalists in general, so she went on quickly before the disapproving pur
sed lips opened.
“The children send their love. They would like to come for dinner on Saturday night, if that invitation still stands.”
“Good. Good.” Her mother smiled. “They’re well?”
“Yes. Both fine. Anne’s top of her class in English and History.”
“She’s given up that foolish theater stuff?” The potato skins went flying into the sink as the knife slipped under them.
“It was only the one play. She was very good in it. Really, Mom, you would have liked it. Her voice covers three octaves easily, and carries. They picked her for the lead in My Fair Lady over some two hundred other kids.”
“Her voice is God-given. She certainly doesn’t get it from you. You never had one.” Snip, snip went the knife. “What about Jimmy?”
“He’s great. Just fine.”
“You’re not mentioning his marks.” Sharp as always, Judith thought, but she wasn’t going to reply because she knew what would come next. “That boy needs a father. Boys have to have men they can talk to,” her mother continued.
“James is living in Chicago now,” Judith said lamely.
“I know; he called,” her mother said and stopped for a moment to look at Judith.
“I don’t want to talk about him now,” Judith said. “I have to go downtown. I just stopped by for a few minutes.”
Her mother looked up again from the bowl of stripped white potatoes.
Judith was determined not to give her an opening.
“Can I get you something at the supermarket? It’ll save you a trip.”
“No, thank you,” her mother said primly. “If the children are coming tomorrow night I’ll want to pick up a roast somewhere. That’s what they like.”
Encouraged by her success at sidetracking the conversation, Judith plowed ahead recklessly.
“Could they stay over Saturday night? I have to go out of town on a business trip. A couple of days only. I could leave them alone in the house, but it’s for the weekend and I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind.”
“Where to this time?” her mother asked, as if Judith were in the habit of taking frequent trips.
“New York. I’m on an assignment,” she lied.
“This evening?” her mother asked, staring at her with those cold pale blue eyes.
“They’ll be fine this evening. They have friends coming over and they’ll be listening to music. They’ve been alone the odd evening before.”
“Yes. I know,” her mother said in the same tone of voice she had used when Judith had admitted to sneaking a cookie between meals, or turning her light on after 10:00 p.m.
“I’ll be home on Sunday night.” Judith knew she had lost her momentum now, but she had to complete the duel in order to leave. Her mother, as usual, would have the victory. “Couldn’t I help with some of the shopping now?”
“I’m sure you have more important things to do. I can handle it. Tell the children to come over about 7:00, bring their clothes for overnight. You can pick them up when you come back.”
She followed Judith out.
“Strange you should have to work on a weekend,” she said in the doorway.
“Thanks, Mum.” Judith pecked her on the cheek. The skin on her face felt dry and warm. In the past few years the wrinkles had become deeper and her hair had turned almost completely white. Judith slipped her hand quickly over the narrow shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. Then she hurried off toward the Renault. Her mother stood small and erect in the doorway. She did not wave.
***
On her way, Judith had to go by the Rosedale subway station.
On an impulse, she parked the car and went in.
She knocked on the ticket booth window. Both men inside looked up. One of them opened the door.
Judith told him she was working on a story about George Harris, who had died here on Monday night. She had a few questions.
“Well, you’re in luck,” the man said, nudged his colleague and came outside.
“I was on duty Monday night. This is off the record, though, as they say. I wouldn’t want to have my tits caught in the wringer. Know what I mean? They don’t like us talking about that sort of thing here. Head Office, that is. No good encouraging more of the poor bastards to jump. Right?” He smiled. “My name is Bob, by the way. Bob Myers.”
Judith explained that she didn’t work for either of the scurrilous newspapers which had recently taken runs at the TTC for a variety of inefficiencies, and reassured him that everything would be off the record.
They went over to a narrow red-painted bench the TTC had installed for senior citizens.
“I’m trying to write the story of George Harris’s last day,” Judith told him. “That’s why everything you can remember is important. Everything. Like how many people there were on the platform? Were they all interviewed by the police? Was there anything unusual about them?”
Judith flicked open her notebook.
“Well, that night,” Bob said, “jeez, everything got screwed up. Listen. I came on duty at 9:00 to relieve Szabo. Had my tea an hour later and settled in for a quiet Monday night. And then all hell breaks loose. First, there’s a fight, couple of teenage punks going at it right here on top of the stairs. Bastards knew I could see them, but I’m damned if I’m going out there and get both of them on my back. So I sit in the booth pretending I don’t see nothing. Then two passengers, a couple, come in and they’re scared. So the guy knocks on my window and points at the punks—as if I hadn’t seen them, for chrissakes. It’s the uniform. They think you’re some kind of a hero.” He sighed as he settled back on the bench. “I did all that stuff in the war.”
Judith waited for the memories to pass, then leaned forward. “What did you do?”
“I was in the bloody army.”
Judith cursed herself for not having made the question more specific.
“In Holland.”
Judith nodded. Then Bob saved the situation himself.
“Not like these bloody punks. Back then kids that age were sent off to fight for their country. Bit of flak up the ass would’ave done it for those two, I tell you.” He chuckled. “Anyways, this guy keeps knocking on my window, so what can I do? I come out of the booth and I’m shouting at the punks, polite but loud, calm, the way we’re told, but they ain’t stopping. One of them’s bleeding from the nose. He pulls a knife just as I come up. I thought he was going to rush me, but then he just took off and the other after him. Jumped these here bars and ran. Chicken bastards.” Bob Myers grinned. “Felt kind of good though. They must’ave thought I had something to take off like that, eh?”
“Must have figured you had something up your sleeve.”
“It’s the attitude that counts. If people didn’t get so damn scared they’d be all right, I reckon. Nine out of ten.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then? That’s the crazy thing. Just as I went toward them, I heard the commotion downstairs. The brakes shrieking. The screaming. You know. That’s when your friend must’ave got his.” Bob Myers shook his head. “Guy had it all. Business. Wife. Kids. Money. Famous even. Why would he do it to himself? Crazy.”
“How many people were there on the platform?”
“No more than five or six, I think. Slow night, and what with the fight a few people were stuck up here when it happened.”
“The police talked to them all?”
“They always do. Well, mostly. I didn’t see the people on the platform, but you can check with Andy Frieze. He was the supervisor that evening. Good guy. He’d usually sit in if the fuzz are asking questions.”
Bob Myers was getting restless, so Judith folded her notebook.
“Thank you.”
“Always happy to help a pretty lady.” Bob stood up and grinned. “Any time.” Then he walked rapidly toward the turnstile. A heavy-built blond dog was squatting on the inside, wearing the expression of divine beatitude characteristic of dogs in mid-shit. A woman with a blue hat and matching feath
ers was attached to the dog by a leash. The last Judith saw of Bob Myers, he was yelling at the blond fur and blue feathers.
***
Detective Inspector David Parr had left a message with Judith’s answering service. That’s how he had left his name: “David Parr.” He said he would call again.
There was also a message from Alice. When Judith called her, she said she couldn’t talk now, but how about lunch? Judith had arranged lunch with Allan Goodman some two weeks ago. They had specially picked Friday because neither of them would have to rush off to anything. In the evening he was flying back to Ottawa. Too late to catch him and cancel.
“No problem,” said Alice. “Let me just switch to another phone.”
She came back on the line a minute later.
“It’s about Max Grafstein,” she said. “He’s been killed. In New York…”
Judith said she knew.
“But you don’t know how Francis took the news. We were in George’s office going through the files. I’ve been helping him. I have no choice you know. Then Gladys came and told us. Francis dropped everything onto the floor. He froze. He stared at Gladys as though she’d announced the Third World War. He looked like he was going to have a stroke. And I thought Francis and Max hardly knew each other. Then Gladys asked me to leave.”
“He knew Max. They talked together after the funeral.”
“They did? What about?”
“No idea.”
Now Alice was really agitated.
“Did you find out what George phoned Max about last Monday?”
Judith told her.
“Doesn’t add up,” Alice said. “But then, Max would hardly tell you if he was about to buy Fitzgibbon & Harris, would he?”
“I thought Francis was supposed to be flirting with some British buyers.”
“Max would make more sense.”
“Why wouldn’t George have told him to forget it?”
“Seems he’d given over controlling interest to Francis and Jennifer last year. He had only 35 percent. Francis probably persuaded him it was a good move, in case George died suddenly.”
