Murder on the Thirteenth (Albert J Tretheway Series)

by A. E. Eddenden

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “This could be my big story.”

  “At the Policeman’s Ball?”

  “It’s more of a police story.”

  “You’re not getting in over your head?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Well, if you need help….”

  The music stopped.

  “As a matter of fact, I might need your help. Tonight.”

  Mary Dearlove spotted Zulp approaching.

  “When?”

  “Later.” Fat Rollo’s expression appeared on her face again.

  “Where?”

  The music started up again.

  “Come, come, Tretheway,” Zulp blurted. “You can’t hog all the beautiful women.”

  Mary Dearlove blushed as coyly as a middle-aged woman could.

  “The Missus is waiting.” Zulp looked at Tretheway.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Zulp.” Zulp jerked his head backwards, at his table. “Back at the table.”

  “Right.” Tretheway had forgotten his annual must-dance with his superior’s wife. Zulp and Mary twirled away.

  Tretheway didn’t remember much about dancing with Mrs. Zulp. He couldn’t stop thinking of Mary Dearlove; about her clandestine manner, and about some of the puzzling comments she had made. What deep, dark secret, he thought. And what could he do to help?

  Mrs. Zulp had stopped talking. She stared intently at Tretheway managing to focus on a spot some distance behind his head. Tretheway realized she was waiting for an answer.

  “I see.” He nodded his head and smiled. It appeared to satisfy her. She continued her thick-tongued monologue which gave Tretheway more time to reach back into his memory. One phrase nagged more at his worried subconscious than any other; two words that he turned over and over in his mind as he whirled perfunctorily around the floor—“witching hour.”

  “Thank you very much, Inspector.” Mrs Zulp clapped her hands together decorously.

  Tretheway jerked back to the present. The dance was over. “My pleasure, Mrs. Zulp.” He joined in the applause. From Mrs. Zulp’s benign expression Tretheway concluded that he must have nodded and smiled in all the right places during their conversation. He followed her on her unsteady passage back to the table.

  The evening gained social momentum. Everybody wore a party hat except Tretheway. Addie’s and Jake’s matched, but only Addie’s was becoming. Mrs. Zulp’s hat twisted over one eye while the Chief, in metallic gold and purple, still managed to look intimidating. Beezul and Gum sported tasteful but festive models. Zoë Plunkitt had found a fuchsia, conical one with a sequined floppy brim that matched her dress.

  “Albert, you don’t have a hat,” Addie said.

  Tretheway shrugged.

  “We’ll find you one.” She began to look around.

  “Addie.” Tretheway caught his sister’s eye. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Addie stopped looking.

  By now, all attempts to hide the refreshments had gone by the board. Bottles, no longer full to the top, stood in the centre of every table for all to see, with white gloves abandoned beside them.

  Tretheway overheard Garth Dingle tell a loud joke to Patricia Sprang—who had switched to white wine—and Cynthia Moon. They both laughed well before the punch line. He watched the Squire close his eyes gradually as he listened to a list of Warbucks’s statistics. Mary Dearlove sat down for less than a minute before she disappeared into the crowd again. Doc Nooner and Wan Ho exchanged old anecdotes. Horns tooted tentatively all over the ballroom, rehearsing for the midnight release of balloons from the ceiling. The general noise level increased.

  The drums rolled. “Ladies and gentlemen.” King Chauncey announced as though introducing a prize fight, “The Paul Jones!”

  Before the balloons were released from their nets, before the short speeches form the Mayor and Chief Zulp and before the final toast to the King that officially wrapped up the 1943 Ball, the highlight of the evening was the Paul Jones. A local hybrid dance, part grand march, part fast fox trot, part polka, but mostly square dance, it was the pinnacle of sweat-producing physical activity during the ball. Everybody took part.

  Tretheway danced first with Patricia Sprang. She felt strong and capable, but not unfeminine, in his arms.

  “I just love a Paul Jones,” she said in anticipation.

  “Gets the blood moving,” Tretheway said.

  “Good for the soul.” She whirled Tretheway around exuberantly, or at least as much as anyone could whirl a two-hundred-eighty pound partner.

  “Gentlemen, dance with the lady behind,” King Chauncey chanted.

  Tretheway released the Major, who began to whirl Beezul around. He, in turn, was claimed by Cynthia Moon. The music increased in tempo.

  “Good party,” Cynthia Moon shouted over the noise of her jangling costume jewelry.

  They bumped into more couples now but nobody seemed to mind. Through the rising smoke and glittering reflections on the spinning revelers, Tretheway caught sight of Mary Dearlove dancing with Mayor Pennylegion. He remembered the cryptic message.

  “Join in fours. Make a circle.”

  Tretheway and Cynthia obediently joined hands with Doc Nooner and Zoë Plunkitt.

  “Skip to the right.”

  It was almost impossible to carry on a conversation during such wild activity. Tretheway lost sight of Mary Dearlove in the frenzied circling. Zoë Plunkitt squeezed Tretheway’s hand as she smiled widely and skipped around the imaginary circle in time to the music. Cynthia Moon was just as restrained. Doc Nooner wheezed dangerously but still smiled.

  “Everybody reverse.”

  Tretheway noticed with concern the bulging eyes and florid face of Doc Nooner as they all skipped in the opposite direction.

  “You okay?” Tretheway shouted.

  All Doc Nooner could manage was a weak smile. He continued to sweat and skip.

  “Gentlemen, dance with the opposite lady.”

  Tretheway enjoyed the respite of the slower fox trot and he was sure Doc Nooner appreciated it even more.

  “The good doctor’s not in good shape,” Zoë Plunkitt said.

  “I know,” Tretheway said.

  “And he’s so overweight.”

  Tretheway didn’t answer.

  “I mean, some men can carry it. Big men. With big frames. And still be in good shape.”

  “I suppose.” Tretheway tried to hide his shortness of breath.

  “It can be very attractive.”

  Tretheway noticed how effortlessly Zoë danced—she was as sprightly as she had been at the beginning of the evening. The diamonds of light flitted over her face and hair as they moved in time to King Chauncey’s rhythm. But it was her eyes that Tretheway noticed more than anything; how they stared at him, unblinking, luminous, deep, bordered by dark makeup. He had seen that look before at an animal farm, in a soft rain, when a deer had wandered too close to the barricade—a doe, a wet-eyed doe…

  “Grand March,” King Chauncey shouted. “In fours.”

  Tretheway shook himself. Zoë Plunkitt began to blink. The music changed to fast martial. They joined the nearest couple—Addie and Garth Dingle.

  “Great party.” Garth spoke in his normal voice, which was loud enough to be heard above the din. He still had his party hat on. Addie smiled happily and squeezed her brother’s arm.

  “Now in eights.”

  Another foursome joined them, making eight abreast. Tretheway looked across the rank to see the Squire with Mrs. Pennylegion. An unusual pairing, he thought, but in a Paul Jones, anything’s possible. Tremaine Warbucks and Mary Dearlove completed the eightsome. Mary winked at Tretheway.

  “Make a big circle.”

  The ballroom immediately filled with rings of eight people, facing inward, hands joined, feet stomping in time to the music. Garth Dingle let out a yell he had heard in the latest Gene Autry movie. Mrs. Pennylegion screamed with glee. Others joined in. The music became louder.


  “Now who…” King Chauncey looked around the room at the expectant faces during his dramatic pause.

  “Who is…the birdie in the cage?”

  This was the signal for the boisterous merrymakers to choose one of their eight to be in the centre of the circle—their birdie—for the frenzied finale of the Paul Jones. In Tretheway’s circle, he was picked.

  “To the centre!” Chauncey and his group picked up their tempo and volume.

  The remaining seven of each circle joined hands again and rushed toward the centre to form a cage of sorts over the hapless birdie, raising their arms and voices in a crescendo of squeals and shrieks. They repeated this several times at the command of King Chauncey.

  “To the centre again!”

  Some circles were more belligerent than others. They physically bumped their birdie. For the third year in a row, Mrs. Zulp was actually knocked off her feet. This did not happen to Tretheway.

  “Once again!”

  One group had zealously grabbed poor Luke as their birdie. With a wild smile he danced out of time to the music as they bumped and pushed him vigorously around the circle.

  “For the last time!”

  The last rush to the centre was the most spirited. Everyone yelped or squealed their loudest. The band’s last crushing chord of trumpets, trombone, drum roll, cymbal crash and squeezed accordion signalled the climax. All arms rose in a final farewell to the birdie, the cage, and the Paul Jones for another year. Tretheway was lucky to hear Mary Dearlove say something over the racket.

  He saw her lips move.

  “What?” He bent over. She spoke in his ear.

  “Midnight. Thirteenth floor.”

  Before Tretheway could answer, all came down with a final cheer. They all applauded themselves and the orchestra. The circles began to break up. Before Tretheway could get to Mary Dearlove, she disappeared once more into the milling crowd.

  The next fifteen minutes were spent in recuperation. King Chauncey and his Knights took a well-earned rest. The lights spinning and sparkling over the crowd, became brighter. Most of the dancers returned to their own tables to re-fuel. Some visited other tables while others retired to the rest rooms for repairs,

  “See Mrs. Zulp fell again.” Garth Dingle sat beside Tretheway.

  Tretheway smiled. He sipped Scotch from an oversize tumbler filled with ice.

  “Third year in a row,” Jake said.

  “Do you suppose she’s all right?” Addie seemed concerned.

  “I think so,” Beezulsaid. “Zoë and Cynthia went to the ladies’ room with her.

  “She’s okay, Addie,” Tretheway reassured his sister.

  “Anyway,” Garth nodded at Zulp, “the Chiefs not worrying about it.”

  They all looked across the table. Chief Zulp sat quietly, his eyes glazed, both his gloved hands clutching a half empty glass of gin.

  “Doesn’t seem too concerned,” Beezul observed.

  “Even peaceful,” Tretheway said.

  “Too friendly with John Barleycorn,” Garth giggled.

  “Also the third year in a row,” Jake said.

  Even Addie had to smile. She looked around suddenly.

  “Where’s Mary Dearlove?”

  “What’s the time?” Tretheway said abruptly.

  “Pardon?”

  “The time. Addie.” He pointed to her gold pendant watch.

  “It’s about twenty minutes before midnight. I think.” She squinted at the antique numerals. “Maybe fifteen. I love this old watch but it’s not reliable.”

  “Looks nice, Addie,” Jake said.

  “Let’s go, Jake,” Tretheway said.

  “Eh?”

  “Where are you going?” Addie asked.

  “We have a little business,” Tretheway stood up.

  “We do?” Jake said.

  Tretheway glared at Jake. Jake stood up. He smoothed the front of his uniform and adjusted his party hat.

  Beezul assumed it was ARP business. “Can I help?” he asked.

  Tretheway shook his head. “We won’t be long. He started across the floor.

  “Now don’t miss the balloons.” Addie looked at Jake. “That’s at midnight.”

  Jake shrugged and hurried after his boss.

  “I’ll save you a red one,” Garth shouted after them.

  Jake caught up to Tretheway. “Where are we going?”

  “Elevator.”

  As they jostled their way through the crowd, Tretheway told him what Mary Dearlove had told him, including her planned midnight rendezvous.

  “Doesn’t sound too ominous,” Jake said.

  “Maybe not,” Tretheway said. “I just have a funny feeling about it.”

  Jake didn’t comment further. He remembered that most of Tretheway’s funny feelings were usually more than feelings and never humorous.

  The elevator already held several hotel guests on their way to their rooms. The last one got off at the eighth floor.

  “Floors, please,” the elevator operator droned indifferently. She pushed the lever over to start the elevator upwards.

  “Thirteen,” Tretheway said.

  “No thirteen.”

  “But I’m sure…”

  The operator pointed to the numbers above the door without speaking. Tretheway and Jake craned their necks and watched the indicator light pass through the circled numbers. When the elevator stopped, it was at twelve. The next number was fourteen.

  “Maybe we should go to fourteen,” Tretheway suggested.

  “It’s closed.” She opened the door.

  “Closed?”

  “Roof Garden.” A signal buzzed in the elevator. “I gotta go.”

  “Just a moment.” Tretheway drew himself up to his full height and stared down at the operator. “Perhaps you should take a few minutes of your time to assist the Boys in Blue,” he said loudly.

  “Yes, sir.” The bored look disappeared from her face.

  “Now,” Tretheway asked, “why no thirteen?”

  “Tradition,” she said. “No hotel has a thirteenth floor. Bad luck.”

  “Ah.” Tretheway seemed satisfied. “But if there were a thirteenth floor, it would be…?” he pointed skyward.

  She nodded.

  “The Roof Garden?”

  She nodded again.

  “And it’s closed?”

  “Yes, sir. Only open in the summer. You know, dancing under the stars.”

  “I’ve been there with Addie,” Jake said.

  “Do you know Mrs. Dearlove?” Tretheway persisted.

  “The newspaper lady?”

  Tretheway nodded.

  “Yes, I do. Brought her up here about five minutes ago.”

  “Just her? Nobody else?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  Tretheway stepped out of the elevator. Jake followed. Tretheway stopped. “Where are the stairs?”

  The operator leaned out the elevator. “Can’t miss ‘em.” She pointed down the hall. “But, like I say, they’re all locked up.”

  Tretheway grunted. The buzzer sounded again. She looked at Tretheway.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Thanks for your trouble.”

  “Anytime.” She smiled. “Anything for the Boys in Blue.”

  Tretheway and Jake watched the lighted elevator disappear downwards. They turned and walked briskly past the second set of dark elevator doors. Tretheway yanked open the heavy fire door and vaulted up the stairs, two at a time. Jake stayed close behind. Tretheway tried the upper door.

  “Damn! Locked!”

  “Just like she said.”

  “I know Mary Dearlove’s out there,” Tretheway said.

  “How’d she get there?”

  “Good question.” Tretheway brushed past Jake and started down the stairs, again two at a time. He stopped abruptly. “How about the key?”

  “Probably at the front desk,” Jake said. “Downstairs.”

  “Logical. But we don’t have time.”

  Trethew
ay strode back past the elevators toward a main corridor. He looked left and right. “There,” he said. He pointed a finger towards the back of the building. Jake made out a red illuminated “Fire Exit” sign above a window. By the time Jake caught up to his boss, Tretheway had wrenched the paint-stuck window upwards. Cold air flowed into the hall.

  “Go see what it’s like,” Tretheway said.

  “Me?” Groaning, Jake stepped over the snowy sill. His shoes clanged on the strips of metal that formed the fire escape platform just below the window.

  “What’s it like?”

  “Cold.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Jake looked up. The outside stairway zigged upwards to the right for half a storey, then zagged back to roof level.

  “It looks okay.”

  “Good,” Tretheway said. “Up you go.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Right behind you.” Tretheway grunted as he scrambled over the sill.

  Jake started up the metal stairs. The traffic on the ground looked like dinky toys.

  “Don’t look down,” Tretheway said.

  Just as Jake reached the landing, with Tretheway one step behind him, the first sonorous gong marking the midnight hour reverberated around them. Both men froze in their tracks. From the bell tower of the Fort York city hall a few blocks away, the notes sped through the wintry air of the March evening. Somewhere between the fifth and the sixth stroke they heard a scream, a wail, a banshee howl whipped and distorted by the wind, a screech that seemed to go on forever but that ceased suddenly at the last stroke of the hour. Tretheway and Jake still didn’t move. Despite the weather, both were sweating.

  “What the hell was that?” Jake said quietly.

  “Don’t know,” Tretheway answered, just as quietly.

  “The wind?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Sounded like a scream.”

  “Probably a siren.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “I’ll bet that’s it.”

  “Let’s get on with it.” Noticing the cold, they suddenly hurried up the stairs.

  At the top, they encountered a small problem. The fire escape had been designed for people going down, not up. They wasted minutes climbing over the ice-and-snow-covered parapet to the roof. Tretheway pushed Jake over a slippery shoal.

  “Where the hell are we?” Tretheway brushed dirt and snow from his uniform. He noticed he had lost two buttons.