by Howard Engel
“My name is Cooperman. Ben Cooperman. Did I tell you I’m a private investigator? I’m trying to find your husband as a way of finding another person who has also gone missing.”
“Seems as though quite a gang of them have gone off.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You’re not the police, then?”
“No. I’m a private investigator. I’m from out of town. You have no idea where your husband may have gone? Is there a cottage or relative?”
“No. Why are you asking me the same questions the others did? I wish someone would just tell me whether he’s alive or dead.”
“I’m not trying to make trouble for anybody, but I need information. Who, for instance, are his university friends? When did you see him last? That might be a place to begin.”
“Isn’t this duplicating the work the police have already started? I was asked these same questions months ago! Are you all stirring the same pot? I’m sorry. As you may understand, I’ve been living under some stress. I wasn’t educated to the stiff upper lip.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but the cops won’t let me look over their shoulders. I have to do my own digging.”
“Why you? What do you get out of it?”
“My sanity, for a start. It’s a long tedious story. I’d rather not go into it on the phone. But, believe me, I’m not out to hurt anybody.”
“There’s so much to tell.”
“And you’ve told this to the police?”
“Months ago. I mean, my God, the man’s been gone since Good Friday! Something serious has happened to him. He might be dead.”
“I doubt it. There aren’t too many unreported homicides in Toronto. I think it’s unlikely that he has met with anything as serious as you’re suggesting. But I don’t know. Was he mixed up in anything irregular on campus? Something dubious? That could have a bearing.”
“He was up to something, I think. But I don’t know what it was. Wives don’t always know these things. A year ago we were struggling to make ends meet; now we’re quite comfortable. I’ve even paid for a new TV.”
“Did your husband tell you where the money came from?”
“No, but if you like, you could come around and I could give you a drink while you ask your questions. Is that how you private people do it?”
“Sorry. I can’t. I’m stuck here and I can’t get away.”
“You sound as if you’re in jail or in hospital with your leg in one of those traction things.”
“You’re not far off the mark. Can you tell me what the college people you’ve talked to have said?”
“Mostly, they’ve said, ‘Leave it to us; we’re on top of things.’”
“Who were you talking to?”
“A professor named Nesbitt. I didn’t get his full name.”
“Can you give me the names of a few of your husband’s university friends?”
“Let’s see: there’s Morgan Bett. He’s a friend from our early days in Toronto. He’s retired now, but he comes in on Monday to have coffee with the other retired professors. That’s in St. Gabriel’s Hall, on St. George Street. He’s building a mad tower from discarded gravestones up north someplace, but he comes in regularly to meet with the boys.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, there’s Boolie. He’s a demonstrator and lab technician.”
“Boolie?”
“Abul Khair Moussuf. He’s Kashmiri. But he’s a naturalized Canadian. And then there’s Parker Samson, Dr. Parker Samson. They call him Gauche. An old football nickname. He’s the senior man in biochemistry. He calls from time to time, asking whether I’ve heard from Steve. He’s a good friend of my husband’s, helped us to get this place. He was always trying to help Steve out. You could start with him.” I thought she was going to give me another name, but she had stopped, as if she was thinking about what she had said so far. At last she continued, “That’s all I can think of right now. My mind isn’t working very efficiently.”
“You forgot to give me one name.”
“Did I? Which one?”
“Your own. I should add it to my list.”
“It’s Laura, if you must know. I’ve had the baby down with croup all week. Give me your number and I’ll call you if I remember anything else.”
“Just to make sure: you’ve not had any contact, either directly or indirectly, with Steve, right?”
“That’s right.”
“How well do you know this Professor Samson?”
“Ever since we arrived here. He helped Steve through the red tape at the university. He’s been a good friend.”
“And Boolie?”
“Again, another good friend. Except that Boolie’s younger and not as high on the ladder as Dr. Samson.”
“Oh, one last thing: I just want to get this straight in my head. Dympna has just had a birthday. How old is she now?”
“Didn’t I tell you that? She’s four. And her sister, Clea, will be two in December. Anything more? Do you think that they’ll ever find my husband? I’m running out of things to tell the children.”
“Mrs. …” Here I coughed to cover up the name that had escaped my mind. “I don’t know what to say and whatever I said, it would be a guess. I just don’t know enough. By the way, what does he look like?”
“He’s not very tall, but he doesn’t seem to be a little man. Maybe it’s his golden curls. He used to be quite cherubic, really. He looks like one of those winged cherubs in the corners of ancient maps. And in Italian paintings. Putti, or whatever they are called. Yes, he looks like an aging putto. His cheeks aren’t quite rosy any more, but his face remains chubby. Oh, and I mustn’t forget! He lost a front tooth!”
“When was that?”
“He told me that it died when he was still an undergraduate—long before I met him in England. He’d had an implant done in London. It looked very natural. Steve boasted that the dentist had done one of Elizabeth Taylor’s front teeth. He did all the top film stars. Of course, Steve got a good price because they were at school together. Anyway, when I saw him last, the tooth had broken off leaving a gold wire sticking out. I bent it double so he wouldn’t snag his tongue. He told me he’d been hit playing hand ball, but in the light of what’s happened since …”
“I see what you mean. You checked his story?”
“Not at once, but after he went missing I did. He hadn’t been playing with any of his usual partners for weeks.”
“You’d make a good private eye.”
“I used to write business reports for a company in Soho. It helped earn a little money for food and my music lessons. We checked out the credit rating of small businesses around the world, then sent back reports that the K.M. Batcheles Co. was a man outside Meerut, India, with an old Remington typewriter under a palm tree.” We laughed a little.
“One last thing: do you know the name Flora McAlpine?”
She thought a moment and repeated the name aloud to herself. “I’m sorry. I can’t make a connection. Was she one of Steven’s things?”
“Things?”
“You know, episodes, girlfriends, bits of fluff.”
“The only thing I know about her is that she’s dead.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. It’s hard to remember sometimes that this isn’t just about us. I should know better.”
“Thanks. Anything else? I have a description.”
“He looked a perfect fright: a cherub with a missing front tooth; Bugs Bunny with a missing incisor.”
“You’ve been a big help. I’ll be in touch. Give Dympna my best wishes on her birthday.”
I disconnected, after giving her my number at the hospital. Laura was a vivid character, even over the phone. Like Stella, but without her bite I added her name and the others to my Memory Book. Then I went looking for a cup of coffee to sustain me until the next meal. As I poured it, I thought of little Dympna, her sister, and their absent father.
EIGHTEEN
When I returned to my room from the gym t
he next day, still damp with perspiration, I called Professor Samson first and bombed out. His machine told me that he was going to be busy with meetings all day. The university didn’t have an office number for A.K. Moussuf. The numbers I got for him were all outdated and the people I talked to didn’t have his current number, but they were all sure that he was still somewhere around the scientific end of the university.
The third man on my list, Morgan Bett, could be found on Friday at the St. Gabriel’s Hall on St. George Street. I wondered how I could find him. I imagined going to the campus on my own, bursting in on a gaggle of young, bushy-tailed professors, all staring at me in their black gowns and mortarboards. I didn’t think I’d last very long, and my inquiries would be doomed. But there was something about the drama of the thing that attracted me, and while I was saying, “No, no, it’s a bad idea,” I found myself climbing into my underwear, followed by my trousers, shirt, jacket, and tie.
I made it down the elevators without seeing a lifted eyebrow and was in the street before I knew what I was doing. The heat hit me first. The pavement was like a gridiron or barbecue. I’d dressed for the familiar air conditioning of the fifth floor. Instant nostalgia. The clothes on my back dated me back to the time I was admitted to the hospital. I took off my jacket and removed my tie. Should I go back to my room and start again? I was suffering from a hemorrhage of confidence. In a moment, I might panic and run. I was caught off base, abandoned to the world of melting asphalt. Then the noise popped my ears. University Avenue assaulted my remaining senses, and I was almost hit by the first taxi that came by. What was I doing standing in the street? I got back on dry land and waved at another car. It wasn’t a taxi, but the driver waved back. The only disaster I escaped was walking into melting chewing gum. That came later. I’d forgotten all about the sound of the wind whistling down this canyon of high-rise hospitals and head offices. When a cab screeched to a stop, probably saving me from my choice of orthopaedic departments, I jumped into the back seat.
It must have been on my way down to the street that I’d changed my mind about where I wanted to go. My unreasoned fear of the precincts of higher learning led me to soften the blow with a short preliminary detour.
“Do you know Barberian’s Steak House?” I asked the driver.
“Who doesn’t?” he replied. And off we went to Elm Street. Was that east of the hospital or west? Funny, I could keep track of north and south, but east and west were harder. Was the concept of north hard-wired in my brain? Was east more abstract than south? West more complicated than north?
I had forgotten about riding in a back seat. The weight of my body responded to every turn and stop the taxi made. So, all the way to Elm Street, I felt like a pingpong ball being bounced about on a bumpy sea. The streets were a mixture of the strange and the familiar. I give myself no marks for knowing the streets of Toronto, but it seemed that the city looked stranger than the last time I was here. And people changed size so quickly: at one moment they were small figures standing on a corner curb, the next they were large faces passing the side of the taxi as it rounded the corner. It made me dizzy.
I remembered, as we pulled up in front, the classic façade of the restaurant: colonial details in black and white. Inside, the bartender was shaking a cocktail vigorously while talking to a busboy. This was the slack time before the lunch-hour rush.
“It doesn’t matter whether you use an expensive piece of equipment or an old beat-up oven; it still takes exactly the same time to bake a potato. When Harry started this place, he couldn’t afford fancy, so for the first year we used an old household oven. It did great potatoes, and the fancy equipment, when it came, didn’t save one minute.” The speaker had seen me by now and looked in my direction. “Yes?”
“I’m scouting locations for a film company. Could I look through the restaurant to the back door?” I handed over one of my old dog-eared cards.
“What’s the movie?” the bartender asked.
“What’s the producing company?” the busboy wanted to know. I saw right away that I’d have to watch him.
“Cinema Arts,” I said. “New York company,” I added, in case he was going to reach for the local Yellow Pages.
“They made Return to Paddington Station last year. With Sarah Coalfax.” The bartender frowned.
“Show Mr. Cooperman through, Stavro.”
Stavro shrugged and led me through two or three rooms, each with a couple of early diners leaning over the white tablecloths at one another: business and pleasure mingling. The walls were hung with oil paintings and engravings with a broadly historical theme. A ledge running along the walls a few feet below the ceiling was devoted to three-dimensional curios: miners’ lamps, candlesticks, candle moulds, flint lighters, and all sorts of early home-lighting equipment. It made an impressive frieze. The last dining room led to a preparation area, and that in turn to the kitchen itself with a scullery beyond. Here was a door leading, I guessed, to the parking lot behind.
A dishwasher looked me over. “It’s open,” he said in heavily accented English. I peered through the door, which opened easily. I tried to remember how to say thank you in Greek, but the word wasn’t where I’d left it. The dishwasher seemed to be studying me for a portrait.
“Do you remember an ancient, beat-up Oldsmobile parked out there in early April? It was one the cops were asking questions about.”
He threw his head back and clicked his tongue. “I missed all that stuff, like the time the Stones were out front or the time the boss turned up with Harrison Ford. I missed Liz Taylor too. Spiros told me about the car.”
“Could you get Spiros to call me?” I found a ten-dollar bill in my pocket and handed it to the dishwasher. While I was laboriously writing out my phone number, making sure I hadn’t substituted threes for sixes or other tricks my new mind conjured up, he said that it might take a day or two, because Spiros was off for a couple of days. I told him that it didn’t matter, just so long as the message got through.
“Did the cops talk to Spiros?” I asked, watching him run another crowded tray into the machine.
He preceded his answer with a toss of his head and the click again. “He was off that week too. Cut himself on a broken glass. Twenty-six stitches!”
I added another five dollars for pain and suffering, even though it was going to the wrong person. I nodded my goodbyes and turned to the back door.
The lot was small, with a narrow lane between the restaurant and its neighbour leading to Elm Street. A Rolls-Royce was parked behind, along with several other late-model cars and vintage collectors’ items. I didn’t see my 1986 blue Oldsmobile. I’d have recognized its rusted fenders and skirting anywhere.
I thought of quizzing the help, but my questions would be no better than those the police had asked. And they had asked them when the event was fresh. Remembering my fib to the bartender out at the front of the restaurant, I decided not to prolong my visit.
I walked back through the dining rooms to the front door.
The bartender, now polishing glasses, grabbed me by the upper arm.
“Hey!” I called without thinking.
“When do the cameras roll?” He released me.
“That won’t be for months. Besides, that’s not my end. I just tell them what I saw. They do all the brain-work. You’ll hear from them with lots of warning.”
“So I shouldn’t hold my breath? Right?”
“You got it.” And I got out of there, leaving the bartender with visions of a dazzling film career dancing before his eyes.
NINETEEN
Without taking time to catch my breath, I walked to Yonge Street, where I flagged down a second taxi.
“Take me to St. Gabriel’s Hall in the University of Toronto. It’s on St. George Street.”
“I know it,” the driver said, adjusting his mirror to see me better. I grinned back at him. The streets went by in a dizzy whirlwind of strange as well as familiar corners.
“Here you are,” the driver
announced, just as I had settled down to watching the scenery roll by. I gave him some money from my wallet, a bill of too large a denomination for the driver to change easily. He grumbled under his breath as he stirred himself to find his cache of small bills. “Thanks,” he said with naked sarcasm.
St. Gabriel’s Hall was an old Toronto brownstone, the kind that used to dominate the street on the east side. Nowadays these antiques were getting scarce. I walked along the sidewalk, found the big glass-windowed front door open, and went in.
It was like a stage set. Halls led off in two directions, a fine Victorian staircase rose around and above me, suggesting other destinations. Arrived and ready to quiz somebody, I found the place seemingly deserted. A man tuning a piano in the hallway looked as new to the building as I felt. I peered into a small pantry alcove. Nobody. Then, facing the street, I saw some bobbing heads through a glass door.
I was peering through the glass when a voice behind me demanded: “Are y’looking for somebody, or are y’simply prospecting for a cup of coffee?” The voice was almost that of Sean Connery, the first and best James Bond. In a more compact edition, he resembled him, too, but in his more recent, mellower years.
“I’m … I’m looking for Professor Bett. My name’s Cooperman.”
“I’m looking for him as well! This is where he’ll be, if he’s on the campus today. Come in. I’m Angus Kelvin. Call me Angus.” He led me into a large, comfortable, old-fashioned sitting room, furnished with leather institutional furniture older than the combined ages of the three men and one woman sitting there. Well, almost. An ancient fern gasped for air by the windows. A mantelpiece clock recorded the presentation of itself to the college but not the time. I was pressed into a seat facing St. George Street and three members of the group. Through the closed door, the single notes of the piano could be heard, as one by one the piano-tuner adjusted their pitch. My Scottish friend brought me a cup of coffee and settled himself in the big comfortable chair next to mine. The others seemed to be ignoring the fact that an outsider had penetrated this sanctum sanctorum.
