“In a tree,” Jake went on.
“Alive?” Cynthia Moon asked.
“Jake shook his head.
“Oh dear,” Addie said.
Nothing more was said until Tretheway came back into the room. He lowered himself into his chair, more easily than he had risen from it, recovered the newspaper from the floor and flipped through the pages looking for his U-boat story.
“Albert,” Addie interrupted.
Jake winced at the use of Tretheway’s given name. Tretheway grunted.
“What did the Sergeant want?”
“Nothing special.” Tretheway found his story.
“What about the rabbit?” Addie persisted. “The dead rabbit in the tree?”
Tretheway looked at Jake. Jake smiled weakly.
Tretheway laid the newspaper on his chest. “One of the beat constables at Central found a rabbit hanging in a tree.”
“Hanging?”
“By the neck.”
“Now, what kind of person would hang a dead animal in a tree?” Addie asked.
“Addie,” Tretheway paused. “They think it was alive when they hanged it.” He paused again. “You might as well know. It was mutilated. Missing a foot.”
Addie gasped.
“Left hind?” Cynthia asked.
“Yes.” Tretheway looked at Cynthia Moon. “How did you know?”
“That’s the one they usually cut off.”
“They?” Tretheway said.
“Whoever performed the ceremony.”
“Usually?” Addie said.
“That’s considered the lucky foot.”
“Now hang on, Cynthia,” Jake interrupted. “Are you trying to tell us that some sort of ritual took place in Gore Park? In the middle of the night?”
“Probably midnight.” Cynthia looked at Tretheway. He nodded.
Jake leaned back into the sofa. Addie fiddled with her apron. Tretheway thought about Hickory Island but decided not to bring it up.
“What’s so special about rabbits?” he said to Cynthia.
Theatrically, Cynthia covered the lower half of her face with a black shawl. Her voice dropped to a kind of growl. “Witches travel by night in the shape of hares.”
Addie’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Oh, Addie.” Cynthia dropped her shawl and squeezed Addie’s knee. “I’m only kidding.”
Addie laughed nervously.
“Cynthia.” Tretheway put his newspaper on the floor and leaned forward. “Honestly, ifyou know anything that might help…”
“All right. I shouldn’t joke about it.” Cynthia fumbled for her favourite amulet. She clutched it in both hands and stared at the ceiling with her eyes tightly shut.
Addie and Jake looked at each other, then at Tretheway. He swiftly stilled any potential interruption by raising a stubby forefinger to his lips. Outside, the February wind rose, flicking the frozen tips of the juniper bushes against the frosted parlour window panes. Fat Rollo waddled in silently and lay down at Cynthia Moon’s feet.
“The evil eye,” she began finally. “Malocchio. The basis and origin of the magical arts.” Cynthia held her stone beetle at arm’s length. “This is a talisman to ward off the evil eye. To attract a fascinator. A rabbit has a natural protection against Malocchio because it’s born with its eyes open.” She lowered her hands to her lap, still clutching the scarab. “And it’s fast. Changes directions quickly. Stands up like a human. Destroys crops. The Ancients believed there were magical powers in rabbits’ hind feet because they touched the ground ahead of the front feet.”
Her voice dropped, and she continued slowly. “Hence, a left hind foot, cut off a freshly-killed rabbit at midnight becomes a powerful charm…” She stopped and checked her audience. She thought she had probably said enough. Jake and Addie looked hypnotized. Tretheway was biting his cigar. Cynthia carefully rearranged her beads. She coughed self-consciously. The loudest noise in the room was Fat Rollo’s wheezing.
Jake leaned back and broke the silence. “How about some euchre? And some nice big cheese-and-onion sandwiches?” He smiled at Addie. Addie brightened.
“And perhaps some beer,” she suggested.
Tretheway brightened.
Chapter Five
Mary Dearlove’s husband, Ferdinand L. Dearlove, Member of Provincial Parliament, had died of natural causes in 1938. Even though there was enough money for her not to work, Mary decided to go back to her first love, her university major—Journalism. She wanted to be a police reporter. She finally landed a job on the Fort York Expositor, but because of her background-old family, private school, MPP’s wife, etc.—the editor assigned her, logically, to the society desk. For the past few years, she had covered weddings, funerals for the locally famous, church teas, war bond extravaganzas and New Year’s day levees for both the Royal FY Light Infantry and City Hall. Although she still harbored dreams of the big scoop, Mary Dearlove wrote an entertaining, intelligent society column. This month her assignment highlight was taking place on Saturday evening, the thirteenth; it was the Annual Fort York Policemen’s Ball.
Addie had spent a rare afternoon at the beauty parlour and now, in the early evening, she stood before the hall mirror checking her coiffure. “Oh, dear.” She tugged and pulled at the tight-fitting bodice of her new electric blue party dress.
“I don’t know,” she said to her reflection.
“Addie. You look great.” Jake beamed with admiration. He looked over her shoulder at his own image; the dark uniform fresh from the dry cleaners, knife-edge crease in the pants, thin scarlet seam, black dress shoes and a touch of paddy green in the good conduct medal on his chest. His polished silver buttons sparkled against the deep navy of his tunic. He carried his hat and white gloves.
“Good-looking couple,” Jake said.
Addie smiled.
“Where are my gloves?” Tretheway was banging cupboard doors in the kitchen. “They were here a minute ago. Now they’re gone. Nevermind. Someone put them on the ice box.”
Jake and Addie exchanged glances. Tretheway entered the hall. “We should be going.”
“We’re late already,” Gum said, rocking from one foot to the other with his coat on. He had walked over earlier as planned, to share a ride with the Tretheways and Jake in one of the several black-crested sedans pressed into service by the city for special occasions. Tonight, Jake was looking forward to driving a 1939 four-door Buick. He held the back door open for Addie. Gum eased in beside her. Jake, of course, slid behind the wheel while Tretheway squeezed himself into the roomy passenger seat—the only place he felt comfortable in a car.
“Got everything?” Tretheway stared straight ahead.
“Yes, sir.” Jake patted the bulky paper bag beside him.
“Let’s go,” Tretheway said, still without turning his head.
The night was mostly clear but bitterly cold. A steady north wind swirled flakes of old and new snow across the windshield and long hood of the car. The wide white-walled tires crunched noisily as Jake guided the heavy machine through the ruts of the unploughed side streets.
The Policemen’s Ball, the largest social function before the weather began to soften, was well attended; it gave everyone a chance to escape the winter blahs that seemed to hang on at this time of year and the persistence of police officers, Tretheway included, in selling tickets guaranteed a large turnout. This was apparent in the lineup of cars Jake joined in front of the Fort York Arms.
Tretheway looked in his side mirror. He noticed a car pulling up behind — a little bigger than theirs, a little grander, with an impressive city-crested flag flying on the fender.
“That has to be Zulp,” Tretheway said.
Jake adjusted his rear-view mirror. “It is. The chief himself.”
The lights blazed merrily under the ornate marquee as Tretheway and his party alighted from the luxury vehicle. Jake reluctantly handed over the keys to, he thought, a too-young, too-eager valet parker. They all waved at the car behind.
The scene in the lobby was even more festive. People milled about shaking hands with old acquaintances they hadn’t seen since the last ball and loudly greeting those they had talked to only yesterday. Police uniforms dominated, but mingled with the Armed Forces and, Tretheway quipped, “a sprinkling of firemen”. All colourful dress uniforms, formal tuxedos and tails had been mothballed in deference to the war. Colours showed mainly in the ladies’ attire. The blue of Addie’s taffeta, the shimmering, fuchsia sequined dress that clung to the athletic body of Zoë Plunkitt, the wildly-hued peasant garb of Cynthia Moon and the golden, queenly radiance of Mary Dearlove’s rustling silk suit showed up brightly against the sea of drab uniforms and business suits. Patricia Sprong wore the dark blue of the Salvation Army.
Music could barely be heard above the babble of conversation. It drifted down the wide circular staircase from the mezzanine where King Chauncey, accordion virtuoso, and his seven Merry Knights enthusiastically supplied music from the cavernous Crystal Ballroom.
“Why don’t we go directly to the table?” Addie suggested.
“Good idea,” Tretheway said. “I’ll check the coats.” He looked at Jake. “You watch the refreshments.” Jake tightened his grip on the large paper bag.
Halfway up the carpeted stairway Jake stumbled. Tretheway’s huge white-gloved hand cut quickly and painfully under Jake’s armpit. It steadied him the rest of the way up.
“Now let’s get to the table before you drop the bloody bag,” Tretheway said. Addie frowned at her brother.
They pushed their way through the crowded mezzanine toward the main ballroom, waving and shouting greetings to old friends. Their progress was interrupted twice before they reached the table—once by Sergeant Wan Ho, who kissed Addie lightly on the cheek, shook hands all round and bowed ceremoniously in his best Charlie Chan imitation. Jake bowed back. Tretheway smiled. The three never missed a Charlie Chan movie and knew the detective’s treasury of proverbs by heart. They often argued about which was the best picture and who made the best Chan. Tretheway favoured Warner Oland while Jake and Wan Ho preferred the later pictures with Sidney Toler. Tretheway rated Wan Ho as the most efficient plainclothesman on the Fort York force.
The second interruption was Dr. Nooner. The doctor, a Fort York native and the official Police Force physician, was a regular at Tretheways’. He served the same role with the Firemen, the FY Tagger Football Club, the elected representatives on the city council and the draft board. This way of life gave him little time for his own patients, which did not displease him. Doc Nooner greeted the Tretheway party warmly and, as usual, loudly. He wagged the forefinger of one hand, while cradling a drink with the other, to warn them dramatically about the evils of drink and overeating. His head was moon-shaped and hairless; he had a chubby smile. And although he was much shorter than Tretheway, their potbellies still touched when they spoke to each other.
At the table Jake thankfully put down the unwieldy bag of refreshments.
“Anyone for a drink before I hide it?” he asked.
Tretheway winced. He still felt embarrassed at having to break the law. Because of the Province’s archaic liquor laws, the hotel was not allowed to sell alcohol. (The hotel more than made up for loss of revenue by charging a king’s ransom for ginger ale, soda water, ice, peanuts, party hats, toy horns, etc.) The venerable Fort York Arms, like all similar establishments, looked the other way while law-abiding celebrators guiltily slid their goodies under their tables. Jake’s bag held a quart of Scotch for Tretheway, who had to forego his Molson’s Blue as just too cumbersome, a mickey of Canadian rye for Jake and Addie, a small dark rum slipped in by Gum and two bottles of Addie’s home-made dandelion wine.
The scene, with varying bag contents, was repeated at each table. And each table seated eight. At the Tretheways’, Geoffrey Beezul and Zoë Plunkitt acknowledged their arrival with raised glasses of premixed martinis. The Zulps were to occupy seats seven and eight but were still socializing enroute. At the adjacent table, also filled because of Tretheway’s aggressive ticket selling, were the six other ARW’s. They were all seated except for Mary Dearlove, who was away ostensibly gathering tidbits for her next week’s column. The remaining two seats awaited Doc Nooner and Sergeant Wan Ho.
King Chauncey squeezed life into his accordion as a signal for the start of a new dance set. The lights dimmed. Chairs scraped back. The level of conversation rose expectantly as the men chose partners.
“Addie?” Jake stood up. “Would you care to…” he pointed at the dance floor.
“Certainly.” Addie brushed past Tretheway. “Shouldn’t you ask someone?”
“Eh?” Tretheway was pouring a drink.
“To dance,” Addie said. “Just to be sociable.”
“Well…” Tretheway stood up. The only lady at the table was Zoë Plunkitt. And it was obvious to Tretheway that Beezul and Gum weren’t interested in dancing.
“Zoë?” Tretheway asked. “Would you care to dance?”
“I’d be delighted.” With a slightly disapproving glance at the other two men, Zoë walked ahead of Tretheway to the already crowded dance floor.
When pushed, Tretheway had to admit that he enjoyed music. He liked to sing, listen to marches and some operas, didn’t care for jazz but could be moved by a sentimental wartime ballad such as the one the band was now playing.
As one of King Chauncey’s Knights warbled the lyrics of “When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World,” Tretheway and Zoë Plunkitt began their spin around the floor. Although Zoë felt doll-like in Tretheway’s terpsi-chorean embrace, her grip and manner said otherwise. Her coordination, coupled with Tretheway’s peculiar grace— a grace that sometimes accompanies obesity— made the pair a pleasure to watch. Leather shoes slid rhythmically over the powdered hardwood floor. The slowly rotating mirrored chandelier spun diamonds of moving light over the fox-trotting couples, suggesting an aura of hypnotic fantasy. The war seemed far away, or at least romanticized into acceptability.
However, the next number was fast—“G.I. Jive.” Tretheway suggested they sit down. On their way back through the crowd, Tretheway noticed that Zoë Plunkitt bumped into a couple of chairs, one of them at the Mayor’s table. “What the hell,” he thought. “It’s a party.”
“Tretheway.” The Mayor waved.
“Mr. Mayor.” Tretheway waved back.
“Would you and Miss Plunkitt care to wet your whistle?”
“Maybe later, your Honour.” Zoë shook her head politely.
Joseph L. Pennylegion had worked his way up through the Fort York political system as a volunteer, alderman, and senior controller to his present post of mayor. As sometimes happens, his talents expanded with each succeeding office to more than fill the job. He was more or less thrown into competence.
His early history was obscure. He had appeared suddenly in the bewildering area of North American Prohibition as someone with money and influence. “Transportation,” he would say if asked by reporters where his wealth came from, which was probably partly true. He was loyal to the Runyonesque friends who had shared his beginnings and now shared his table. They had names like Quick Roy, Fingers, and Worm. When the Mayor rode in his official limousine, they always followed him in a large black private sedan. In the world of municipalities he had the reputation of running a “tight” city.
Mrs. Pennylegion,too, had grown with her husband’s career. Neither had much formal education but they were street-wise and possessed a blunt, sometimes vulgar, honesty that could be refreshing or shocking, depending on your viewpoint. She was overdressed; he was overweight and loud. His carrot-coloured hair, showing no grey, clashed violently with his flushed complexion. And they both used too much perfume or cologne, although now much more expensive brands than in the old d
ays.
“Fine,” Mayor Pennylegion shouted. “Come back later. I got champagne.”
When they reached the table, Zoë Plunkitt took her matching sequined purse and left to powder her nose. Tretheway noticed that Mary Dearlove joined her on the way. The Zulps had finally arrived and were chatting with Bartholomew Gum and Beezul. Jake and Addie were still dancing.
Tretheway glanced at the next table. Garth Dingle was already wearing one of the party hats and amusing Patricia Sprong and the Squire. The Squire’s refreshment bag sat on his lap. Tremaine Warbucks danced with Cynthia Moon and even from a distance could be seen talking without pause. Nooner and Wan Ho were still not in their seats. Mary Dearlove came back from the ladies’ room and seemed to be visiting everyone. She danced with Dingle and Warbucks, shared rum with the Squire, soda water with Patricia Sprong and scribbled notes on an interview with Cynthia Moon. At one point, she even spent time walking around the perimeter of the dance floor, talking animatedly, arm in arm with Luke, the wandering doorman. At about ten o’clock, it was Tretheway’s turn.
“Time for our dance, Inspector.” Mary leaned over Tretheway’s shoulder from behind. Addie pretended not to notice. A heady mixture of expensive perfume, freshly permed hair and mixed drinks wafted around Tretheway.
“My pleasure.” He rose politely.
On the dance floor she performed well. But not quite as well as Zoë Plunkitt, Tretheway thought.
“Any juicy gossip for the column?” he asked, more for conversation than for interest.
“You’d be surprised.” Mary Dearlove’s words were ever so slightly slurred. And the look on her face reminded Tretheway of the look on Fat Rollo’s face last summer when he was discovered holding a live baby bird between his paws.
“Oh?”
’I’ve come across a very interesting item.”
“like two ladies wearing the same dress?” Tretheway tried to keep it light.
“More than that. A secret. A deep, dark secret.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“This could be my big story.”
“At the Policeman’s Ball?”
Murder on the Thirteenth Page 4
