Under the Dragon's Tail

by Maureen Jennings

  A burly man in shirtsleeves who was stationed near the door grabbed him by the arm.

  “I don’t have one,” said Murdoch.

  “Thirty-five cents.”

  He could have fished out his identification card but he decided not to. He would rather get the lay of the land first. Knowing he was a detective had a way of changing people’s normal behaviour.

  He managed to get some money out of his pocket and handed it to the doorkeeper. They were standing so close their noses were only a few inches apart.

  “Here. Hold on to it. No spitting and no climbing on the stage unless you’re asked.”

  Nobody else seemed to have paid attention to either rule. The straw-strewn floor was sticky with spilled beer and expectorations of tobacco juice, and Murdoch noticed two young mashers in striped blazers were trying to get on the stage. The doorkeeper also saw them and he let out a shout of anger and began to shove his way forward. He was big and strong and pushed the customers aside ruthlessly. Murdoch followed in his wake feeling like a dinghy behind a trawler. When they reached the stage the man grabbed one of the young fellows by the leg and jerked him back to the ground. He gave a yell of pain but was good-naturedly helped to his feet by some of the audience. The second young man, who had the pale skin of a bank clerk, was standing unsteadily in front of the stepladder looking up yearningly at Annie Brogan, who had quickly retreated to her perch. She smiled sweetly and wagged her finger in admonishment, at the same time moving up a rung. Then the manager clambered on the stage, lifted the fellow bodily, and dumped him into the crowd like a sack of coal.

  Another round of “Daisy” was in full blast, but Annie held up her hand for silence. The piano player stopped in midchord, and there was a gradual quietening as the men blearily started to hush everybody up. When it was quiet enough to make herself heard, she said, “That Daisy could go on forever. She’s never spent, is she?”

  The innuendo created another wave of laughter. A short sprat of a man in an old-fashioned stovepipe hat called out shrilly, “Hey, Annie, I seen your picture in the News. You’re famous.”

  She made a big show of hanging her head. “Reverend Whittaker accused me of indecency. Me of all people…he must not be seeing so good–I wonder why that is?” She waited a moment for them to recover from that one. “All right, you men, here’s a riddle for you. I just want to know if you’re up tonight. Are you?”

  Deafening shouts reverberated through the room and there were a few obscene gestures.

  “Ready? What do an American, a rooster, and an old maid have in common?”

  “What, Annie, what?” called various of the men.

  She looked pert. “An American says, ‘Yankee, doodle do.’ A rooster says, ‘Doodle, doodle do,’ and an old maid says, ‘Any cock’ll do.’ No, wait. Wait! I got that wrong, I mean–‘any dude will do.’” Her correction was lost in the laughter. Once again she requested silence.

  “Now for my favourite part of the evening…and yours…”

  She nodded to the piano player, who began to tinkle the keys softly. She climbed down delicately from the ladder and came back to the edge of the stage, leaning over to speak to the men who were closest. There was a gasp at the sight.

  “You, sir. You in the brown cap. What’s your name?”

  “Archie, miss.”

  The man was short and wiry with a rather grubby face, as if he never quite got it clean.

  “And what’s your trade, Charlie?”

  He shuffed his feet and looked embarrassed.

  “He’s a honey man,” yelled his companion. There were cries from those beside him who ostentatiously swayed away.

  Annie stepped back. “Oh dear! An honest trade if ever I heard of one, but a little too sweet for me I’m afraid.”

  She surveyed the men pressing in front of her.

  “Me! Me!” They were thrusting their hands in the air like boys in a classroom. Annie pointed to one of them who was wearing a beige linen suit that looked as if he’d got it from a secondhand clothes shop on Queen Street. But he had wide shoulders, and even under the too-big coat he looked strong.

  “You’re a real swell. What do you do?”

  He stammered. “I’m a logger, miss.”

  “My, that’s grand. But I don’t know if I can ever trust a logging man again.”

  “Why is that, Annie?” bellowed a tough in the front row.

  She pouted. “It was a logging man as ruined my sister.”

  “Oh no!”

  She began to prance back and forth as she told the story.

  “My sister is a dear, dear girl, soft-hearted as…sh…well, let’s say very soft-hearted. One day this logging man came to her. He was very low.” Lots of titters. “His mood, I mean, you naughty men. He told her he was in danger of losing his crib. ‘Oh dear,’ says she, foolish girl. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ ‘There is that,’ says Charlie. ‘You see, a logging man has to be real handy with his hook. He’s got to get those logs unjammed and sometimes they are sooo tight, you just can’t get your bill in no how–’” Huge guffaws. Annie acted bewildered. “I don’t know what’s so funny about that! Let me go on with my story. ‘All I need is a little practice,’ says he, so my sister, who has too many soft things about her, heart, head, and–well, never mind that. Anyway, she helped that logging man practice all summer with that long, long, long hook of his. But then you know what?”

  “What, Annie?” they yelled in unison.

  “When winter came he was completely cured of his problem and happily he trotted off to go back to his crib…and now my sister has a problem.”

  Roars of laughter. Rather guiltily, Murdoch found himself smiling too.

  Annie held out her hand.

  “I hope I can trust you, Charlie. And don’t forget I’m wearing my new boots.”

  She lifted her skirt so they could see. More hollers and hoots. Murdoch was pressed against the stage. The heat was overwhelming and he was sweating. The smell from the bodies jammed against him was rank.

  The piano player began to thump out another song.

  “I had a sweet little dickie bird…”

  The lumberjack clambered on the stage and took Annie clumsily in his arms. They did a waltz around the stage, the logger moving his arm up and down as if he was at the pump. She only tolerated it for two rounds then she let go and led him back to the stairs.

  “That was lovely,” she said with a grimace, rubbing her arm. “Got the blood flowing. Who’s next?”

  Murdoch didn’t wait. Boldly, he shoved the honey man away from him and vaulted onto the stage. The others shouted disparaging comments. He ignored them and bowed politely to Annie. She curtsied back and Murdoch held up his arms in dance position just as Professor Otranto had taught him.

  Annie smiled. “Ha, a dancer I see.”

  “I sure am,” said Murdoch. He didn’t add that to date his only partner had been his teacher, who took the woman’s part. His first real dance was coming up next week.

  Graciously, Annie stepped up to him. This close he could see how painted her face was, the complexion unnaturally smooth and white, the cheeks and lips rouged. She placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in his. She smiled up at him but it was an impersonal professional smile. He smelled a waft of violet on her breath. As did the good professor, she favoured breath cachous. Her eyes were unnaturally shiny, and as she readied herself he could detect a slight unsteadiness to her stance. She’s as close to being full as you can get without falling over, he thought.

  The piano player started again, the audience joining in.

  “I had a sweet little dickie bird,

  Tweet, tweet tweet, he went…”

  The bobbing red feather pinned in her hair was brushing his nose. They started to waltz, Murdoch trying to pay attention both to her and to his feet. He was counting in his head. One, two, three; one, two, three.

  “What do you do when you’re not dancing, Charlie?”

  He executed a
tricky cross-step. She followed easily.

  “I’m a police officer. Acting Detective William Murdoch.”

  The bodice beneath his hand was stiff and unyielding, but even so he felt the sudden tightening of her back. There was a flash of fear across her eyes but the smile replaced it immediately.

  “I hope you’re not here officially, Mr. Murdoch.”

  “Tweet, tweet, tweet, he went…”

  “As a matter of fact I am. I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  At that point the harmony between them broke down and he tripped over her feet. She dropped her arms and cried out, making a big to-do of hobbling away.

  “Get off the stage, go on, you ox.” The men were yelling at him, waving fists; some in good drunken earnest.

  The thought flashed through Murdoch’s mind that he’d aroused their jealousy with his smooth reverse turn. He stood his ground, although out of the corner of his eye he could see the manager was at the steps ready to move in. He went closer to Annie.

  “When?” he asked.

  She pirouetted. “After closing time, in my dressing room.”

  Shirtsleeves was on stage and coming fast towards him. Murdoch jumped down of his own accord.

  Annie had called up another dancer, a well-dressed man with dark hair and a sun-tanned, weather-beaten skin. In time to more tweeting they waltzed around the stage and Murdoch was glad to see that the newcomer was no champion. He obviously knew the right steps but he moved so stiffly he could have been a mechanical piece. However, Annie smiled up at him and although Murdoch knew quite well it was all part of the act, he felt a twinge of jealousy.

  Leaving them to it, he forced his way through the hot bodies back to the door and finally got outside. Here the air was blessedly cool and he leaned against the wall and wiped his dripping face and neck with his handkerchief. His hand smelled faintly perfumed from Annie’s glove and he shifted uncomfortably at the remembered image of all that white, bouncing flesh so close to him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Murdoch returned to the station to check the street directory for the Pedlow address and to see what sort of state Crabtree was in. He found the constable in the stable yard. Number-four station possessed two horses, both elderly and reliable, who were used to pull the police ambulance. At the moment, both were in harness. The traces, however, were not hitched to the wagon but to the large frame of George Crabtree. Two of the young constables, Burney and Duncan, were observing, both as alert as seconds in a prize fighter’s corner.

  Crabtree was stripped down to his singlet and cotton drawers and the reins were wrapped around his thick forearms. He saw Murdoch but was too intent on his task to acknowledge him.

  “Ready,” he called to Burney.

  The constable grasped both bridles, clicked his tongue, and started to lead the horses forward. Crabtree dug into the dirt of the yard with his cleated boots and leaned back. The horses stopped.

  “Come on, you. Thut, thut,” clucked Burney, and both horses, a bay gelding and a black mare, thrust their muscular shoulders into their collars and took a couple of steps forward. Crabtree yielded some ground but quickly braced himself again and the horses halted.

  Again Burney urged them on. Crabtree’s body was sharply angled backward, his massive legs pushing into the ground as he tried to hold the pull. The veins in his forehead and neck were so prominent Murdoch was afraid they might burst open. The constable was drenched in sweat and now so low to the ground that his buttocks were inches from touching it. The horses stopped, Captain pawing the ground and tossing his head in bewilderment. For a moment they held, man and beast immobile, but at Burney’s shout, the horse moved forward and Crabtree couldn’t hold any longer. He started to slide, scrambling desperately to gain a foothold, giving little hops to try to get the dig in. Captain was not to be gainsaid, however, and dragged him on, as Crabtree’s boots scraped deep grooves in the dirt.

  “Whoa! Whoa!”

  Burney halted his charges and they snorted and swished their tails in triumph.

  Crabtree collapsed onto his back and Duncan picked up the bucket of water that was in readiness and doused him. Spluttering and shaking his head, the big man sat up. Murdoch went over to him.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Practicing for the pull, sir,” gasped the constable.

  “Hardly a fair match is it?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose not.”

  “For the horses, I mean. Here, let me give you a hand up. Do you want some more water?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Murdoch nodded at the other constable who came over with another bucket. Crabtree drank the water.

  “Whose idea was this?” Murdoch asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

  “Inspector Brackenreid’s. He says the Greeks used to train this way.”

  “But you’ve been under the weather. Maybe you’re overdoing it.”

  “I’m not so bad, sir.”

  He started to wipe himself down with the piece of clean sacking his assistant had handed him.

  “Maybe I should be having a look at your teeth,” said Murdoch.

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Look, if you’re feeling up to it, I’d like you to get over to River Street and help Wiggin with the interviews. The man is as useless as a third tit. I’m going to Jarvis Street. I’ll tell you about it while you get dressed.”

  “I’ll just congratulate my competitors,” said Crabtree and went over to pet the horses.

  “You’d better not stroke the grenadiers’ noses when you’re up against them,” Murdoch called to him. “They might misunderstand.”

  He was just about to give another tug on the bellpull when the door opened. The young footman stared at him and assumed a faintly supercilious expression.

  Murdoch presented his card.

  “I wish to speak to Mrs. Pedlow, if you please.”

  The footman read the card. “Acting Detective, number-four station” was printed neatly beneath Murdoch’s name. The servant’s superior air dropped away like a thin man’s drawers. His alarm was palpable.

  “Madam is not at home.”

  “Is that ‘not at home’ as in out, or ‘not at home’ as in doesn’t want visitors?”

  By the question, Murdoch had violated an unspoken rule of etiquette, but he was in no mood for niceties. The footman was completely flustered.

  “She’s in but not receiving calls today.”

  “Maybe she’ll make an exception in my case. Will you tell her I’m investigating a very serious police matter and I would appreciate the opportunity to speak to her.”

  The footman stared at him. Murdoch thought his behaviour was odd but people often reacted like that when they knew who he was. A spotless conscience seemed a rarity.

  “Will you step inside, Mr., er, Murdoch? I will see if Mrs. Pedlow is available.”

  “And what’s your name, young man? I might need to talk to you as well.”

  Murdoch was only partly bluffing. He might indeed have to question the servants. It depended on what Mrs. Pedlow had to say for herself. The footman looked even more ill at ease.

  “I’m John Meredith. But what would you want to talk to me about?”

  “I don’t exactly know until I’ve had my chat with Mrs. Pedlow.”

  Suddenly the footman’s face brightened with relief, like a condemned man who’d got a pardon. “I’ll go fetch her.”

  Forgetting all his training, he backed away awkwardly, leaving Murdoch to enter and close the doors behind him.

  The entrance hall where he stood was sumptuous and felt vaguely ecclesiastical. A mahogany staircase, the balustrade elaborately carved, swept off to the side. A crystal chandelier, with what looked like electric light, tinkled softly in the sweep of air. Glancing around, he saw why he had been put in mind of a church. To his right was a tall stained-glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon. The saint was young and muscular in his white armour wit
h the red cross, the dragon green and ferocious. In front of the window was a three-legged table on top of which was an embossed silver salver for visitor’s cards. Curious, Murdoch stirred them with his finger. What was it again? When he was a young man he had studied all the etiquette books he could find, conscious of his own ignorant beginnings. However, maturity and Liza had tempered that anxiety. She had known much more about how to apply the necessary oils to the wheels of polite society. Not that their calls and visits to friends were formal. The opposite really. More likely to be outings to the lake or a ferry ride to the island than a stiff conversation in the drawing room.

  He picked up one of the cards. He remembered now. Mrs. Simon Curzon had turned down the right end of her card, which meant she had come in person. He’d seen her name often in the newspaper, organizing some event or other for the Women’s Historical Society. Mrs. Laura Spurr and her daughter Miss Georgiana Spurr had both left cards, folded in the middle to indicate they were calling on all the family. Miss Spurr was an artist. Portraits of Toronto society, if he remembered correctly. Perhaps Mrs. Pedlow was a customer.

  His boots had rung out on the hard surface of the hall floor and looking down he saw it was of pink and grey Italian marble. Perfect for dancing. He almost felt like doing a quick jig right on the spot.

  However, Meredith came down the stairs and forestalled him. “Mrs. Pedlow will be most happy to receive you,” said the footman. “Please to wait in here and she will be with you right away.”

  He ushered the detective through the tapestry portieres into the drawing room.

  Murdoch removed his hat but didn’t sit down. He’d started to perspire, partly from a nervousness he despised in himself, and partly because the room was uncomfortably warm. A completely unnecessary fire had been lit in the hearth.

  Consistent with the grand entrance hall, this room was spacious and luxurious. The walls were panelled in white wood with an ebony trim, and above the wainscot was flowered paper of crimson flock. More flowers, yellow and red roses, patterned the hunter green carpet, which was thick enough for a dog to bury a bone in. Or a pauper his pittance.