Seaweed on the Street

by Stanley Evans

  “What the hell is all this?” I said, reaching for my chin and feeling a thin trickle of blood where I had bitten my lip.

  “Stop! Move and I’ll shoot!”

  I knew he wasn’t fooling, but I was awkwardly half-twisted. I told him so and he let me ease myself around very slowly till I was sitting with my back against the wall.

  Service watched this intently. When I was settled he said, “Don’t move again.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Maybe this time you’ll finish off what you started earlier.”

  Service narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand. Started what?”

  “Are you denying that you shot me from that roof across the street?”

  His lips twisted in a sneer. “If I had, we wouldn’t be having this talk. You’d be dead.”

  Service sat on the edge of my desk, swinging his foot, resting the gun on his knee. I said, “Is that the gun you used on Fred Eade?”

  He thought this over and said, “Yes. It’s old, but I keep it oiled. I thought of using it on you yesterday, actually.”

  “Actually?”

  “Actually. But Phyllis Williams came into my office. She didn’t know it, but she saved your skin.”

  “Tell me something, sir. Is that the gun you killed Harry Cunliffe with?”

  Service’s polite mask slipped and his face worked with the effort of concentration. “How did you find out?”

  “You gave yourself away.”

  His unblinking eyes were dull and opaque. “No doubt, but how?”

  “I know how, and I know why.”

  “You know why I killed Harry Cunliffe?”

  I ignored that question and said, “When did Calvert Hunt change his mind about wanting to reconcile with his daughter?”

  Service moved impatiently. “What difference does it make?”

  “Let’s just say you’re humouring a dying man.”

  “Yes. It’s a simple question of priorities. Either I take care of you or I go to jail.” Service’s self-assurance showed in his unfurrowed brow and easy conversational tone.

  I wanted to disturb his cocky confidence. “But you didn’t have that rationalization when you killed Harry Cunliffe. Greed made you do it.”

  “I was needy, too. I needed money, still do. Lots of it.”

  “And you know how to get it. Cocaine’s expensive, of course.”

  Service nodded, appearing genuinely sorrowful. “It was a rash act. I liked the boy, his father is an old and valued friend. That’s why nobody suspected me. Shooting Fred Eade, on the other hand, gave me intense pleasure.”

  “You’re wrong about one thing, sir. I’ve suspected you since day one. Proving it was another matter. There never was a florist’s van, was there?”

  “I can see that you’re going to tell me everything, aren’t you, Silas?”

  “Only if you want to hear it, sir.”

  “And stop calling me sir, for God’s sake!” snapped Service, irritated at last.

  I managed a grin. “Sure, why not? There never was a florist’s van.”

  Service shook his head. “You were on the Cunliffe case for one day only, then were taken off. I know you’re not that clever.”

  “I was taken off the case because Victoria’s chief detective inspector didn’t want a muddy-booted savage clattering across Calvert Hunt’s beautiful hardwood. It was a high-profile case. If there was any glory going, the dci wanted it all for himself. But that’s incidental. You killed Harry Cunliffe because he went to Ribblesdale with proof that Alison Harkness, Hunt’s presumptive heir, was alive and well and living in Nevada. I know that for years you’ve been spending huge amounts of money on cocaine and on Sarah Williams. I suppose you’ve been looting Hunt, have you?”

  “Yes, there’s no point in denying it now. I have to admit, you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

  I noticed Service’s gun. It was a police-issue Glock and I wondered how he’d obtained it. I said, “So you killed Harry. Somewhere prior to that you saw an Aboriginal driving a florist’s van. For reasons known only to yourself you railroaded that hard-working honest driver into the hoosegow. Poor guy. That florist-van story was entirely fake, a red herring. The missing paintings added weight to your tale, gave an apparent motive for the robbery. Yeah, the dci bought it. It looked as if Harry Cunliffe blundered onto the scene of a robbery and it was his bad luck to get blown away. But you removed those paintings yourself and hid them.”

  Service’s eyes were remote. “Yes. I concocted that story on the spur of the moment, but it worked.”

  “Right. There was only one Aboriginal driver working for a florist in Victoria. He was in custody in less than a day. The case against Scow was entirely circumstantial. Victoria’s detective squad wasted a lot of time trying to find those stolen pictures. All the time you were laughing up your goddam sleeve. The dci became convinced that Harry Cunliffe was shot by accident, just an armed robber’s stupid blunder. So that’s the background.

  “Now let’s talk about Calvert Hunt’s wife. After meeting and speaking with the gracious Phyllis Williams, Mrs. Hunt’s sister, I can understand that Marcia’s mother was a woman who’d carry a grudge.”

  Service nodded. “Yes. Calvert’s wife and Phyllis were a fine pair of bitches. From Mount Royal, of course; they were thoroughly upper class. That’s why Calvert married her. She was his intro to polite society. I don’t know how Calvert tolerated her, but he did. He made a billion dollars in industry but was powerless before his spiteful, domineering wife. When Marcia turned out to be as determined as her mother, it was just a matter of time before bombs went off on Foul Bay Road. Marcia was kicked out and disowned. Calvert Hunt went along with it.”

  “But later Calvert had a change of heart? Ordered that Marcia be found and brought back, correct?”

  Service nodded.

  I said, “You hired Patrick Coulton. Coulton didn’t report directly to Hunt, he reported to you. Coulton was an experienced detective. Marcia hadn’t been missing long. I think he traced her and told you where she was.” I moved my shoulders slightly.

  Service pointed the pistol at me and said, “You’re doing all right, so don’t spoil it now.”

  “You never told Calvert that Marcia had been traced. You paid Coulton off.”

  “Now you’re guessing,” said Service.

  “Maybe. Anyway, a couple of years after Coulton found her, Marcia was dead. Killed in a freak accident.” I stared him in the eye. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “You are substantially correct. Actually, Coulton made two separate investigations and was successful on the second try. He found Marcia in 1985, I think. Maybe ’86. In the main, you’re right. I must congratulate you.”

  Service was smiling again, enjoying my story. I decided to shock him and said, “You kept everything secret. Coulton was paid off and sent home. But Coulton had delivered a golden goose. Now you knew where Marcia was, you kept tabs on her. When Marcia was killed, you saw a way to loot Calvert’s estate.”

  Service’s smile vanished.

  I said, “That’s when you set up that dummy heiress on Hornby Island.”

  “That’s impossible! You can’t know that, damn you!” Service was visibly shaken. Colour had drained from his face. He said, “What else do you know?”

  I stretched my legs a bit. “You were Hunt’s lawyer, his confidant. You knew all about his last will and testament, probably wrote it yourself. You knew how much Hunt money was sloshing about. What you wanted was a piece of it.”

  Service swallowed a couple of times and nodded.

  I said, “Calvert Hunt has no direct heir. Most of his fortune would go to charity. Was there anything in it for you, the faithful retainer?”

  Service’s face smoothed to blandness. “No. Calvert thinks I’ve been adequately compensated for my devoted service. After his death I have to shift for myself. The house and a million or so would go to the Williamses. The rest of Calvert’s assets would vanish down an enormous c
haritable sinkhole.”

  “You didn’t like that idea very much so you set up a phony heiress and plunked her down on Hornby Island to wait for the day when you could produce her at maximum benefit to yourself. On that day, no doubt, you’d also produce a second incontestable will.”

  Service looked pleased with himself. “It’s true, I’ve been robbing old Calvert for years. I have his absolute trust and, frankly, the old man isn’t as sharp as he used to be. But hoodwinking him was one thing. Concealing my little peccadilloes from auditors after his death would be more difficult, hence the imposters. Once I get myself declared their legal guardian, I’ll be home and dry.”

  “You maliciously and unnecessarily wrecked an innocent man’s life and you murdered two others, but apart from that I almost admire you, in a way. In a way. What you did took long-term planning and must have cost plenty over the years. That tattoo on the phony’s shoulder was a nice touch.”

  “I’m glad you like it. The woman on Hornby is a real drug fatality, by the way. She’d blown her brains out with drugs. I found her in Vancouver and set the scam up. It was a bonus that she had a daughter about the same age as Alison, but I could have faked that detail if necessary. The phonies were two lost souls living in an east-end women’s hostel. I set them up on Hornby Island and gave them bits of identification in case I ever needed to produce them in a hurry. I had the woman tattooed by the same artist who did Marcia.”

  “That was more or less the way I saw it, but there was a big foul-up. In fact there were two foul-ups. Things happened that you didn’t anticipate,” I said slowly, spinning the story out. “The first foul-up involved Fred Eade. Fred had run into the phony Marcia Harkness on Hornby Island. He thought she was Frank Harkness’s wife. But what he didn’t know, at first, was that she was supposed to be a rich man’s daughter. Fred forgot about Marcia until he saw the advertisement I put in the papers. That’s when Fred decided to get clever. He had me tailed. The tail was a fat man driving a stolen green Toyota. His name is Sidney Banks. Sid followed me to Ribblesdale and, I assume, reported to Fred. Fred Eade was then able to put two and two together. Now he knew, or thought he knew, who Marcia Hunt was. But Fred Eade was a two-for-a-quarter grifter. He wasn’t satisfied with a nice reward. Oh, no. He got clever and tried to steal the golden goose. Am I right?”

  Service leaned forward a bit. “Yes. Fred Eade went to Ribblesdale and tried to get to Calvert Hunt directly, but that’s impossible. He had to go through me. When I found out what he wanted, I had to shut his mouth.”

  “You shut his mouth but you botched it. As I just told you, Fred didn’t have his own car. Sidney Banks drove him around when necessary. You thought that Fred was acting alone.”

  Service drew his eyebrows together, but his gun still pointed menacingly.

  I said, “It didn’t suit you to produce your phony heiresses at that point. So you went down to the Ocean Reaper and found Fred drunk. You killed him. When I went down to the boat I almost ran into Sidney Banks, who had just discovered Fred’s body.”

  Service gave a reluctant nod. “I should have waited until I knew more. If I’d known about Fred’s accomplices I might have done things differently and allowed the women on Hornby to be revealed then. I’ve killed, but I’m not insane. I can’t keep killing people, can I? But I didn’t know about Fred’s accomplices, so he had to die.” He frowned and said, “I suppose Patty Nolan told you all this?”

  I shook my head. “Patty’s in the dark about most of it. She knew that Fred had tried some funny business with you but didn’t know exactly what. Not at first. She knew where the phony Marcia was, though. Patty wouldn’t tell me everything I needed to know because she was afraid of getting in deeper than she was already. All she wanted was a little money so she could hire a lawyer. Your luck was still holding, Charlie boy.”

  “It isn’t luck entirely is it? Don’t you think that my scheme was well managed, in the main?” Service’s voice had a plaintive quality.

  I shrugged. “But to proceed, sir. Harry Cunliffe ran into the genuine Alison Harkness in Nevada and guessed who she was. Just how he made the connection I’m not sure. Harry was Calvert’s godson, knew a lot about the Hunt family. Presumably the real Alison knew enough about her mother’s history and unwittingly divulged enough clues about her true identity. But Harry was discreet. Instead of telling Alison what he suspected, he came back to Victoria and told you.”

  Service said, “Yes, Cunliffe’s running into Alison was a million-to-one shot.”

  I studied his face and shook my head. “I’m a poker player, sir, so I know something about odds. Harry’s finding and meeting Alison was a long shot, but it wasn’t a million to one. Reno is a popular destination for Victorians. Alison met people from B.C. all the time. She knew that her own mother had been born in Victoria and had no reason to keep it a secret. She probably told several people over the years. She finally met somebody who made the right connection. But when Harry came to you with the news, you panicked and killed him like a rat.”

  Service’s gun hand had drooped, but at my words he raised it and aimed at my head. His hand shook as he said, “I did not panic, you bastard. I’m warning you, don’t provoke me.”

  The telephone started to ring. I said, “Want me to answer it?”

  “Shut up, don’t move.”

  It pealed five times. The caller listened to my message and left his own. It was Alex Cal, the fake street jiver. We heard Cal say, “We been watching your movements, motherfucker, and we know you are back in this fair city. We got another silver bullet with your number on it waiting for you.” The phone clicked off.

  Service laughed out loud. He said, “You have just heard the voice of Providence. Get to your feet now. We’re going for a ride. You are going to walk out of this office with me. Don’t try anything fancy or my first bullet will put a hole in your spine. The next will kill you. I’m a desperate man. I’m ready to shoot you on the street in broad daylight, taking my chances that I can escape afterward.”

  Service’s luck was still holding. If the lawyer killed me, Bernie Tapp or Denise Halvorsen would undoubtedly find Alex Cal’s recorded message. Jiggs Murphy and Alex Cal would take the rap.

  I climbed to my feet. Service said, “Turn around and face the wall. Place your toes four feet from the wall and lean forward until your hands touch. Stay there while I check your pockets.” Service jammed the gun muzzle to my neck and frisked me till he found my Glock.

  He pocketed the semi-automatic and stepped back. “All right, Silas, don’t do anything rash.”

  “I won’t, believe me.”

  “Good. Take your belt off and unzip your fly. Then put your hands in your pants pockets and keep them there so they don’t fall down. If we meet anybody en route who knows you and wants to speak, don’t answer. Is that clear?”

  It was clear.

  We walked outside. The streets were busy and the sight of two men walking close together went unnoticed. Chantal, walking her strut, saw me coming and plunked herself in my path. When I tried to duck around her she grabbed my arm and said, “Hey, Silas, you better watch out. Alex Cal is gunning for you.”

  “Thanks, Chantal,” I said, feeling Service’s gun prodding my spine. I edged past her.

  Mystified by my attitude, Chantal put her hands on her hips and stared after us, shaking her head.

  I said, “There’s trouble, Mr. Service … ”

  Another sharp jab shut my mouth and we walked in silence to Service’s Lincoln, parked on Pandora Street. The lawyer fumbled with his car keys for a moment, but, changing his mind, he said, “Where’s your car?”

  “One block over.”

  “We’ll take it instead of mine.”

  The lawyer shoved me. We crossed the street and went down Fan Tan Alley into Chinatown. My Chevrolet was parked outside Don Mee’s restaurant. Service got me to open the Chevy’s passenger-side door and slide behind the steering wheel. He got into the passenger seat and said, “You’re going
to chauffeur me along the waterfront, Silas. A nice little scenic drive.”

  When I fastened my seat belt, Service laughed but made no comment. Following his instructions I drove along Wharf Street, went slowly past the Empress Hotel, then kept going along Government Street until we reached Dallas Road.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  “Turn left. Go along the waterfront.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’ll see. Get moving.”

  But we were delayed for a minute. A covered horse-drawn sightseeing wagon was lumbering past with a cargo of tourists. The driver was extolling the beauties of historic Victoria. As the two plodding horses pulled slowly by we heard the driver’s amplified voice say, “In a minute you’ll see the ancient breakwater at Ogden Point, built by British engineers in the year 1862 … ” The sightseers, huddled in thick red blankets, looked bored and cold.

  Service fidgeted at the delay. I said, “Where are you going to do it, Service? In Hunt’s garage?”

  “Shut up!”

  The wagon creaked past. I turned left onto Dallas Road. There were fewer cars here. Suddenly Service said, “She was wrong, that girl. Ogden Point breakwater wasn’t built in 1862.”

  I gave him a quick glance. Perspiration beaded the lawyer’s forehead. His gun, pointing at me until then, was aimed at the floor. I accelerated slowly as we passed Beacon Hill Park. To divert Service’s attention I said, “I’ll tell you how I tumbled to you, if you want.”

  “All right, tell me.”

  We were doing 70 kilometres an hour now, but the lawyer was staring at me avidly when I said, “It was when I got back from Nevada and we met in your house. I gave you some photographs.”

  “I know, I know!”

  We were up to 75 and slowly accelerating. I said, “Those pictures, do you remember whose they were?”

  “Of course I remember. There were pictures of Marcia and Alison and what’s her name? Effie. And one of Harry Cuncliffe … ” The lawyer stopped speaking as realization struck home. “So that’s it, that’s how you knew?”

  “That’s right. You acted as if you didn’t recognize Harry in his beard, but it was unbelievable. The people who knew Harry well all recognized his picture. But there’s more. You told the police that when Harry Cuncliffe was murdered you were working in your office. You heard a shot, went to investigate and found Harry dead, shot, lying in the lounge. Then you looked out the window and saw a florist’s van disappearing down the driveway, but it’s all bullshit.”