by David Hood
By the time Baxter walked into his office it was quarter to one. His morning tea had worn off. He was heavy and slow from lack of sleep and the strain of bearing bad news. And he was famished. Squire was waiting for him, flaked out in the same chair Baxter had found him in less than twelve hours ago. It felt much longer. Squire had taken off his greatcoat and draped it over himself like a blanket. He’s getting better at this, Baxter thought to himself and then was even more envious of the other man’s rest. There was the shape of something other than his folded arms under Squire’s coat. Baxter was curious and hopeful that the young policeman might have found some useful information. He reached down and gave Squire’s shoulder a good shake. “Let’s see what you’ve come up with,” he said. His voice sounded even more tired than he felt.
Squire opened his eyes slowly. He remained still for a few seconds. Baxter slumped into his chair and switched on the desk lamp. Its light was soft and shaded, but seemed harsh to the both of them and their eyes blinked against it. Squire pushed himself up into a sitting position and his coat slid to the floor. He continued to hug Victor’s attaché. He let go with one hand to wipe at his eyes and reach for his coat, and heaved himself up. He let the coat drag behind him as he walked a slow unsteady line over to the coat stand by the door. He continued clutching the attaché to his chest with one hand as he scratched, and tucked and hoisted with the other on his way back to his chair. “Now that you’re all spruced up, tell me what you’ve found.” Baxter had picked up a pencil and was tapping his desk blotter. He pointed at the small brown case Squire was guarding like his first-born.
“I got this stuff from Victor’s office upstairs. It’s his appointment book. Elizabeth, that’s his office girl, she said he was very private about it. It’s stuffed with all sorts of notes and papers. I’m not sure what’s in the folders. They were locked in his desk along with the book so I guessed they were important.” Squire leaned out of his chair and handed over the attaché. The chief inspector stood to receive it, then began laying the contents on his desk and poking through them. Squire continued on, described the chaos of Victor’s office, that it was out of character apparently and that Victor had recently changed his opinion on whether or not the city needed more streetcars. They had found Victor’s latest notes on the topic. Squire had put them in the book. His office girl had said that no one strange or threatening had been to see him. That as far as she was concerned, Victor was a saint. She had no idea who would want to hurt him. Squire decided not to embarrass Elizabeth by mentioning her fainting. And there was certainly no need to mention his ogling of an unconscious young woman.
Baxter remained standing behind his desk carefully turning the pages of Victor Mosher’s appointment book as he listened to the junior officer. When Squire finished, he studied in silence for a few more moments, then he said, “This office girl, what was her name again?”
“Elizabeth, Elizabeth Murray.”
“She has been very helpful.”
“Have you found something important?” Squire leaned forward in his chair.
“Is she young?”
“About my age, I would say.” Squire was still leaning forward though he no longer looked as if he were expecting congratulations.
“Pretty?”
“Uh…well, I guess some might say so,” he said, sitting back, looking at the floor.
“What would you say?” Baxter continued, between the sounds of dry heavy pages turning.
“Yes.”
“What do you suppose her boss thought? This pretty young woman…you had her account for her whereabouts since she left work on Friday…yes? Of course you got names of people who could confirm her story? These details are all recorded in your patrolman’s log book…yes?” Baxter looking up briefly, at the crown of Squire’s head, then went back to his studies.
“I got her address.” Squire cleared his throat and finally managed to pick his eyes up off the floor.
“I see…so you planned to do some checking first, then check with her again in case elements of her story didn’t match. Such a quick study.” Baxter’s tone and tactic were apophatic enough to embarrass but not shame, lest the lesson learned be the wrong one. Squire kept his eyes and the thoughts behind them to himself. “I doubt this young lady is cold-blooded enough to kill her boss and carry on with a straight face. Still, you get my point. You’re a policeman, you have to be sure. She didn’t have any cuts on her hands, did she?” Baxter glanced down at a page of Victor’s notes and the bandage on the hand that was holding it.
It was three thirty when Baxter let himself accept that there was no more to be gained at the moment from turning back and forth through Victor’s appointment book or papers or the business ledger that was in one of the folders. The thought of finding something important, maybe identifying a suspect to talk to, had kept him going for a while. Now that rush had faded. He was tired, and more hungry than he could ever remember being. Squire was very clearly in the same boat and needed no persuading when Baxter said it was time to eat and collect their thoughts.
“Where are we going?” Squire asked as they dragged themselves up the steps from the Grand Parade onto Argyle Street, the same steps Squire had watched Elizabeth Murray struggle with that morning. Baxter turned south and Squire followed, too tired to repeat the question when Baxter walked on saying nothing. The day had remained grey and still. The city smelled of fog and ash and coal smoke. All the singing birds had gone south. Occasionally a lone seagull drifting low would let out a short squawking burst that ricocheted off the buildings. There were a few people walking, slowly, their thoughts keeping them aloft in the dull soup like a seagull’s wings.
As they turned up Sackville Street, Baxter said, “My wife will fix us something. We can eat in the kitchen and talk.” Both men kept silent the rest of the way.
Jane was busy in her sewing room. She was pleased to meet the young policeman, despite the terrible circumstances. There was a ham in the oven. It wouldn’t be done to the bone for at least another hour, but the edges would be fit. There were some fresh rolls under a tea towel and butter in the pantry. Mind they didn’t spoil their supper. “You are welcome of course, Mr. Squire.” Jane’s smile was genuine, though she didn’t get up from her sewing. Watching his wife chat with the young officer, Baxter was soothed by her calm strength. He seldom brought his work home like this. He wanted to keep her from seeing the tawdry and the ugly, bad enough she had to smell it on his clothes sometimes at the end of the day. On the other hand, maybe he should have brought work home more often, instead of wrestling with it alone in his office, away from her. From the doorway, he could see the needle delicately pinched, the pieces of a new frock she would soon be showing off, cut out on the table behind her. She was not hiding in this room trying to stitch up the past. She needed no protection, she was offering it. There was a delicious meal in the making. If he did as she advised, ate some now and not too much, he would regain the strength he needed to finish up with Squire, and still be able to sit with her at the table later. She was surer and stronger than he found it easy to acknowledge, or take advantage of when he most needed to. Was pride keeping him from showing his vulnerability, from being a better husband? Maybe even a better policeman? He really needed to get something in his stomach. He patted Squire on the shoulder and nodded to his wife and held her gaze for just a moment before heading through to the kitchen. She returned a small smile as she pushed the needle through and drew the line of thread up tight.
“Your wife is a good cook,” Squire said, blowing on the piece of ham at the end of his fork. They were seated at the small table in the kitchen. Jane had opened the window. The heat of the oven drifted out along with the smell of the ham. It mingled with the smells of other Sunday dinners and the slow plinking of piano practice and screaking strings of budding violinists. As he ate and listened, Squire’s mind wandered. It seemed likely that things had their own peculiar way here in t
his part of the city between the richest and the poorest. More and more the same sounds and smells drifted overhead. More and more the people here smelled and listened mostly to each other; more and more they smelled and sounded alike. More and more the look on their faces became the same. Was it a smugness they might grow out of? Or was it something worse, some sort of degenerative physical condition, an impotence or loss of vision maybe?
“Yes, she is. Think while you eat,” Baxter said around his own mouthful of ham, glancing toward the hall.
“Well, we know that from the time Victor’s appointment book begins last April up until the end of January his life seems to have been very routine, the same appointments every week, same times.”
“And he wrote freely, using complete names and detailed descriptions,” Baxter completed the thought.
“He left some interesting notes and comments. Do you suppose councilman Geldart had any idea Victor thought he was a fool? ‘His upper storey is unfurnished.’ I never heard that before.” Squire smiled and shook his head as he buttered a roll.
“Victor was too wise a politician to say such things. I’m surprised he wrote them down,” Baxter replied, reaching for a roll of his own.
“Maybe someone saw something he wrote and took offence. Maybe that’s why he started using initials and abbreviations from this past February on.”
“But as we’ve said, that would not account for him becoming messy and erratic and taking meetings he never seemed to have had before. I think he was writing that way in case someone looked, not because someone did. He was being cautious because he had a secret. I want to know who he was meeting with, particularly this M.S.” He was eating too fast. Baxter put down his fork and sat back, playing with his napkin.
“Any new ideas on the five letters in the folder?” Squire had cleaned his plate and was finishing a second roll. Ruining his supper didn’t seem to be a concern.
“They are formal. They look like business, receipts maybe? If that’s what they are, there were no matching entries in his business ledger.” Baxter eyed the ham left on his plate, then continued playing with his napkin. “And written in Latin. More disguise, keeping secrets.”
“Still no idea what ‘Latorem extemplo dare spondes’ means?” Squire had his elbows on the table, looking out at the gazebo surrounded by a small sea of dead grass and fallen branches.
“No, but we can find that out without too much trouble. Finding out whose initials are at the bottom of each page, that is the hard part.” Baxter picked up his fork and speared a small piece of ham. He chewed it slowly as he laid the fork back down.
“Why do you suppose Victor changed his mind on the tramway?” Squire had given up his study of the backyard and was looking directly at the chief inspector.
“No idea, but it’s all connected, the strange behaviour, the secrecy, those letters, changing his tune on the tramway proposal. I’m sure of that.”
“If only someone could tell us how.”
“I know one person who can tell us some of it at least.” Baxter went on to say how he had gone over what had happened with Catherine, the awkwardness at the door, her good manners and then the huddle of tears on the small sofa that looked as if it might collapse under the sadness. “When I asked her where Victor was, Catherine’s exact words were, ‘He’s down in Windsor visiting with his brother. I expect him back this afternoon.’” Baxter reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of paper and passed it across the table.
Squire unfolded it carefully. After reading it twice, he said, “This was sent today. How does a dead man send a telegram?”
“Victor’s wife had no idea her husband never left town. His brother Carmine knew it, though, or at least he knew Victor didn’t come to see him. And since Catherine didn’t get any telegrams wondering where Victor was, I don’t think Carmine was expecting him. So when I left Catherine’s I went to the North Street Station and sent a telegram to Victor care of his brother. It said I needed to reach Victor immediately on an urgent matter. I waited an hour and that’s what came back. ‘I’ll be back in the city by 4 p.m., Victor.’”
“So Carmine is covering for his brother. He has no idea Victor is dead.” The food had done Squire good, he seemed fresh again, excited. Baxter felt better but he could not match the speed of Squire’s recuperation.
“It seems that way. The question is, can Carmine tell us why Victor was lying to his wife? What was he doing Friday night? Who was he with?”
“Do you suppose Carmine sent a second telegram to his brother to warn him?”
Baxter nodded in approval of the thinking behind the question. “I thought of that and waited. A couple of telegrams came in from Windsor. Nothing came in for Victor. I’ll take the early train to Windsor in the morning. By then Catherine will likely have sent word breaking the bad news. Hopefully Carmine will not bother lying about what he did or try to pretend he has no idea what was going on with his brother. He knows something.”
“If you’re going to Windsor, should I go in for my regular shift tomorrow?”
Baxter didn’t disappoint him. “No. That Friday meal receipt you found in the suit hanging in Victor’s business office, where was it from?”
“The Royal Hotel.”
“Go there, see if Victor had lunch with someone or a meeting. After that go to the Union Bank, we know Victor did business there. Ask for Mr. Saunders, he’s the manager. Have him examine Victor’s ledger for irregularities. Have him look at those letters too, see if he can tell us what they mean. While he’s working on that go to City Hall, talk to the other councilmen, office girls, and so on. Go easy, be discreet. If anyone seems suspicious or reluctant, don’t push at them, wait for me.” Baxter watched Squire nod at each instruction like a boxer between rounds. He wasn’t sure the young man was listening, but he was sure of his determination and enthusiasm.
“When will you be back?”
“If the trains are on time, I should be back in my office by two in the afternoon. We’ll meet there about that time.”
Baxter walked Squire to the door. Moving reminded them both that they were still tired, yet the food had helped, one more than the other. They didn’t have an eyewitness or an obvious motive. They did have directions to follow. And that was something. “You did some good work today, Mr. Squire. I trust you secured Victor’s offices.”
“I posted signs. I collected Miss Murray’s key and added it to the ring. I boarded up the office on Albemarle.”
“Good.”
Squire straightened his coat then paused with his hand on the door latch. “Detective, what do you think happened to Victor? Everybody says he was such a good man.”
Baxter shook his head. The question would be popular for days. He hoped there was a good answer. For now all he could say was, “It’s hard to fight off the world.”
“Do you think he may have taken ill? That can happen.”
“We have to face up to whatever we find.” He watched the young policeman down the steps. As he closed the door he thought of Victor’s family. If there was facing up to do, it would be hardest on them.
Baxter found Jane in the kitchen basting the ham. He leaned against the door jamb and watched her work. “Where’s our daughter?” he asked, suddenly realizing he had not seen her.
“Up in her room, back at that medical book. She had better not try bringing it to the table.”
“You taught her better than that.” And we both know what she really needs to be doing is getting out, letting herself be seen as eligible for marriage. This he didn’t say.
“It worries me, she’s so headstrong, can’t imagine where she gets it.” Jane looked at him as she closed the oven door. He thought he saw her read his mind, thought he saw agreement in her expression.
“I have to go see the chief. I won’t be long, don’t start without me.” He almost hugged his wife before he left. He hop
ed she knew he wanted to.
The chief lived on Queen Street. Not in the deep south end of the city, just closer to it than any other policeman. The house was new and as square as the bricks it was made of. The short steep roof sat on top of the second storey, neat as a bowler hat. It was much the same as other houses on the street, sturdy and proud of its modesty.
Baxter was not completely surprised that the chief had been expecting him. He was responsible to be on top of things. It was the way the chief came by information and what he chose to do or not do with it that sometimes stuck in Baxter’s craw. When the time came he and Jane would remain in the wood frame house they had come up in. The sewing room and workshop would have to go, be made over into spaces more suitable for receiving guests. What Catherine had done for Victor, Jane would do for him. He would learn to make small talk, in Catholic circles at least. Maybe even with a few Protestant guests able to accept him for the good work he would do. They had always imagined a home more filled up with life and purpose, and finally it would be. Outside he would be a firm and forthright chief and the city would be better for it. There was a small weight of guilt and shame trailing behind these thoughts, that the death of a man might lift him up. Victor was not a friend, but there was nonetheless a kinship. He had also wanted more for himself and for the city. All day long Baxter had been weighed down by loss, struggling under the weight of a tired sadness. Being here, being reminded of his larger mission, lifted that away; his thoughts were clear.
