What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  He hadn’t heard any signs of life in the house from upstairs. The downstairs was dead as well. He had poked his head into the small front parlour, nothing save dust in the beams of pale sunlight slanting through the open curtains and two empty chairs. At the back of the house the smell of fried eggs hung in the air. The meal had passed. The chairs were all pushed into the table. He turned a tap to stop its dripping then moved over to pick up the tent of notepaper pitched on the sideboard. His name was written across the front. He recognized Betty’s handwriting. He pulled a chair and sat to read the short letter written on the inside of the tent.

  She had a niece coming to the city for work, her brother-in-law’s girl. She hadn’t seen much of that side of the family since losing John, more her fault than theirs. They all looked so much alike, their faces made her feel sad. Then she got a letter asking if she would take a room with Anna, or at least board in the same house and she couldn’t say no. She found two rooms at a good rate. She and Anna would be upstairs downstairs, close enough for comfort but not in each other’s hair. Betty said she wasn’t one for long goodbyes. Squire thought maybe it had something to do with not having been able to say goodbye to her husband. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not gotten to say goodbye to his father, not really. The man that smeared manure on his chest and stopped coming into the house, the man who turned their barn into a junk store, was not his father. The person he shook hands with before coming to the city looked even less like the man Squire tried to keep in memory. Betty never got to say goodbye to John, and sometimes she would see a face that looked like his. At least she didn’t have to watch some stranger living in his body. Squire rubbed at his eyes, then went on with Betty’s letter. She told him to be careful at work and if she had forgotten to say so, he looked dashing in uniform and there was no doubt in her mind that he was a fine policeman. She could see he had a forgiving spirit. “I know blueberry is your favourite,” she said in closing. Then at the bottom: “PS, 11 Morris Street.” He would stop by at least once to say thank you and wish her well. He went back to the sideboard and lifted the tea towel. Blueberry pie for breakfast. He got a plate.

  After two pieces of pie with coffee he arrived at the station to find the place empty. Everyone was upstairs. Squire fell in at the edge of the crowd as the mayor finished, then stepped aside for the chief. “Good morning, everyone. As the mayor said, this is truly a sad morning.” For the benefit of the press who he hoped would sell it to family, friends, and the rest of the city, Tolliver made it clear that justice would be done. Chief Inspector Baxter was absent this morning precisely because he was hot on the trail and this case would be wrapped up in due course. “You can expect to see me before you again very soon, giving you the details of how the case was solved and the identity of the person or persons involved.” Tolliver went on to ask for citizen cooperation in bringing forth any information that might help the case. He also cautioned against wasting valuable time with rumours and petty grievances. Those persons who knew Alderman Mosher, many who were listening now, could expect to be contacted by the chief inspector or Officer Squire. “Officer Squire, can you please raise your hand and step forward a little so folks can get a look at you.”

  The people in front of him made room, and Squire took a few small steps. He felt like someone who had just been caught chewing gum in class, not someone people needed to answer to. While he stood there with his face hanging out, the chief reiterated the need for full cooperation, and that being questioned was not the same as an accusation. People should think of this as a chance to do their part in capturing whoever was responsible for this terrible act. The chief said his thank yous, then he and the mayor began making their way downstairs, surrounded by a small group of reporters asking questions and scribbling in notepads. On his way past, Tolliver gave Squire a nod. On reflex, Squire had touched the brim of his uniform custodian helmet in an awkward salute or sign of recognition, as if the chief needed any from him. Of course, it was the other way around. Squire was sure no one missed the look of surprise on his face when he was recognized and called out, including the chief.

  In the walk to see the manager of the Union Bank, Victor’s ledger tucked under his arm, he stopped in front of some shop windows to read the signs and when he was sure no one was watching, he practised looking like an investigating officer. The chief had used that word, “officer.” He could have said “Constable Squire,” which was more accurate. There was no rank of officer, the title just seemed to have more air under it. Maybe the chief felt he needed a little inflating. Trouble was, Squire didn’t know how to look like an officer. He tried lowering his brows and tightening his lips. On him it came off as constipation or confusion. He tried looking angry, a crooked lip or squinting eyes. All that did was make him more boyish than ever. He gave up, and hurried on to the bank.

  The bank manager’s look was perfect. He was not too tall, though not noticeably short. Not too fat or too thin. He wore a grey suit that made no impression. His face was instantly forgettable. Even the name Saunders had no staying power. Customers would remember their anger and disappointment when the bank said no to their loan requests. The shame and loss of a foreclosure might linger for years, but recalling the man who delivered the news would likely be impossible for most. The manager of the Union Bank could put in a hard day of taking money from one and selling it to another and then step into the street wearing a face no one could recall, could pass by without fear of acrimony or abuse. As Squire shook hands and explained his call, he wondered if the manager had ever considered a life of crime. Witness descriptions would fit everyone and no one.

  Following Baxter’s instructions, Squire left the manager with the ledger and the letters and the task of finding out whatever he could about Victor’s business dealings. Squire headed back to City Hall to speak with anyone who might be able to offer some clue as to how Victor had ended up murdered and floating in the harbour. If Squire was lucky, someone might seem suspicious. Victor’s mother had likely told him he would be known by the company he kept. As far as Squire could tell, Victor had followed that advice. No one he spoke to at City Hall looked or sounded like a killer; just the opposite.

  Alderman Maxwell, who was still in his first year in office, talked about how Victor had helped him to get elected. “He introduced me at functions. The man even came knocking on doors with me a couple of times. He treated me like a son.” Maxwell was nearly in tears before he finished. Another alderman pinned Squire in a corner for fifteen minutes with stories of Victor’s good deeds. “Who would want to kill him?” He kept asking the question as if he were trying to recall where he had left a set of keys, as if the identity of the killer would suddenly pop into his head. The office girls he spoke to were useless; some just blubbered, while others went on about how polite Victor had always been, none of the fresh comments or demeaning treatment they got from some men, whose names they preferred not to mention. Though one had said, “If I should happen to see a certain wife or two, I might not be able to hold my tongue.” After making the rounds for more than an hour Squire was exhausted. Not physically but emotionally. He had felt bad over Victor’s death, the way you would over a neighbour losing their dog or reading in the paper about a father needing help to support his family after falling off a roof. Standing next to people who had been close to Victor, that was something different. It brought the loss closer to Squire, sank their sadness into him, like the heat of a funeral pyre.

  Squire had gone to City Hall hoping to find clues or evidence to solve a murder. All he got for his trouble was a weight he didn’t expect, or want to carry. He was glad to get back outside where the sky was blue to the horizon. The air was warm and full of the ocean, the last of the summer leaves and the sounds of doing business. People on the streets were all smiles, their faces, like the day, showing no signs of winter. Being in the midst of all this should have picked him up. But sorrowful laments, deep breaths against tears, and images of Victor’s m
ilk-glass face bobbing in dark water filled his head and blotted out the sun. Perhaps when the afternoon papers came out and the news of Victor’s death became widely known the city would show its mourning face, share the weight he was carrying. Until then he couldn’t help resenting the good cheer around him. How dare they? The walk back to the Union Bank seemed twice as long.

  Saunders was still poring over the details and Squire had to wait. He had missed lunch and the oomph of Betty’s blueberry pie had petered out. He sat, dizzy from sadness and hunger, listening to his stomach growl. After a while he slipped into the release of a pleasant daydream, to a place where life was desire, where stomachs were always full and the dead could be revived.

  “Ahem…” An unpleasant sound. He wished it away and it was gone. “AHEM… Policeman Squire?” Saunders waited, holding Victor’s ledger with both hands like a sacred text, his lips dry from reading aloud. Squire’s head remained against the back of the chair, legs outstretched, boots crossed. Finally, Saunders stepped forward and pushed at the boots with the toe of an oxford. Squire opened his eyes, then began to blink, trying to bring Saunders into focus and recollection. His mouth was full of cotton. “Shall we go to my office?” Squire nodded. It wasn’t necessary, Saunders had already turned. Squire followed. His line wavered a little as he walked off his daze. Saunders’ steps were precise and made absolutely no sound.

  “I have gone over Mr. Mosher’s ledger very carefully. I have also had a look at his recent transactions with the bank.” Saunders waited for Squire to make his way into his office, then he closed the door behind him. He motioned to a chair, but Squire shook his head as he stretched his eyes wide open, still trying to come fully awake.

  “Can you tell if he was in any trouble, his business, I mean?” The last part of the sentence came through a yawn, though Squire was coming round.

  “His accounts seem to be in perfect order.” Saunders had moved over behind his desk, but he didn’t sit. He remained standing, still holding the ledger with both hands, more cautious than ever as if it had now become Royal Doulton’s finest china.

  “So his business was making money?”

  “Well, yes…” Saunders looked at the ledger as he spoke, the way you look at a fussy aunt who contradicts everything you say.

  “But?”

  “There is the matter of these notes.” Saunders set the ledger down delicately on his desk as he spoke. He withdrew the letters from it and laid them in a line across the front of his desk.

  “IOUs.” Squire stepped closer, ignoring the letters.

  “Yes,” Saunders replied as if the facts of the letters were in plain English. Still he continued to lean over them, while making slight adjustments to their alignment across the desk.

  “Were you able to determine who Victor owed money to?” Squire was tapping his helmet against his thigh, marking the slow cadence of the bank manager’s thoughts.

  “No…” Saunders finally looked up from the letters.

  “What is it, Mr. Saunders?” Squire spoke slowly, in rhythm with his helmet.

  Saunders straightened himself, pulled at his suit coat. “In my business, discretion is paramount.”

  Squire kept tapping, a little quicker now. “Is that what you want me to take back to Chief Inspector Baxter?”

  “Look at the notes.” Saunders kept to his pace with the patience of a first grade teacher.

  Squire glanced at the letters. “I’ve seen them, Mr. Saunders.”

  “And these initials, what do you make of them?” Saunders leaned over once again. Slowly he moved from one page to the next, pointing to the initials at the bottom of each.

  Squire gave in. He laid his helmet on the desk and followed along. “Two sets at the bottom of each note. One set is always the same, looks like…DS or PS.”

  “Or maybe JS?” Was Saunders also guessing or was he leading? Squire couldn’t tell.

  “Maybe…hard to say…the way the letters are written one on top of the other.” Squire moved to the side of the desk, more for a better angle on Saunders than the letters.

  “Hmmmm,” Saunders mused. “Distinctive would you say?” He bent over a little further as if to get a closer look, but to Squire it seemed as if the bank manager was merely biding his time.

  “I need answers, Mr. Saunders.” He wanted to sound commanding. He couldn’t keep the last hint of desperation from his voice.

  Saunders moved to the opposite end of the desk. Again he made a quick check of his jacket. “These debts were unofficial, off the books, so to speak. As far as I can tell, they are not connected to Mr. Mosher’s business. None of them are held by this bank, or any other bank in the city. I made some inquiries.”

  Squire sensed a shift in the conversation, as if they were now engaged in an instructive dialogue Saunders wanted him to follow. “So these are private debts, gentleman’s agreements.”

  “Gentlemen shake hands, they don’t write promissory notes in Latin and have them witnessed.”

  Squire repeated Saunders’ statement in his head, trying to discern the approach he was being asked to take. “You think this PS or JS is the witness?”

  “Yes, and the other initials likely represent the lenders or holders of the debt.”

  “And the Latin?” Squire knew the answer, he just needed time to think.

  The question was met with pressed lips and raised eyebrows. Squire wasn’t sure if Saunders was being cautious or choosing not to belabour the obvious. “There are likely copies of these letters, with the people Mr. Mosher owed money to…perhaps the witness also.” The look on Saunders’ face changed to one of anticipation.

  Cocking his head a little to one side, Squire asked, “Who witnesses loans here at the bank?”

  Saunders nodded ever so slightly. “Depends on the size of the loan and the type.” Squire waited, he felt he was on the right track. “Sometimes I act as a witness. Other times lawyers are involved.”

  Squire looked straight across at the bank manager who had remained at the opposite end of the desk. He seemed to be in semi darkness, off stage, directing from the wings. “I see. And of course you know of lawyers in the city who specialize in these kinds of dealings.” Squire did his best to seem impartial, as if he wasn’t asking Saunders to point someone out.

  Again the look on Saunders’ face gave Squire the impression he had provided a properly discreet opening. “So you are asking me for a recommendation?” Saunders asked.

  “One I can pass along to the chief inspector.” It was an obtuse statement, but Squire needed to be sure.

  Saunders nodded, more emphatically this time. He reached for a pen. As he wrote, he said, “One last thing. Mr. Mosher’s business was turning a profit and there is some money here on deposit. What if all of these loans had been called in on short notice…”

  “He would have been ruined.” Squire retrieved his helmet.

  Saunders put down his pen and passed Squire a small sheet of folded paper. “Unless he had assets I am unaware of, it would have been difficult for him to pay.”

  Baxter saw Squire coming and waved him in before he could knock. “Good afternoon, Mr. Squire.” Checking his watch, he said, “Close the door, would you please.” Squire did as he was told, and took what was becoming a familiar seat in front of the detective’s desk. Baxter pushed aside the duty roster he was still trying to finish. Meagher was well enough to be back at work, but was only at half speed. “You’re looking a little haggard, Mr. Squire,” he said, sounding more accusatory than concerned.

  Squire was sagging into the upholstery of the barrel chair. He let out a great breath of air and at the end of it he said, “Is it always like this?”

  “Like what, Mr. Squire?” Baxter was leaning forward, his hands folded as if he were concerned. The tone of his voice made it clear he wasn’t. Squire flinched, as if he had been stuck with a pin. He looked down at the
ledger he was holding and shook his head. Baxter watched on in cool silence while Squire placed the ledger on the desk and took off his helmet. He patted it lightly, the way you might pat a strange cat that had suddenly jumped in your lap, one that might as well scratch you as purr. Baxter ignored the ledger. He half listened to the usual station racket outside his office door. After a moment, Squire put his helmet on the floor and looked up. “Mr. Saunders went over Victor’s ledger, and his accounts at the bank.”

  Baxter was no longer conscious of the noise outside. He was examining his injuries. He had taken the bandage off of his left index finger. The cut was closed even though it remained quite red. There was blood showing through the new bandage on his right thumb. Looking at it he realized it was throbbing and he eased the clasp of his hands. “And?” he said, looking back up at Squire.

  “And he didn’t find anything out of order. Victor’s business wasn’t in trouble, it was making a profit.” Squire remained sunken into the chair, unable to get behind the words that floated out of him as softly as the string from a child’s bubble pipe.

  “I see. And the debts, what did Saunders make of those?” Baxter was more interested in Squire’s reaction to the question than his answer. Squire looked straight back, his tired expression unchanged.

  “Saunders said if they were all called in at once, Victor would have been in trouble, unless he had some money hidden away.”

  “He had money on deposit at the bank?” Baxter asked. Squire nodded. “But it would not have been enough.” Squire nodded again, as he massaged his forehead.