What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  They stopped in the landing below the back stairs. Baxter opened the outside door. The small yard had the look of a deserted child. The stockade fence might have been a tattered jacket; its boards weathered grey and streaked with ferric tears from weeping nail heads. There was a tired shed leaning one way, a flimsy door off its hinges hanging the other way; crooked teeth in a sorry smile. A good bath in the form of a coat of whitewash had not taken place in a very long time. An unswept wooden walkway ran from the shed up to the steps below Baxter’s feet. It had the soiled look of ground-in dirt at the back of the neck. There was no grass, only clumps of weeds poking up like sprigs of matted hair though holes in a wool cap. And below that a horrible complexion; piles of dog dirt between footprints and wheel ruts growing hard and crusty in the drying mud. Baxter shook his head as if he were saying no to a beggar and closed the door.

  As he stood staring at the steps leading to the rooms on the second level Squire finally broke the silence. He glanced back down the hallway, then spoke in a husky whisper. “Detective, what exactly are we looking for?”

  Baxter got a foot on the first step, only for a second. Then he pulled back and stepped to one side into the space between the staircase and the back wall of the house. The spandrel under the stairs had been closed in. The small door that led into the cave-like space didn’t close all the way. “You check upstairs, I’ll finish looking around down here.”

  Squire looked at the chief inspector, then up the stairs. “Did you hear something?” he said in a whisper that had suddenly gone dry and caught in his throat.

  “Don’t dillydally,” Baxter said, bending down into what seemed to be a close-up study of his shoes. Without looking up he waved again and pointed up the stairs. Squire took a breath and held it, then began taking the stairs, the creak in each step marking his funeral march pace. When he finally remembered to breathe again at the top of the stairs he hyperventilated for a few seconds. The only light came from a small window in the front landing at the opposite end of the hall. He waited for his eyes and nerves to adjust. He listened as hard as he could for any sounds coming through the doors on either side. It was pointless. All he could hear was the racehorse pumping of his heart and lungs. He gave himself a count of three, then behind another deep breath he made a run down the hall. The air he stirred up cooled the thin sheen of sweat on his face. Four times he knocked lightly, then stuck his head in just long enough for a quick look. His breathing was almost back to normal by the time he rejoined Baxter.

  “When my daughter, Grace, was small she dropped a jar of pickles. The brine stained the wood floor. My wife covered it up with a rug.” Baxter wasn’t bent over anymore, he was however still looking down at the narrow strip of floor beside the stairs and the rectangle of rug that covered most of it.

  “Pardon.” Squire wasn’t really listening, he was still working on his breathing.

  Baxter stepped away from the stairs, and faced the front of the house, watching the downstairs hallway. “Anybody home upstairs?” He didn’t whisper, but he kept his voice low.

  “No. Just mirrors, clothes thrown everywhere and dressers covered with little bottles and brushes. Who was Clarke calling to from the door before he let us in?”

  Baxter let out a “Humph” and shook his head. So far nothing had surprised him. “Just Mr. Clarke’s way of telling us he had arranged to meet us alone,” he said in answer to Squire’s question. “All right then, let’s continue our chat with this upstanding citizen, shall we.” He started up the hall. Squire toed in behind, looking not at all sure of what was going on or what he was supposed to do, if anything.

  Clarke was still in the front parlour. There were chairs along three of the walls, thick and heavy with high backs and short bowed legs, very Catholic, Baxter had to admit. Clarke was sitting by the window, his long legs crossed, one arm hanging across the back of the chair next to him. “Satisfied?”

  “Place is spotless. And empty.” Baxter’s voice was light, almost friendly, as if he were a real estate agent trying to sell the place. He stepped into the parlour, into the space between the birdcage and the doorway. Squire started in, then thought better and remained in the hall.

  Clarke gave a slight wave from the hand resting on the chair. “An’ it’s Monday.”

  Baxter took it all in, the posture, the casual wave, the tone of voice, a perfect mix of mild disappointment and explanation. “Or you were expecting me.”

  Clarke ignored the bait. This time the hand pointed, past Baxter to Squire. “So what’s your name?”

  “Squire.”

  “You been here before, maybe at night, without that uniform?” He smirked ever so slightly at the young policeman, then looked stone-faced at his superior.

  “No.” The crack in Squire’s voice made him sound guilty. Baxter did Squire the favour of not turning round to see his face turn scarlet, he could almost feel its heat.

  “Well, you come by, without yer boss, first drink’s on me.” Clarke looked straight at Squire as he spoke. A wink would have been too much. Instead there was a slight movement at one corner of his mouth and a twitch in the eye above it.

  Baxter thought about telling Clarke to leave the boy alone, mostly to reassure Squire that his reputation remained intact. He didn’t, refusing to grant Clarke the satisfaction, despite any advantage that might be gained from letting Clarke feel as if he had the upper hand. “I see you got the afternoon paper, Mr. Clarke.”

  Clarke looked down at the pages spread across the seat of the chair beside him. “Yes, sir, I take a regular paper. Use it to line Preacher’s cage.” He pointed again. The parrot brightened at the sound of its name.

  “I haven’t had the chance. Any surprises in the latest edition?” Baxter asked, knowing that Victor’s death would have at least been mentioned. Clarke couldn’t be expected to raise that topic, though he might feign ignorance. If he did it would be an obvious lie. Clarke had gotten the paper for no other reason. A lie might be something Baxter could use.

  “Men old as you an’ me is past surprises.” Clarke closed the paper as he spoke, folded it in half, and set it on the table beside the cage. Preacher jumped from one perch to another.

  “So you already knew Victor Mosher was dead.”

  “I get the paper same time as ev’body else.” Clarke smiled again, but his eyes were flat and still. Baxter could feel them looking into him.

  “What time did he come in on Friday?” Baxter watched closely for a reaction. He thought he saw something in Clarke’s face, he just couldn’t be sure. Did he start to look away, then catch himself? Was there a slight wince, a moment of fear?

  “Who says a man like that comes here at all?” Clarke shifted himself, crossed his arms at his chest, lowered the cross in his legs from the knee to the ankle. The smile was back. Whatever look Baxter saw or thought he saw was gone.

  “I know he was here, Mr. Clarke.” Baxter knew because Carmine knew his brother and had tried to protect him. He knew because Clarke had been sitting here waiting for him. He knew because he didn’t want it to be true. He knew, despite the lack of proof. And that was what Clarke heard in his voice, a search for truth, not the possession of it. Now Baxter glanced behind him. Not because he was interested in anything Squire was doing or whether he was there at all. He was thinking, taking a peek at his cards.

  “You got your mind made up, why you askin’ me?” Clarke added a shrug to the smile.

  “Was he here with Mr. Wallace?” Still Baxter had no proof. If mentioning Wallace got a reaction, he at least had a start. Again he saw something, a tick, a little ripple in the calm. Only visible for half a second, but it had been there, this time Baxter was sure.

  “Mr. Wallace who?” Now it was Clarke who was playing for time, settling his game.

  “Maynard Sinclair Wallace.” Baxter said the full name, slowly and distinctly as if Clarke had a hearing problem. He enjoyed s
aying it that way, imagining Wallace cringing at the mention of his name in the midst of a homicide investigation, mentioned in a brothel by a policeman, heard by a panderer, a coloured panderer.

  “Oh, now you just talkin’ foolishness. That man’s got more money than God, what he need this place for?” Clarke spoke as if what he said was as simple and true as blue sky. If it was, Clarke wouldn’t bother to look so convincing.

  “Don’t play dumb, Mr. Clarke.”

  “All right.” Clarke shrugged, then his eyes widened. “You know, bit a sin might do you some good. You could use the back door. Ain’t no tell-tales here.”

  The jibe shouldn’t have bothered him and yet it did. Worse still, Clarke saw that it did. “Mind your manners.” Baxter heard the anger in his voice and that made him madder still. Again Squire took a step into the room, felt lost, and returned to the safety of the doorway.

  Clarke’s face lit up as if he had won a prize. “Christ, you and yer precious reputation.” He shook his head in mock disbelief and obvious satisfaction.

  The first shot stung, this one hurt. If they were in a ring Baxter would be sagging against the ropes. Whatever start he’d made it was gone now. He had nothing left and Clarke knew it. Baxter turned and pointed Squire toward the front door. As he made his retreat he lashed out in desperation. “We’ll track down your girls, Charlie. One of them will talk. And then we’ll be back.”

  Clarke feinted, then raised his voice for a parting shot over Baxter’s head. “Like I said, Mr. Squire, first drink’s on me.”

  Baxter wanted to slam the door, slam it hard enough to rattle every window in the place. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of giving Clarke another chance to smile. He closed the door with a gentle click of the latch. He stepped into the middle of the sidewalk. He stood there digging through his pockets, as if a train was about to leave and he couldn’t find his ticket. Finally he pulled out his watch. He held it to an ear and listened. The sun was still strong. He thought about its warm yellow face. Not about the jaundice yellow in Charlie’s malicious grin. The sounds of happy children came from somewhere down Albemarle Street. The children were likely Irish, Catholic and poor, with fathers too often idle and easy prey for the devil. When times were bad, their mothers could get credit in some of the neighbourhood shops, at least for a while. Then it would be thin soup given some taste with bits of fat picked off butcher’s twine. But not today. Today it was chase games and kick the can and a full supper. Soon they would be young men and women up against the ways of the world. Some might do well. Others would have their hard work, or their faith, or their ambition quietly held against them. But not today. Baxter breathed. He told himself that he was worthy of his ambition. He was not the one who wriggled between the laws then claimed propriety. He was not the one who deserved to be scorned. For a moment he thought of running to warn the children. He didn’t. He stayed where he was and listened to the ticking of his watch.

  Squire let his attention fall on a hack as it went by. The driver looked over, hopeful for a fare. Squire waved him off. On the opposite side of the street, two women passed, each with a basket of washing. They walked slow and talked fast, often at the same time. They took no notice of the two policemen standing in front of Clarke’s Place. Baxter continued to hold the watch as if it were an ear horn. Squire cleared his throat. Finally, he took a step closer and asked, “What time is it?”

  Baxter turned his head toward the voice, it was too young. What was it doing in uniform? Had he ever been that age? Baxter looked the other way. The street was empty. Had children been there playing or was it just a cruel fantasia of the past? He turned back to Squire, his eyes strained as if Squire were far away across a shimmering desert. “What?”

  Squire lifted a hand and pointed. “The time?”

  Baxter took the watch from his ear. “Ah…ten minutes to four.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We go see the chief.”

  They fell in step again, heading back the way they had come. The motion unwound Baxter and he breathed more easily. He was ahead of his demons for the moment. He looked over at Squire and was about to ask him for his thoughts on Clarke’s reaction and what they had seen there. But Squire spoke first. “I have never…I wouldn’t…I just don’t want you to think…” He kept his eyes front, his hands were deep in his pockets. Though the afternoon sun could still be felt through his coat, it could not prevent Squire from drawing his shoulders up into his ears.

  Baxter sympathized with the young policeman, appreciated his concern for what others thought of him. His answer was flat with certainty. “That was just part of Mr. Clarke’s act, diverting attention, trying to make us believe he had nothing to hide.”

  Squire’s shoulders came down a little and he was able to look Baxter in the eye for a moment before he spoke. “I take it you think he does?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I thought there would be women. Where were they?”

  As they turned down George Street they nearly ran into a man coming up the hill, head down, moving at a pace. He nearly stumbled into the street avoiding a collision. He mumbled an apology. Two steps later, Baxter looked back over his shoulder. The man had stopped at the corner. He was facing down Albemarle, as if he were going that way. Just as Baxter suspected, the man seemed to change his mind, turned, and continued on up the hill. Nothing doing at Clarke’s today anyway, Baxter thought to himself as he turned back to watch where he was going. “Good question,” he replied, drawing his attention back to Squire. “From what you said of the upstairs, it would seem they left in a hurry.”

  “So they couldn’t talk to the police, couldn’t tell us that Victor was there.”

  Baxter nodded. Squire was right, but only by half. “They know more than that, at least one of them does.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Baxter hesitated for a moment. He was used to working alone. Squire had no experience to speak of. He was a little lost at times, a bit mixed up maybe. That didn’t change the fact that he was bright, which was more than Baxter could say for too many officers on the force. He was tired and needed all the help he could get. He turned and looked at Squire, at his pale skin, thin shoulders, his eagerness. He looked every bit a new potato farm boy, the kind that ran off for adventure only to fall overboard or die on a battlefield, a sad story, not a storyteller. Today the papers were a bully pulpit for talk of duty and right and patriotic glory. Soon enough boys like Squire would be coming home from a business that wasn’t really theirs, in boxes or minus an arm or leg that had once held a wife or kicked a ball, parts left in a bucket with so many others under a surgeon’s table. What would the talk be then? Was Squire a survivor or a casualty? he wondered. Tomorrow would he decide to listen to the drum beats, decide that carrying a rifle in South Africa was a simpler thing than wearing a badge here at home? Baxter shrugged and answered with a question of his own. “Did you notice how clean the place was?”

  “All I could smell was soap and vinegar.”

  “A little too clean, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know…I suppose.”

  “The cleaning materials were in that closet under the back stairs. The rags and buckets were still wet. And the floor in front of a closet door, that’s no place for a rug.”

  “A blood stain?”

  As they turned off George onto Argyle Street the town clock chimed the hour. Men stopped and checked their watches, then continued on. Baxter raised his hands in an indication of caution, as if he wasn’t sure. It was a momentary pause. He was sure and Squire’s jumping to the same conclusion only deepened his certainty. “Of course, Clarke will say it’s horse liniment or cooking oil or some other nonsense.”

  “Then why cover it up?”

  “In a back stairwell,” Baxter added in a voice that was mocking and overconfident. “That was his mistake.” Bold talk, B
axter immediately thought, with nothing more than a tangent to follow and without a shred of evidence.

  “But is it Victor’s blood?” It was an important question that needed to be asked and might never be answered. Nonetheless, for the moment Baxter was encouraged and a little troubled by Squire’s seeming ability to read his thoughts. Maybe not such a new potato.

  “We need to find the women who were working there on Friday night.” They had come down from Argyle Street into the Grand Parade. The wan shadow of City Hall flattered most of the square with a soft light while Saint Paul’s remained sharp edged in the last of the afternoon sun.

  “Witnesses,” Squire added, again finishing Baxter’s thought.

  The chief inspector had stopped at the foot of the steps leading into City Hall. Squire was three steps up before he noticed. As he came back down, Baxter continued. “They wouldn’t be much good in court. They could be very good at giving us men who would be. If Victor was there, it was likely a night of gentlemen only.”

  “You think Wallace was part of the group?”

  “I do.”

  “You want to talk to him.”

  “That’s why we need to see the chief.” Baxter nodded toward the doors at the top of the stairs. “To convince him to approach Wallace.”

  “With no evidence?” The look on Squire’s face was disbelieving, as if he expected Baxter to reveal some damning secret he’d been holding on to.