What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  “I’d like to thank you for the recommendation you passed on to Constable Squire.” Saunders gave a slight nod saying nothing, waited for Baxter to continue. “This time I thought it best we speak in person.” Saunders remained silent. By the time Baxter had finished telling him what he wanted the bank manager had become paler than usual.

  Saunders remained still, outwardly calm. But his desk seemed to have gotten larger and he began to appear like a small nocturnal animal that had poked its head up too early and was dazed by the light. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?”

  “Your civic duty.”

  “When did professional suicide become a duty?”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Don’t be naive.” Saunders seemed to have gotten over his initial fright. He had come out from behind his desk.

  “Be careful, Mr. Saunders.”

  Saunders waved a hand as if reeling in his sarcasm. “My apologies, Chief Inspector. You must know, however, if I start poking into Mr. Wallace’s affairs, it won’t be long before someone else’s name is on that door.” He pointed, and paused for effect, or perhaps in real fright from a glimpse of his own prophecy. “Meanwhile I’ll be blacklisted with every financial institution between here and Montreal. I’m not suited to manual labour, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Better than prison, don’t you think? Obstruction of a Crown investigation is a serious matter.” It was heavy handed, it had to be, he was getting short on time. Soon the press would be on Tolliver with hard questions. Tolliver would then turn to him, and not with Meagher’s accidental insinuations.

  “Be reasonable.”

  “You are an intelligent man, Mr. Saunders. Don’t whisper in secret. Work on Wallace’s behalf, as if you’re confirming his assets for the government, part of some deal that’s in the works.” Baxter had no idea of financial matters, he was making it up as he went along. It seemed to work. A tinge of hope and colour eased the pallor of Saunders’s face.

  “Do you really think a man like Mr. Wallace could be mixed up in a murder?”

  “In my job, Mr. Saunders, disappointment is a constant.” Baxter pulled his watch from a pocket. “What time do you finish for the day?”

  “We close the doors at three, but I’m here until five.” Saunders had pulled at the bottom of his suit vest to be sure it was flat and smooth before moving back into position behind his desk, which had come back under his command. He glanced at a small address book taken from a drawer.

  “Listen for my knock at four thirty. I expect by then you should have what I need.” Saunders nodded. He already had the receiver in his ear, listing to the ring signal.

  Outside the bank Baxter regretted that he may have given Saunders the impression he would feel bad for Wallace. Or more than mild surprise at his failings. All the same, the more he followed this case, the more his disappointment and sadness seemed to grow, trailing along behind him like a sidewalk shadow. And despite the warm weather, he was getting chills at the back of his neck; ice water chills that ran down his back and jerked his shoulders. Just thinking about it brought one on strong enough to knock him off stride as he crossed the street. He gathered himself and turned his face up to the sun seeking warmth for his body and spirit. Maybe he was coming down with something. Perhaps Grace could give him a checkup. It was a bitter thought he instantly regretted and moved away from.

  “Great men are almost always bad men.” Who said that? Wallace was not a great man. He was merely a son left with a great man’s money and power. Victor had risen under his own steam into a higher class. His roots stayed firmly planted, a sans-culotte at heart. Who could be surprised or disappointed if such men acted badly? Tolliver, ever ready to pick up a corner of the rug and sweep; Clarke with his lying smile; Mackay as much criminal as copper; all of them were just following the nature of their coarseness. Things were no better at home. Grace was following her own advice, not his. What fatherly advice had Peter Lenehan ignored? Baxter’s stakes were not as high, still he felt powerless and despondent. So what if he solved this case? Victor would still be dead. Jane would still be without the comfort of grandchildren. And he would remain where he was, weaving the emperor’s new clothes from remnants of the truth. No. NO! He must not think this way. Victor deserved to see his killer brought to justice. Even if he didn’t, his family did and so did the rest of the city. And if he could do that perhaps God would give him the strength.

  Western Union was on the other side of Hollis Street, next door to the Halifax Club. If godlessness could claim a chapel in Halifax, surely the Halifax Club was it. Only the wealthiest of plunderers were granted membership. They gathered there, surrounded by oak panel, servants, and cigar smoke, to carve up the city’s treasure and keep an eye on the masses. For all he knew Wallace was there this very moment, leaning over eggs Benedict and the morning papers, certain in the knowledge that the club’s thick walls and the even thicker blood of his family name would continue to insulate him from the unpleasantness of life’s details. Lost in his thoughts and with his face still turned toward the sun and its comforting warmth, Baxter was not looking in the direction he was moving. Neither was Thomas Berrigan.

  Thomas was a hundred and sixty pounds in the pouring rain. In the midst of an Indian summer morning like this one, a few pounds less. Baxter had at least fifty to his advantage. Thomas went down in a pile, not hard, more like the gentle collapse of a wobbly spring calf. The look on this face was just as cow-like, eyes wet and brown and off in the distance, a distance that wasn’t there amidst the squat ghoulish buildings that seemed to shoulder together and crowd in and tower over them.

  “Hey, you fuc…Sorry, Chief Inspector, didn’t mean to get in your way.”

  “Thomas.”

  Baxter held out a large hand, cold as a shovel. His first instinct was to scrape Thomas off the street like a horse dropping. Then as it hung in the air the hand softened, the buildings stepped back a little, Thomas reached up, and Baxter pulled him gently to his feet. The already tattered and grimy coat had collected some fresh dirt in the fall. Baxter moved to brush it away, then felt awkward and turned to check himself. The hand flicked at the tunic. Thomas watched. Baxter looked up for a moment, not expecting to lock eyes with Thomas. And for a moment the face before him was clean and clear, the hair washed and neatly cut and the clothes in perfect order from collar to shoe tops. The face belonged to a boy not a man, a boy who loved his father and whose mother still adored him and hoped he would soon find a way home. Baxter blinked the boy away, and he went back to his tunic. Without looking up again he asked, “Thomas, you getting enough to eat?”

  “Most days.”

  Baxter nodded and drew a heavy breath, one that if he were a priest would have been followed by a Biblical reference and the handing off of Thomas to a Sister of Charity. There was no time for that. Baxter was a policeman, one with troubles of his own buried in a case it might be better not to solve. A puff of wind helped clear his thoughts and as he stepped by Thomas to be on his way he pointed, and Thomas turned to see. With surprising agility he won the race against the breeze and an oncoming hack. As Baxter pulled open the door to the Western Union office, Thomas was disappearing round the corner. His hat looked good as new.

  Back behind his desk, hands folded, set still as a tree but not faced up to God, Baxter imagined the mind of Montcalm watching the redcoats gather on the Plains of Abraham, or Lee contemplating the Union campfires along Cemetery Ridge. Both men changed history, just not as they would have liked. He closed his eyes then opened them again and whispered to himself, “I must have patience.” Once again Baxter began poring over the details of the case, sometimes catching them before his eyes, letting them refract the light of his desk lamp into sundogs, hoping that one of them might confess something while looking in the mirror. He tried making notes. It didn’t help. The pieces of the puzzle didn’t move about the page as they did in his head, an
d the sound of the pencil on the paper only gave voice to his anxiety. He was rolling the pencil between his hands and staring at a ball of paper on his desk when Squire knocked at his door window. The hollow rattle gave him a start, but he was glad to see the young policeman.

  “Where is Mackay?” Baxter asked, looking past Squire.

  “Oh, Finny…I think he went downstairs.”

  “Become friends have you?”

  Squire took a seat in front of the desk. “I don’t think he likes policemen.”

  “Told you to stay out of his way?”

  “He really didn’t need any help.” Squire’s eyes went away for a moment as he watched something in his mind.

  “Did you have to be his witness?”

  Squire knew the word Baxter meant to use was conscience and that he was being asked if Mackay had done anything he should report. “No.”

  Baxter knew Mackay had likely crossed some lines, that Squire had likely just seen some new sides of the city or at least one side of a fellow officer that he didn’t know what to do with. For now he would let Squire hold on to what he’d seen and trust if there was something he should know he would hear it directly from Squire and not third-hand from the newspapers or in the wind whispering through the upper streets.

  Squire didn’t bother with detailed descriptions of the places he had just come from. He guessed Baxter had seen plenty of them and Squire had no desire to compare notes. He got quickly to the point.

  Baxter listened closely, then came back with a single question. “So this Annie Higgenbottom, you believe her?”

  “I believe her fear.”

  “A city councilman, a lawyer, the richest man in the city, now a member of the provincial government. Why not hat makers and bookkeepers and surgeons too, perhaps we’ll find out the archbishop himself was there.” Baxter slammed his knuckles into the desk, not for emphasis. It was punishment for the blasphemy. In a more contrite voice he asked, “And this Sarah Riley and Victor…?”

  Squire saw Mackay and Annie sitting on the sofa. He knew if he had not been there, Mackay would have held her instead of just patting her hand. He looked back at Baxter and shrugged. As if his name had been spoken, Mackay appeared in the office doorway. He didn’t ask to come in. Had there been anything in his path he would have walked through it, or them. He seemed possessed or maybe he just needed a little more hair of the dog, Squire couldn’t tell. He wasn’t fool enough to ask.

  Mackay halted his charge at Baxter’s desk. “This came for you.” He handed over a small envelope.

  Baxter took the delivery, glanced at it for a moment, then set it on the desk. Looking straight at Mackay he said, “The police in Maine have no idea where McNeally might be?” Baxter wasn’t asking Mackay a question as much as he was letting the sergeant know he preferred to open his own mail.

  “You asked me to help, I’m helping.”

  Mackay seemed more impatient and belligerent than usual. Noticeably enough that Baxter was about to ask why. When Mackay kept talking the thought was lost.

  “They said they would make some inquiries. They’ll let you know if anything turns up.” Mackay pointed at the envelope. Some of the edge had come off his voice.

  Baxter knew it was as much as he was going to get, from Mackay and the authorities in Maine. He nodded his head. “Squire was just bringing me up to date.”

  Squire was still in the chair in the corner of Mackay’s eye and the sergeant left him there. Keeping his attention on Baxter, he answered, “Uh-huh.”

  “You did some fine police work, by the book.”

  Mackay waved off Baxter’s appreciation of restraint. “I’m not worried about the book I’m wor…We need to find Sarah Riley.”

  “Maybe the other one, what’s her name…” Baxter looked from Mackay to Squire.

  “Annie,” Squire answered, and Mackay turned to let him out of the corner of his eye for just a moment.

  “Maybe she knows more than she’s telling.”

  Squire tried to answer but Mackay cut him off. “She gave us all she could. Leave her out of it from here.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant, but that’s my decision not yours.” The steel in Baxter’s voice did nothing to put Mackay in his place. It only encouraged him to draw his sword.

  “Well, how about you decide to go downstairs and ask Martha Green what she knows?” The tone poked Baxter like an insolent finger.

  Baxter looked over to Squire who had pulled back in his chair lest the sparks between the sergeant and the chief inspector set him ablaze. “He means the other woman who was at Clarke’s?” Squire indicated Baxter was right, at the same time he held himself well back in his chair and said nothing.

  “You know any other Martha Green?” Mackay’s sarcasm cast a deeper shade of red across Baxter’s face.

  “Sergeant, are you saying she’s in custody?”

  “Brought in an hour ago.”

  “You could have said that when you walked in. Instead you dance me round a circle?” Baxter had stood up. He remained behind his desk. What he wanted to do was rush at Mackay, shake some sense into him, shake out his own frustrations. The best he could do was to deny Mackay the satisfaction. He sighed and pulled at his uniform as if he were about to go on parade. “Well, gentlemen,” Baxter looked up from his tidying and caught Mackay’s eye to let him know the term applied only to Squire. “I suggest we retire to the basement for a chat with Miss Green.”

  Martha Green drank with her customers. Sometimes she drank to calm her fears. She was not a drunk. Occasionally she made the mistake of drinking with one. Ellen had wanted her to keep on drinking. Martha said she had had enough and was going home. They were pushing and shoving when a policeman showed up. Ellen had seen him coming and dummied up. She stopped struggling too and Martha looked to be the troublemaker. When the officer wrapped Martha up in a bear hug, Ellen came back to life with a story of how this crazy woman had attacked her for no good reason. When the two of them were gone, Ellen went back down the alley and found the bottle.

  Martha was intoxicated. She was not intoxicated enough to overcome her nature. She was a light sleeper. The sound of the three men coming down the hall was enough to wake her.

  “Good morning, Miss Green.”

  Martha blinked, looked round the cell then back at Baxter. “Have I been asleep that long?”

  “Don’t pay any attention,” Mackay said, shaking his head.

  “You want some water?” Squire asked. She nodded. Mackay pointed to the glass on the table beside the cot. Squire took it from her through the bars and moved off to the WC at the end of the hall. Mackay opened the cell and motioned Martha back to the cot.

  “Miss Green, I am Chief Inspector Baxter. This is Sergeant Mackay and your waiter here is Constable Squire.” Squire, who had returned just at the mention of his name, glanced at Baxter, then at Mackay, who shrugged in acquiescence. Squire was careful handing over the water, then sat down in the lone chair. Baxter stared at him for a moment while he waited. Squire kept his eyes on Martha as she drained the glass.

  “Better?” Baxter asked with no real concern at all. “Wonderful,” he said out loud and only to himself. “Miss Green, I understand you were at Mr. Clarke’s establishment this past Friday night. I want to know who and what you saw. No stories, please, just stick to the facts.”

  Martha looked back at him over the rim of the glass as she lowered it from her lips. He thought he saw a flicker of sense in her eyes, hopefully enough to know this was serious business.

  The glass was empty. Martha tipped it up again anyway, then slowly handed it back to Squire. “Thank you,” she said. Then with her eyes still trained on his and an expression of genuine curiosity she asked, “Is he always such a prick?”

  Mackay cleared his throat. Squire held on to Martha’s gaze and shook his head slightly. Baxter’s jaw muscles tightened. A
profanity charge would teach her nothing and get him nowhere. “Miss Green, anything you could tell us would be greatly appreciated.” He managed to keep his voice almost free of derision.

  Martha smiled. Her honour defended, she went on in good judgement to tell what she knew. Her audience listened, looked at each other now and then, saying nothing for the several minutes it took Martha to unwind. When she finished, it was Mackay who spoke first. “Martha, have you seen Sarah? Do you know where she is?”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened? Is she all right?” Martha looked from one face to the other.

  “Charlie didn’t tell you?” Mackay asked.

  “No.”

  Before Mackay got into a conversation there was no time for, Baxter asked, “Miss Green, tell me again what men you saw that night.”

  Martha widened her eyes at the chief inspector and leaned forward a little as she spoke. “I told you, Victor Mosher, Samuel Lovett, and James Seabrook are the only names I know. The other three I never saw before. Now what about Sarah?”

  Baxter nodded to Squire who took his queue. “Victor Mosher was killed.” It was a hard fact. And as he had hoped Squire threw it straight with no warning. Baxter watched closely. Martha’s surprise seemed genuine. She hadn’t known. That’s good, he thought to himself.

  “That’s a shame, I liked him,” Martha replied after a moment. Then with more trepidation this time she asked again, “And Sarah?”

  This time Squire shook his head in a way that let Martha know she needn’t expect the worst. “She was with Annie on Saturday. She left Sunday morning.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “We’re not sure,” Squire said, which was the straight truth.

  “She wasn’t hurt?”

  “No,” Mackay said, which was comforting if not completely true.

  Martha folded her arms and rocked herself a little on the edge of the cot.

  He reminded himself that she had been drinking. Of course she would never be called to testify. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be useful. Baxter was looking for cooperation and his tone said so. “Miss Green, if we showed you some pictures, do you think you could identify the other men, did you see their faces well enough?”