by David Hood
Martha continued her gentle motion, looking at the floor. “I came down early, before Annie. I was in the front parlour, they all stopped to say hello.”
Baxter motioned Squire and Mackay into the hall as he spoke. He pushed the cell door fully open and left it there. “We’ll be back in a few minutes. The WC is at the end of the hall if you require.”
Martha stilled herself but didn’t look up. “Are you going to charge me with anything?”
“No.”
Now she looked up, caught Baxter’s eye, and held it. “But I’m in trouble.”
“We’ll look after you,” Baxter replied. Martha looked from Baxter to Mackay, who was holding a bar in each hand looking back at her. When he nodded she began to breathe again and went back to rocking and staring at the floor.
Mackay waited until they were down the hall. Still he kept his voice low. “Why didn’t you just ask her if Wallace was there?”
Baxter had to wait a moment before answering. A large part of him wanted to mock, or prod at Mackay a little more. If he did, it would only make him smaller. He wouldn’t go so far as to apologize for suggesting Mackay was no gentleman. He would at least return to civil ground. He turned and looked straight at Mackay as he spoke. “I’m just being careful, Sergeant. I want her to tell me what she knows, not what she thinks I want to hear.”
“So where are we going now?”
“To my office.”
“I don’t recall seeing a picture of Wallace on your desk.” There was still some fight left in Mackay. Baxter refused the bait.
“Do you recall seeing a pile of old newspapers in the corner? We’ll need some scissors, check at the front desk.”
Even if he had looked Mackay in the eye and told him to get the scissors, the sergeant would have left it to Squire. Baxter told himself it wasn’t a point worth making as he listened to Squire opening drawers. He continued on ahead to his office, now the department archives. Jane poked fun at him for the way he held on to things long after they were ready for the dust bin. Worse still, he dragged home other people’s junk. “Another lost soul, messiah?” she would say as he tried to sneak into his workshop with a stopped clock or an end table in pieces. He was never sure what it was that gave him away. She never had to put her head in the hall to see what he was up to, or gauge his mood. She just knew. Just as she knew the household accounts. Saving pennies for a rainy day. Hoping for one grand sunny day in the backyard. Better Jane had told fortunes. Except her sense of dignity and privacy would never allow it. And despite her jibes, which were really meant as plasters for his wounds, his reclamation projects did well at church bazaars.
The newspapers, the case notes, the stray bits and pieces that might turn into evidence—these things could not be repaired and sent back into service. No more than they could be thrown away. The best he could do was store things neatly, though he was running out of space. The newspapers were stacked against the wall, neatly bound with twine six months at a time. If Mackay had asked, Baxter would have skirted the truth; said there could be two years’ worth. It was four and a half and counting. The rest of his compulsion was tucked away in drawers or in the wardrobe in the back corner where Tolliver assumed his chief inspector kept a few shirts and an extra uniform, to wake himself up with after sleeping at his desk. Baxter never made any lists or inventories. He didn’t have to. The process of neat storage had committed much to memory.
“I thought you said a pile. Jesus Christ, you expect us to thumb through all these?”
“We should only have to look at a few.” Baxter had pulled a bundle of papers from the middle of the last pile and sat it on his desk. He took a moment to make things even, finishing his thought in the process. “Summer before last was big for society weddings. The rich often get married on the continent. For some reason, that year getting married in Halifax seemed to be the thing to do.” Baxter shrugged. “The weather was good, maybe that’s all it was.” He paused then nodded to himself. Squire had come in with a heavy pair of black-handled shears. They looked as if they could take off a finger and Squire was holding them out point first. Baxter moved past Squire carefully, as if it were a sword he was pointing. As he hung up his hat and unbuttoned his tunic he motioned Squire to the desk. “See if you can cut that twine without drawing blood.” Mackay, who had been about to sit himself down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, took a second thought and moved off to the side as Squire pressed the attack, the scissors still pointed forward.
“You sure you weren’t at Clarke’s place on Friday night?” Mackay’s voice had finally gained some light. He wasn’t trying to get Squire’s goat.
Squire pulled up the twine. Over the slow chopping scrape of the scissors he said, “I’ve never lost my temper in a bar. Mind you, if it happens, I hope I can think twice before getting into a fight. I am a policeman after all.” Squire set the shears on the desk and dropped the bits of string into a wastebasket. Then he took a paper off the pile and sat down to study it.
Baxter had been paying close attention to the rolling up of his sleeves. He may have missed a flash of surprise or anger on Mackay’s face. More likely it was a sneer at Squire’s suggestion that discretion might sometimes be the better part of valour. Mackay hadn’t graduated from the Pictou Academy, and Baxter doubted he spent much time pondering his actions, before or after. A thought almost formed in Baxter’s mind, it was more of a feeling really, on doing what was right. It was gone before he could see it clearly and he was finished rolling up his sleeves.
“This isn’t history class, Mr. Squire, don’t bother with the headlines.” Baxter had gone round behind the desk. He took off the top third of the pile and set it aside. At the same time he reached a hand toward Squire and waited for him to give back the paper he’d taken. As Baxter refolded it and put it back on the pile, he said, “We should only have to go through June and July.” He picked through the main pile a little further then set aside another wad of papers. Then he passed some to Squire and to Mackay, whose expression had cleared and who was now sitting in the chair next to Squire. “There aren’t many, but if memory serves, there are a few pictures of prominent guests. You should find them on page three or four.” The room filled with the rustle and crack of turning newsprint. Few words were spoken. Most papers were set aside intact. Occasionally there was a call for the scissors. For a while the office had the aura of a grade three classroom, Sister Baxter the teacher in charge.
“Why the extra pictures?” Mackay wanted to know. He was picking up scraps while Baxter hunted for some fresh twine and Squire refolded papers. Their group project, eight pictures in two groups of four, lay in a neat arrangement on the desk.
“Well, for one, I want to believe her, Sergeant. If Miss Green can pick out Wallace, and Seabrook and Lovett from this group as the men she saw that night, then I’m more inclined to do so.”
“Pick them out of a crowd,” Mackay said to himself, accepting that logic without seeing the rest of it. Still looking a little puzzled, he said to Baxter, “And reason number two?”
“No court will convict these men on the testimony of a Martha Green. Doesn’t matter what she saw, all the jury will see is her reputation.”
“Just because…”
Baxter held up his hand. There was no time and he didn’t care to discuss a harlot’s virtues, the two were polar opposites as far he was concerned. “Look, Sergeant, Wallace is coming in tomorrow. If he sees that I believe Miss Green, he’ll realize what she might do to public opinion and that can be used against him.”
Guessing that Squire had already made sense of things, Baxter looked to him to show agreement, and give Mackay further assurance. Baxter wanted to stay on his good side. He had the feeling he would need more of the sergeant’s help. Mackay seemed to mull things over as he played with a sliver of paper. Just when Baxter was sure Squire was going to be no help at all and before Mackay could ask another questi
on or take greater offence at Baxter’s opinions of Martha, and by extension Annie, Squire gave the sergeant a quick pat on the shoulder as he said, “And with the extra pictures, maybe we get lucky and Martha sees someone else she knows.”
The sun was low and drowsy in the afternoon sky on the way back to the bank. Long thin shadows ran off the sidewalks out into the streets or up the sides of buildings, ghosts that danced then vanished in the gloom of a passing cloud. Baxter was trying to count the hours of sleep he’d had since finding Victor under Mitchell’s Wharf. Being generous didn’t clear his mind or fool his body into feeling better. He yawned so hard he felt faint from exertion and lack of oxygen. He reached for a lamp standard, missed it at first, and nearly stumbled into the street. He stood for a few seconds with his back against it looking at the sign above the door of the Union Bank a block away, wondering if he could make it. There were a few deep breaths. The rhythmic clop, clop, clop of a peddler’s horse cart provided something to focus on. Shoppers and schoolchildren passing by were unsure what to make of the vacant stare and gave him a wide berth, which he was grateful for. After a minute, perhaps two, Baxter felt steady enough to leave the comfort of the stanchion and carry on to the bank.
The door was locked and he could see no movement, only a few lights. He banged too hard on the glass door and the shockwave ran from his knuckles along the bones of his arm, and rang in his skull like a cymbal. He clenched his teeth against the noise and pain and came back from the door as if it had shoved him. He waited, terrified he might have to step up and bang the glass a second time. He was massaging his temples when he caught a glimpse, something far inside the bank coming into line with the door, halting for a moment then moving again, forward into focus. It was Saunders. Baxter’s heart rate slowed and he was able to drop his hands, the skull rattle easing to a hum then melting away like ripples on a lake. His ears had stopped ringing. Saunders fumbled a moment with the door lock. “Good afternoon, Chief Inspector.”
“What have you got for me, Mr. Saunders?” Baxter noticed a briefcase by the door as he came in.
Saunders motioned to some chairs. “We’re alone. I’ve closed my office.” Baxter removed his hat and played with it in both hands. He remained standing.
Saunders drew a breath then let it out in raspy resignation. “Fine then. Where shall I begin?”
“Spare the drum roll. We’re not at a Christmas pageant.”
“Businessmen tend to be conservative, they are not quick to divulge. I could…”
“Mr. Saunders, please.”
“Very well. Mr. Wallace has a variety of business interests.”
Baxter set his hat in a chair then began to move in circles around it. “The Aberdeen Hotel.”
“Yes and the market next to it and a carriage factory nearby.” Saunders remained in his spot, looking more like a maestro than a bank manager. “These are personal assets held in his own name. There are other city properties that may be owned or controlled by Mr. Wallace.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You had all…How can you not be sure?”
“Because matters of business are not as simple as you might think.” Baxter ignored the reproach and waited. “Some of Mr. Wallace’s affairs are managed by someone within the Eastern Trust Company. You will have to check with them.”
Now it was Baxter’s turn to be critical. “That’s it?”
“No.”
Baxter stopped his circling. Saunders remained mute. Was he gathering his thoughts or being huffy? Baxter couldn’t be sure. Finally he thrust both hands toward him in exasperation. “Forgive me, Mr. Saunders, please continue.” Baxter went back to rounding the chair, now counter-clockwise.
“Wallace also seems to have an interest in, or a first option to purchase various tracts of land including a piece of undeveloped land along Lower Water Street.”
In the dim and fading light it remained possible to look one another in the eye. “Are any of these particularly valuable or important in some way? Anything unusual about them?”
“Not that anyone said.”
Baxter continued to move while holding Saunders’ eye, navigating from it. “Anything they didn’t say make you wonder?”
“No.”
Satisfied, Baxter turned and let his eyes follow his footsteps. “Ok, what else?”
“There are stocks or part ownership in several companies. I couldn’t gain exact figures. Certainly the total value would be significant. I made a list.”
Saunders came forward, reaching into a vest pocket. Baxter unfolded the paper. Angling for light he read slowly and aloud.
CURRENTLY HELD
Merchant’s Bank of Halifax
Bank of British North America
I.C.R
Canadian Pacific
Standard Oil
Richmond Union Passenger Railway
Halifax Street Car Co. (large interest)
RECENTLY SOLD
Redpath Sugar Refinery (low)
“Just the one sale,” Baxter said to himself. Then to Saunders, “How long had Wallace owned shares in Redpath?”
Saunders had gone back to the comfort of his distance. “That stock was part of what his father left him, I believe, about twenty years.”
“Company sinking?’
“On the contrary.”
Baxter wasn’t sure if he had made himself dizzy from going round the chair or if it was just fatigue. He thought about sitting, and knew he didn’t dare. Waving the note, at least willing to lean against the chair, he said, “But Wallace suddenly sells, and cheap.”
“I wouldn’t say cheap. He sold for less than what he might have gotten. A few months ago.”
“Who was the buyer?”
“Redpath.”
The idea that all this might actually be getting somewhere gave him a boost. “I see. And Redpath, did they happen to recently sell a large interest in the Halifax Street Car Company?”
“As a matter of fact they did.”
Baxter had let go of the chair and was back squarely on both feet. “And none of this strikes you as odd?’
“Mr. Wallace is a shrewd businessman.”
“So you’re not sure what he’s up to?”
“I can’t say that he’s up to anything, Chief Inspector. Two companies traded stock. It happens every day.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Saunders hesitated, pulled at the points on the bottom of his suit vest. “Make of this what you will,” he said still looking down. Then he raised his eyes to Baxter’s. “Some of the people I spoke with mentioned that Mr. Mosher had also made some inquiries regarding Mr. Wallace.”
“I see, and when was that?”
“Very recently, a few days before he…” Saunders looked away.
“Before he was murdered, Mr. Saunders.”
“Yes a few days before that.” Saunders nodded. He managed to draw his gaze closer to the chief inspector. He did not manage to look directly at him.
“So Victor knew the things you just told me?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m far too tired for games, Mr. Saunders. What do you mean perhaps?” Baxter moved a little closer and squarely into Saunders’ line of sight.
“From what I understand, the nature of Mr. Mosher’s inquiry was a little different. He was interested in the past, specifically any dealings Mr. Wallace had in late ’96 or early in 1897.”
“And what came of this inquiry?”
“Nothing earth-shattering. All that Mr. Mosher learned from the gentlemen I spoke with this afternoon was that Mr. Wallace sent some money to Europe around that time, London or Paris, they were not certain, perhaps a thousand dollars. And before you ask, no.”
“No, what?”
“I don’t know to w
hom or why the money was sent.”
Baxter stepped forward a little farther. “Hazard a guess.”
“No thank you.”
Baxter made a sweeping gesture and gave Saunders a moment’s rest from his interrogating vision “We’re alone, Mr. Saunders, you said so yourself.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then please, Mr. Saunders, tell me what is the point.”
“The Napoleon Fish.”
“Excuse me?”
Saunders’ eyes narrowed a little. “When I was a little boy, my mother told me a story about fish, what small fish do to get away from big hungry fish. The small fish swim as fast as they can. The big fish comes straight behind. When the school turns, one small fish goes the other way, the Napoleon Fish. A few of his friends follow. And when Napoleon stops, they stop.”
“And the big fish has lunch.”
“Yes, Mr. Baxter, but the school gets away.”
“And the Napoleon Fish?”
Saunders sighed against the hard truth. “He lives, of course. I was a grown man before I learned that the Humphead Wrasse or Napoleon Fish is really a big fish. What my mother told me was a fiction, her way of telling me my father was a tyrant whose followers would be sacrificed. Things tuned out well for her though. She’s been a much happier widow than a wife.”
“Mr. Saunders, it’s my job to see that justice is done.”
“And I appreciate that, Mr. Baxter. I would also appreciate not being served up in the process. Now please don’t come back here again unless it’s to open an account.” Saunders stepped aside, giving the chief inspector a wide path to the door.
Kenny Squire rounded the corner at Prince onto Albemarle Street. Clarke’s Place was in a row of houses behind him two blocks north. Up to now he had lived in this neighbourhood without giving it much thought. Then three nights ago, he saw the corpse of Victor Mosher, with its one eye and yellowy-white bloated flesh that reminded him of river water and the belly of a trout. Now in the tranquil windless clarity of this warm October afternoon, that corpse came back to him along with older feelings of loss. He turned now and looked back toward the scene of the crime. He saw people and horses made ripe and golden by the low angle of the sun, moving slow and sanguine. Voices spoke, hooves clopped, heels clicked, and doors creaked open and slammed shut, all with a softness, a gentle reassuring pleasantness that was a sickening lie. Past the bright sunlight, the fresh air, the warm ground, on the other side of thick concealing walls the world could be very dark. Squire sniffed the air like a hound in search of scent. His gaze drifted up to second- and third-storey windows and he wondered what horrors might right now be taking place behind their sightless eyes as he stood only a few yards distant in a universe far, far away. He saw the knife go into Victor’s side. He felt the insanity of his father’s barn turned upside down, and Kenny Squire thought for a moment he might never go indoors again.
