What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  Squire held up his hands signalling his confusion. He followed the chief inspector’s lead all the same and reached for his own tunic. “No one confessed to me.”

  Baxter brushed at some lint, then looked Squire over as if he were much younger and they were visiting the in-laws. “We had better go see if our guest has arrived.”

  Baxter leaned his weight against one of the heavy oak doors at the entrance of City Hall and pushed his way outside. He held it for Squire, then let it go. The door eased itself back into place behind them. Baxter stood on the granite threshold at the top of the stairs and took a few deep breaths of cool wet air and looked over the Grand Parade. The square was often host to some celebration or another, particularly in the summer months. But on this particular Wednesday morning it was the making ready for war that had things going on. There was more than the usual traffic of workers from the various shops and docks along the waterfront. At the beginning and end of every workday, the square served as a shortcut to homes in the upper streets and those on the north side of Citadel Hill. Baxter watched groups of men file past in cloth caps and heavy work shirts, shoulders damp from the weather, sleeves rolled back from hands carrying lunch pails and tool bags. He removed his hat and dug for a hankie to wipe his brow. It was always warm in his office, he ruled out the possibility of nerves. Between dabs he looked to the opposite side of the square at Saint Paul’s. On Sunday its double doors would open wide to the Anglican faithful. They would file past as they hoped to one day file past Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. Today the doors were drawn, no worshippers, no weddings, no funerals. Anglicans were on their own, some at least were being faithful. Hopefully those that weren’t would not get in his way. There was still no sign of Wallace.

  Squire mopped his own brow with the back of his hand. Drops continued to fall from branches, clotheslines, and window ledges. He glanced upward. The grey wool blanket had grown lighter and fluffy like cotton balls. The sky was holding. He kept his hat in his hand. Still looking about the square and down Barrington Street, he asked, “Why are we waiting out here?”

  Baxter didn’t have a reason, no conscious one anyway. It wasn’t as if a brother or favourite aunt was coming home and he wanted to spot them as they got off the train. The meeting was set for Tolliver’s office. It made no difference if Tolliver and Wallace spoke in private beforehand. Even if he had a mind to, the chief could be of no help to Wallace. Baxter looked over at Squire with an expression that said he had given the matter much thought. “Our guest deserves an escort into the building, don’t you think.” Then he added as he turned away, “Besides, the weather’s picking up a little.”

  Baxter rocked from heel to toe, and his thoughts wandered to Victor Mosher. The man had been an alderman for seven years. Had he been worn down by the long meetings, the petty politics, the vote trading, and the constant dirty dealing? Maybe it was the desperate futility of it all. At one time Britain’s North American colonies were vital to the Empire. King George III helped drive the most productive ones into revolt. A few decades later the rest had become an administrative burden. So they were set free in 1867 to become the Dominion of Canada. For a time thereafter, Halifax was known in London, and was a sister to Boston and New York. Now she was hardly anything more than Ottawa’s red-headed stepchild. A great deal of wind had billowed out of her sails, along with droves of young talent off to larger cities and greater opportunities. Men like Wallace, able to start from money, were bound to do well. Others who were able to pull themselves up far enough to become less desperate and more proud appointed themselves as guardians. Most just made do.

  Maybe he was being too harsh, or perhaps naïve. The city had plenty of men weak for liquor, gambling, and women. Perhaps Victor was one of them, no more, no less.

  He let out a long sigh. He checked his watch. Two minutes past ten. Not late enough. Wallace would be at least a few minutes more. Baxter moved out to the end of the landing and began making his way down the steps leading into the Grand Parade. He took each stair slowly as if it might suddenly give way. By the third step, he could see Grace. She was ten years old. The square was filled with people milling about the tables and booths and small stages. As he kept going, the clouds cleared away. The ground dried up. He could see the festivities. He couldn’t remember their purpose, only that Grace had been excited for days. Her face was golden in the afternoon sun. He could see himself looking down into it. He couldn’t remember what he thought or felt, only how perfect she looked.

  “Father, can we go now?”

  “Are you sure…you didn’t miss anything?”

  She answered with a pirouette. Her long braid swung out straight. Its shadow turned the clock round full. “I think I’ve had enough.” Pointing at a booth with a line of children screaming and jumping up and down, she added, “And I don’t care to throw three balls at the head of a coloured man for a nickel.”

  Had he said something? If he did he couldn’t remember what. Then he heard Grace’s voice again, breathless with enthusiasm.

  “Can we stop at Sanford’s Market and get some oranges? I saw them on the way.” She didn’t wait for his confirmation. She skipped off toward the steps up to Argyle Street. He watched as he hurried to catch up.

  “The air smells so good, they must be cutting the grass on the Commons.” She took deep breaths through her nose and looked at him so he could see how grand a thing it was and he took his own deep breath. “Oooh, look, Father, here comes a dog. This guy seems real friendly, look at his tail go, here, boy!”

  “Be careful, Grace, let him sniff your hand.”

  “His fur is real soft. Pet him, Father. His nose is cold, that means he’s healthy right? What kind of dog is he?”

  “Some sort of beagle, I suppose. Smells like a beagle.” He sniffed his hand and made a face.

  “You’re a good boy, aren’t ya, yes you are. And you never mind my father, you don’t stink, you just smell like a dog is supposed to. Father, can we get him a bone at the market?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see, Grace, come on, let’s get going.”

  “Come on, boy, come on. Look, Father, he’s walking right beside me.”

  “Be careful, watch where you’re going. Grace, don’t cross Prince Street by yourself, wait for me.”

  “Maybe his owner doesn’t really want him.”

  “Maybe his owner doesn’t know he’s out.”

  “Hey, boy, stop chasing that hack, come here, boy, come here…Look out!”

  “Grace, don’t look. Come here.”

  He watched the driver get down. Watched him look, then shake his head. “Was it your dog, young lady? He just ran out in front of my team from behind that hack, I couldn’t stop the horses.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” She had been able to hold on in silence. Speaking broke the dam. The tears ran down her cheeks. She tried holding her breath and pressing her lips together. It worked for a second, then they quivered and her breath came in sobs.

  A few people had stopped. He showed his badge and gave instructions. Then he picked up Grace and hurried off.

  “Oh, Father, did you hear the sound he made?”

  “Here, let’s have a look at the oranges.” He had stopped at the entrance to the market. He felt her head shake against his shoulder. He waited. It shook again and he walked on.

  “I never heard anything like that. He didn’t see the horses coming ’til it was too late.

  “The driver was very sorry.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?” Squire had come down and was standing beside him at the foot of the stairs.

  Baxter tuned to look, for a moment still seeing the face of a ten-year-old. “Excuse me?”

  “You said something wasn’t fair.”

  “Did I?” He had thought of saying more, of asking Squire what he thought, or perhaps giving him some advice should he
get married and have children of his own, or maybe warning him against the dangers of having faith in people. It was too late now. Wallace had arrived.

  An elegant black coach was being pulled through the gate into the square by a well-dressed driver, complete with fine leather gloves and top hat. He guided the rig to a stop at the foot of the stairs as if the two great animals and the weight they pulled were all part of his own body. The horses stood absolutely motionless as their driver knotted the reins and climbed down from his finely upholstered seat. As Baxter watched, a bit mesmerized by the perfectly choreographed ballet, he caught the scent of the shampoo used on the horses. A medicinal flowery smell masked their natural pungency. The driver opened the door of the coach, then stood back, his arms behind his back as if he were a soldier on parade ordered to stand at ease.

  The man who emerged from the coach was decked out in a fine riding habit from Edward Minister and Sonin London. Baxter knew Maynard Sinclair Wallace to be short and a bit portly. That was not apparent in his perfectly tailored jacket of soft brown wool and loosely fitting britches tucked into his riding boots. He looked taller and slimmer. He stood still for just a moment as if to give his audience a chance to take him in, maybe think of what to say. Then he gracefully removed his black bowler, stepped forward, and extended his hand. Behind him, his driver moved as if on command to shut the coach door, and then stepped back into place. “Very good to see you, Chief Inspector, hope we didn’t startle you.”

  The greeting broke Baxter’s trance and he moved forward to take Wallace’s hand. His own was larger and thicker and police work hadn’t made it any smoother or weaker. Wallace wore fine gloves that had a satin sheen and left behind a hint of eau de cologne. Still the grip had surprising firmness. Baxter guessed it was practiced, like the removal of the hat, a movement within the routine of manners Wallace used when he chose to gently communicate his superiority. “Good morning, Mr. Wallace.” Baxter heard a reverence in his voice despite himself and he could see that Wallace heard it too. Then Wallace looked away briefly to take Squire’s hand. He said nothing, merely nodded, letting Squire know he was expected to be seen but not heard.

  In fact Wallace was at least a foot shorter than Baxter. It didn’t feel that way to Baxter as Wallace turned from Squire to look him in the eye. “Mr. Tolliver tells me you would like to have a word…Terrible what happed to Victor. I’ll help, of course, in any way I can.” As Wallace spoke, his driver went into motion, moving to stand in front of the team, far enough away to at least feign ignorance of whatever else his employer might say.

  “I expect the chief is waiting on us.” Baxter started up the steps and Squire followed.

  “Actually, he’s not.” Wallace had let them get halfway up the stairs. When Baxter turned, the face staring up at him wore a taunting smirk, masterfully hidden by an expressionless façade with dull eyes and a flat line mouth. Baxter struggled to see past the reflection, as if he were trying to see out of a window at night. When he sensed Wallace’s enjoyment he became still.

  “I see,” Baxter replied. Either the chief was trying to protect himself or Wallace didn’t trust him. “My office then.” Baxter waited this time, and shot Squire a glance to hold him in place. He was done seeing Wallace make sport of the Halifax Police.

  “I thought we might be more discreet…” Wallace nodded toward the carriage. Without being told, or seen to move, the driver had opened the door and was now waiting patiently for master and guests to board so he could gently close it up again. Wallace turned, and nodded again, this time toward Squire. “…and private.”

  Baxter came down the steps in a jaunty rush. Waving first to Squire then toward the coach he said, “There is room for three.” He gave the driver a quick pat on the shoulder then dropped his weight heavily into a seat and enjoyed the feeling of the coach swaying on its springs. At that moment, if Wallace had ordered him out and called the meeting off, or reproached him for a lack of respect, Baxter would have only been all the more pleased for a clear sign he had struck a nerve. He would feel no shame for refusing to show deference to a man who felt he deserved it just because he had more money than everyone else. Wallace was guilty; Baxter believed it now more than ever. Unfortunately he also had a growing sense that Wallace would admit nothing and that what was about to happen was merely an exercise in power.

  Baxter sat up straight with his long arms and legs stretched out straight, feet crossed at the ankles, hands in his lap, fingers loosely interlocked. The weather outside was still dank and grey, yet Baxter was all sunny day. Squire humbly took a place beside him, feet under him, hands gripping the seat either side of his body which leaned slightly forward as if he were on a tram that was coming to his stop. Wallace sat in the middle of the opposite seat, unnerved by Baxter’s feet which rested just in front of him. As the coach rolled out of the Grand Parade and south on Barrington Street, Wallace casually crossed his own legs at the knee, turned his body on a slight angle, and let one arm rest along the back of his seat. Then he took on a look of great sadness, of a man about to see a son leave home, perhaps never to return. Baxter was sure he had learned it on the way, staring out the window of his coach into the faces of so many common people who were wearing it for real. Through his pain Wallace finally spoke. “Victor’s family must be devastated.” He paused, sucked in a long slow breath that acted as a sea change upon his face now lost of all sentimentality. “Chief Tolliver tells me you have questions regarding my relationship with Mr. Mosher.”

  Wallace was safe and comfortable with a business tone. Baxter wanted to keep things closer to the personal. “You seem to be holding up. I understand you and Victor were quite close.”

  “Only in passing really. He did his best for the city.” The face remained placid, detached and all lie as far as Baxter was concerned.

  “Seems he decided the city needs more electric streetcars. I wonder what changed his mind?” Baxter had tucked Victor’s appointment book into his tunic. He withdrew it now, and from it, the letters of debt found in Victor’s desk. He began leafing through them absently as if he were passing a slow Sunday afternoon reminiscing with old photos. Yet all the while Baxter stayed finely attuned to Wallace’s reaction. There was none, just as there had been none in Seabrook’s office. And in that Baxter was sure Wallace too recognized the letters, they were no surprise, and so a show of indifference came with ease.

  The lips came only to the edge of a smile and only for a second. It was enough. If Wallace had thought he would be easy to manage, perhaps he was feeling differently now. Baxter worried he may have shown too much too soon.

  “I like to think I’m as progressive as the next man, but as you can see I’ve always been fond of horses,” Wallace answered glibly with a wave of his hand toward his attire and the coach they were riding in.

  With the letters still in his hand and a look as smooth as Wallace’s tone, Baxter countered. “More fond of good investments it seems. I hear the Richmond Union Passenger Railway is a good investment. That’s an electric street car system, isn’t it?” There was no point in caution now, he had decided.

  The coach had turned up Spring Garden Road, and Wallace spoke without taking his eyes off the traffic of people and horses. There was, however, a new flint to his voice. “Investing is risky. A person needs to be very careful.”

  Squire heard the warning and passed his concerns along in a quick glance. Baxter ignored him. “Being good with numbers, that would help. I never was. You did well in school. Oxford, very impressive. King’s Collegiate before that.”

  Wallace turned from the window. “You seem to be good with history.” His eyes followed for a moment, the book and letters Baxter was once again locking away in his tunic. “I never cared for it.” With a look of genuine curiosity he opened a second front. “What about you, Mr. Squire? Was it numbers or letters for you at the Pictou Academy?”

  Squire could not help show his surprise at being ad
dressed. But he answered without hesitation as if the query was of a friendly nature. “My mother encouraged me in both.”

  “And your father…how is he?”

  The blow landed flush on Squire’s chin, and though his own face never lost its pretence of congeniality, Wallace enjoyed the look of hurt and confusion that came over the chief inspector. Squire blinked, then answered in a voice that was cool steel. “How is Frank McNeally? You keep in touch from your days at Kings?”

  “And from their more recent dealings,” Baxter added, looking squarely at Squire as he spoke, not bothering to follow Wallace from the corner of his eye. He knew Wallace was retreating. He had not been able to divide and conquer. Instead it was very clearly two against one.

  “Poor Frank. I never would have thought.” Wallace had turned his attention back to the window, which was now featuring the movement along Brunswick Street. The citadel would soon come into view. Baxter could feel Wallace waiting, a bit surprised perhaps, very far from nervous. Baxter could end it here, thank Wallace for his time, and ask to be let out. Wallace would go on waiting in the comfort of knowing Baxter was unlikely to find any damning evidence. And then he would forget altogether. Baxter had to push a little harder. “And who would have thought that Victor Mosher would be murdered in Clarke’s Place? I wouldn’t be caught dead…That’s what many will say. You’ve said so yourself, I’m sure.”

  Wallace stayed at the window, but answered calmly. “My mother taught me to be careful with my words.”

  Baxter continued to push. “Someone else we spoke to confessed that very same thing.”

  “Well, good for both of us then.”

  “Seems you know each other too…Miss Sarah Riley.”

  Now it was Wallace who was stung, and some innate reflex got ahead of his self-control and his head snapped away from the window. “I’m sorry…I don’t recall that name.”