What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  Clarke resumed his seat and watched the bird pick its feathers. “Must be nice”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Havin’ things all figured out.”

  Wallace shrugged and glanced toward his cap, almost reaching for it then holding off. “It’s just the way things are, Charlie. You know what else is true?”

  “Shit stinks.”

  “There would be no thank yous. People don’t like handling dirty laundry. No one would say you were brave and good after all, you coming forward and all. And when you eventually die in the poorhouse, bent and toothless and reeking of urine, even your own kind will say good riddance.” He looked expectantly at Clarke as he finished, anticipating sparks from having poked the fire.

  A spark did come to Charlie’s eye, not from provocation. It came from his own reckoning. “You right, lotsa folks will want to shoot the messenger. Lots of ’em, not all of ’em. And you may not get off the hook so easy.”

  “And why might that be, Charlie?” Wallace was amused, not concerned.

  “Lotsa folks here poor and strugglin’. They ain’t goin’ feel sorry for the likes a you. They goin’ be on the side of Victor’s widow and her children. And Miss Sarah too.”

  Wallace nodded at the mention of the bereaved then set them off in the margin. To the matter of Miss Riley, he replied, “Just a harlot bearing more bad news. She’ll wish she stayed in hiding.”

  “She was here, but not for long. Not long ’nough for people overlook the fact she was a preacher’s daughter. The papers will show her picture, young and innocent and pretty. And right ’longside that will be the sad sad faces of her momma and her daddy.” Clarke was back to a study of the wall as if it were an enlarged copy of the news.

  Wallace read the wall differently. “It would all be lost amidst dispatches from the war.”

  Clarke turned to look at Wallace. “You sure? Casualty reports hit folks hard, churns up their emotions. Maybe they feel all the more for the loss of a young momma ta be.”

  Wallace looked back at the wall, then at Clarke again. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s right. Sarah’s come out of hiding. She’s at the morgue. Wait for the morning papers.” His face was confident, urging Wallace to leave immediately to wait at the newsstand.

  “But I…”

  “Had nothin’ ta do with it? Won’t look that way. Victor owed you money, didn’t he? And there was other things ’tween you two I think. So you killed him, and then Sarah too to keep her quiet. And that poor baby.” By the time he was done speculating Clarke’s face was honest in its sadness, not for Wallace.

  “That’s not true and you know it.” It was difficult to tell if Wallace was afraid or more annoyed.

  “You know what else is bound to happen. Some father lost a son will scream rich man’s war, poor man’s fight. And then all the sudden Sarah and Martha and me and Annie we ain’t horrible no more. We casualties just like that dead soldier boy. And there you is a rich man. Still think folks’ll be on your side?”

  Wallace listened and solidified himself as best he could, then took aim at Clarke’s motives. “Tell me, Charlie, will your father rest easier?”

  The counterattack came quick and easy. “He never had much sympathy for rich white men. Ask me it’s more likely yer father rollin’ in his grave.”

  The hardness remained intact but the torpor of egotism or patience or whatever it was that had held him in place was overcome. Wallace reached for his cap. “So what now.”

  “So now you know how things really is, you go home start figurin’ out how you goin’ take care a me, and Martha and Annie too.”

  Wallace looked back from the door. Clarke had not bothered to get up to see him out. “And what do you do?”

  “What do we do…? We all practice being blind, deaf, an’ dumb.”

  At least one more telephone rang in the city before morning. This particular telephone was a long time being answered. “Is that you, Martin?”

  “Who is this?” The voice was still half asleep, able nonetheless to communicate its anger.

  “It’s Maynard.”

  “Jesus Christ, Maynard, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Sorry about the hour.” The statement seemed more reflex than felt.

  “Is something the matter?” The anger had not vanished completely behind a policeman’s sense of duty.

  “Do you think they might forgive us?”

  “Who?” Curious and a bit leery.

  “The dead.”

  “Have you been drinking?” There was a sigh of understanding.

  “Just a dram or two. Did you know my father?”

  “Not well.” Some conversation seemed unavoidable.

  “He believed in charity. He was not big on forgiveness. Do you think maybe he’s changed?”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.” His humouring would only go so far.

  “Nobody does until they see one.”

  “You saw a ghost?” Of course he hadn’t. He didn’t sound as if he could see much of anything.

  “Heard.”

  “You heard a ghost?” Likely someone banging on the ceiling saying you’d had enough.

  “I heard a certain young woman turned up dead.” Now there was some logic, very serious indeed.

  “And you’re afraid she won’t rest easy.”

  “I’m worried about suspicion.”

  “And perhaps my chief inspector was right all along.” This was not meant to be said out loud. That did not prevent the receiver from catching it and sending it along.

  “Now you see why I called.”

  “All right, Maynard, I’ll hear you out. Not tonight, tomorrow at my office…with the chief inspector.”

  “Shall we say ten?”

  “Fine.”

  “Martin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wrong you know.” He genuinely hoped so.

  “To be suspicious?”

  “Not to believe in ghosts.”

  “Stop drinking, Maynard, and go to bed.”

  Friday

  He had lumbered home Thursday night from the Aberdeen Hotel under a great tiredness. His body seemed to have doubled in weight and lost all hope. The moment he had seen Victor’s one-eyed monster face floating just under the water, he was genuinely sad. Sad for Victor, his family, and the city. He had had another thought and at the time it didn’t seem ghoulish or self-serving. It was already up to him to bring the family justice. If doing so took him finally from chief inspector to chief of police, that was a separate justice. Sparing the rod was spoiling the city and some of its better men. Where others bent he would be firm and all would be better off. That night under the wharf he had seen it all so clearly.

  Now all he could see was disaster. Wallace had killed Victor. He was sure of that. Unfortunately the best witness was dead. There was no physical evidence, save a cut maybe, and that would heal. There were some letters and records that suggested motive, nothing more. Even if McNeally could be found and made to testify, the bank was a separate matter. A thief was not necessarily a murderer, though Baxter knew this one was. His proof that Wallace was at least there that night was backed up by a pair of trollops who would impugn themselves. Wallace would not need a lawyer for that. And Clarke was refusing to say any more and even if he did, would he be any more credible to a jury? Meanwhile, Seabrook and the rest were not in any hurry to incriminate themselves.

  There had been other cases he could not solve. The difference was that in those cases there had been no witnesses, no evidence, no way to know what had happened. This time the guilty party was right in front of him. Yet it was the city’s chief inspector who was in bad odour, so much so he was practically in hiding, home in the middle of the day, moving down not up. So much for ambition, which had not only been thwarted, it
had been forced to suffer scrutiny from the likes of Charles Clarke. Not satisfied with insult, the man had thrown wild accusations. Baxter worked with tools sometimes when he was tired and distracted. Clarke knew a few lines from the Bible, he had no sense of faith. He had not been tested.

  Neither had Grace. For that he may have had himself to blame. Had they spoiled her? Her lack of faith was now added to his test. Now when he needed her most, Jane was at a distance. He was not sure if either of them were home when he dragged in, only that he was not greeted at the door. He hung his hat and greatcoat and sat on the stairs to deal with his shoes and the buttons of his tunic and shirt. At times he thought he heard footsteps or sounds not being made, that mice were listening closely in case they should want to flee. He looked toward the kitchen and tasted the sawdust steak from the Aberdeen. A bath would be more work than he could manage.

  He should not have been surprised that he slept straight through. Still, the morning light confused him. Had Jane held him in the night or held the ticking on her side of the mattress? He could sense the remnants of dreams, no details, just a vague feeling of loss. There was breakfast with a note, Jane was at the market. If she did not return before he left, he could expect dinner at the usual time. She had not deserted him entirely. Grace on the other hand was either hiding in her room or gone out. For her, he remained beyond the pale. They would all be together for the evening meal, which he expected to be as sombre as yesterday’s service. If there was a eulogy this time it would be for the future not the past. He left for work not feeling good, despite being rested for the first time in a week.

  He found Squire in his office, dozing. He stirred as Baxter entered. A good night’s sleep had not yet come his way. Baxter had already imagined the worst. He had to ask anyway. “How did they take it?”

  Squire pulled himself more upright as he spoke. His voice was thick. “How would you take it?”

  There was no point in going any further on that topic. He tried another tack. “You came straight back.”

  Squire rubbed at this face and stood to stretch. “I’d had enough of seeing people at their worst.”

  Baxter thought of saying more. He didn’t. He fiddled with things at his desk. “No one needs a policeman or a doctor or a priest when they’re at their best.”

  “Maybe I should be a cook, food makes people happy.”

  Baxter waved him off. “There will always be plenty of cooks.” At the same time he thought of the quiet house he had come home to yesterday. The wife he had missed so much time with over the years. The daughter he had hoped so much for who was becoming someone he didn’t know.

  Squire had gone from rubbing his face to a routine of calisthenics. Baxter thought back to Wednesday night in the hansom cab. He would stick to his long underwear. “The funeral was hard on the family?” Squire asked between jumping jacks.

  “The church only came to half full. People are preoccupied with South Africa I suppose. The granite monument is impressive.”

  “And the family?” Squire had moved on to knee bends.

  “We’ll have to wait and see, maybe years.” The question brought Thomas Berrigan to mind and what losing his father had done to him. Had he made it to his brother-in-law’s funeral? Baxter tried to recall his face from the crowd.

  “What about the mayor?”

  Unlike Thomas, that face was all too vivid in his mind. “He was there, we looked past one another.”

  “Wallace?” Squire was finished waking up. Baxter noticed the young man’s breathing had remained even, his undershirt bone dry. He had put his uniform shirt back on and was now tucking it in. There was no need to undo the belt and pants that were loose about the thin waist. Baxter reminded himself of the value of experience.

  “We also had a look at one another.”

  “Has he had anything more to say?”

  As Squire finished putting himself back together Baxter told him about Wallace’s late-night call and the one he had received from Tolliver just as he was leaving home.

  “So you think he is going to confess?”

  “Or point the finger at someone else.”

  “Clarke.”

  “You think Wallace and the chief are in cahoots, this meeting is all for show?” Baxter took a second survey of the young policeman sitting across his desk where he had been so often this past week. He was still new. He was no longer innocent of politics and power and Baxter wished he could take him to the meeting.

  “It’s something we have to consider.”

  When the time came for him to leave, Baxter left Squire with instructions to wait in his office or find something to do around the station. He must not, however, leave. He was not sure what was about to happen. Regardless, he thought Squire deserved first-hand news. He did not say so, though the look on his face likely did. In case things came out badly for him or the case or both, Squire’s presence would be some comfort.

  He knocked. Chief Tolliver came to the door. “Come in, Chief Inspector.”

  “You haven’t started without me I hope.” He was not looking for a fight, just a casual entrance. He didn’t find it.

  “Mistrustful as always. Tell me, Mr. Baxter, do you think your wife may be poisoning you slowly?” Wallace looked the worse for wear. There would be no lacquer-smooth social graces on display this morning.

  His daughter maybe, Baxter thought, but not his wife. “I think yours would have more call than mine,” he replied.

  “If you two are done exchanging pleasantries, perhaps we could get to the point?” Tolliver seemed well aware he sounded like a grade two teacher, and by that knowledge, annoyed all the more.

  Wallace cleared his throat and took on the airs of a magistrate, looking at Tolliver and Baxter as if it were they who were being called to answer and not him. “As you can see, I am here without the benefit of council. It’s my preference to resolve this with a gentlemen’s agreement.”

  “You are asking us to trust you.” Baxter pulled his eyebrows down but not too quickly.

  “I killed a man, Mr. Baxter, and I will answer to God for that, not you.”

  “Just tell us what happened.” Tolliver threw Baxter a look that said he was tired of playing schoolmarm.

  Wallace settled himself. “I liked Victor. We were true friends, no class between us. Ten years ago a seat opened up at our regular card game. Sam Lovett nominated Victor, that’s how we met. Back then we played at my house.”

  “And then you acquired a certain establishment.” Baxter got a vision of Wallace before a grand fireplace with a pipe and a thick volume from Dickens, reminding himself of his higher culture before tramping through the muck of the upper streets.

  Two plush wing chairs sat near the window, angled towards each other and the end of the room. Wallace was reclined in one. The chief had gotten equally comfortable behind his enormous oak partner’s desk. Wallace had been looking toward the chief as he spoke. He now turned languidly to Baxter who had remained standing. “You don’t gamble, do you, Mr. Baxter.”

  Of course I don’t, nor should I, he thought. Still, he felt a twinge of defensiveness. “I live within my means.”

  Wallace made a face as if his food were bad. “How dull. Of course as a policeman you know people seldom have a single vice. A win must be celebrated and losses consoled. Moving our game to Charlie’s made things more practical and exciting at the same time.”

  Tolliver saved the look this time. Through a resigned release of breath he asked, “So what went wrong?”

  “For a long time, years in fact, nothing at all. Then Victor had some bad luck. Some law of averages I suppose. Instead of paying up and staying away for a while, he tried to win his way out of trouble.”

  “You didn’t have to invite him back,” Baxter pointed out in the dead man’s defense.

  Wallace sidestepped neatly, perhaps he was feeling a little better.
“Victor got where he was in life because he was hard to refuse.”

  “But he refused to pay.”

  “No. He owed all of us. And he was paying a little at a time through his business. Unfortunately he kept losing.” Wallace shifted in his chair, then cleared his throat. “I consolidated his debt.”

  Baxter had taken his arms from behind his back and crossed them on his chest. He leaned forward now from the waist and said, “What you mean to say is you bought his markers.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why?” Tolliver wanted to know.

  “Some of the players were tired of carrying Victor. Mostly I wanted the leverage.”

  “To do with the tramway.”

  “Yes and the Electric Light and Power Company, a merger and then expansion. It would be good for the city.” Tolliver said nothing, but remained eye to eye with Wallace as he spoke. There was a sudden whiff of politics in the air. Baxter got an image of a dog kicking dirt over its mess. He should have insisted on having Squire as a witness. He needed someone on his side.

  “And good for you, too,” Baxter pointed out, though he had not managed to raise the proper amount of cynicism in his voice to make Wallace seem as rotten as he was.

  “There are a number of investors,” Wallace replied blithely. Baxter gritted his teeth and for a second wished for Mackay, then quickly rebuked himself. He would restrict himself to questioning the witness.

  “What did you need from Victor?”

  “Council needed to approve the deal, and commit some public funds. Victor could sway the vote.”

  “But he was opposed.” Tell us the truth, you killed Victor over politics and money, he wanted to say. He was tired of letting Wallace set the pace.

  “He saw the future need. He wanted the investors to carry more of the initial short-term costs. Victor was overly cautious with the public purse. If he had only been as tight-fisted with his own money…”

  No you don’t, Baxter thought, then said in an accusing voice, more effective this time, “So you were blackmailing him.”