A Match Made for Murder

by Iona Whishaw

  “Is this seat taken?” a tall man asked as the lights were going down and the curtain was opening.

  “Shh!” Meg said, taking her purse off the seat.

  The man reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I don’t want to ‘shh.’ I missed you, honey. I didn’t like arguing like we did,” he whispered, brushing her cheek with his lips.

  She turned her face toward him, the light of the film flickering on her cheek, and they kissed. Her hunger for him made her breathless.

  “Baby, it makes no sense you staying with that old guy. Why don’t you come with me? I got a lead on a job in Flagstaff. Come on, what’s stopping you?”

  Someone two rows ahead turned and glared at them. “Shut up, will ya?”

  Meg put her head on the man’s shoulder and stroked his leg. She couldn’t live without him, she knew, but she could not leave. It would just have to be like it always was. She kissed him again.

  “I can’t,” she whispered directly into his ear. “I told you. I never could. I just want things like this. You’re happy, aren’t you?”

  The man jerked away and grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the seat and through the nearby exit.

  Meg blinked, shocked at his sudden move, and tried to adjust her eyes to the blinding light of the lobby. Stumbling, she felt her heel catching on the thick carpeting of the short set of stairs that led down to the washrooms.

  “What are you doing?” she finally managed. “Let go of me!” She yanked her hand back and rubbed it.

  The quiet carpeted hallway was empty. “Now look here, you can’t have it every which way! I want to be with you, honest and upfront. I’m tired of sneaking around. Leave that guy and marry me. That’s how it has to be. Otherwise we’re through.”

  Meg, dismay flooding through her, put her hands on his chest, the handbag on her wrist clunking against him. “You know I love you, baby. You know I don’t think of nobody but you.”

  “Then you’ll come with me.”

  Meg fell back. “I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t tell you why. You just have to trust me.” What would he think if he knew about Art? She suppressed a shudder.

  “Trust you? About that. I thought I saw someone following me a week ago. It happened a couple of times. Something to do with you?”

  Meg frowned, a new fear gripping her. She could feel it grow from a small nut of panic. It was beginning to spread, and she controlled it by making a fist and taking a deep breath. “It’s got nothing to do with me. Rexy wouldn’t do nothing like that. He doesn’t even know about us! You must have been mistaken.”

  “How do you know he doesn’t know about us? You’re all hot for me. I’m surprised he wouldn’t see that.”

  Meg recoiled from the coarseness of his words and his expression. Contempt showed in his blazing eyes and the slight curl of his lip, emphasized by the lift of his moustache.

  “Why would you say something like that?” She could feel the tears burning.

  The man leaned back and slipped his hands into his pockets. His grey double-breasted suit was expensive and hung on his lean frame attractively. He liked it, and he liked the way he looked in it. He liked that she had paid for it.

  “You either come with me now or we’re through.”

  “You’d cut off your own nose to spite your face!” she flung back at him. “You think I have money on my own? There’d be no more nice things if I left Rex.”

  “There hasn’t been anything nice for a while, baby, and I don’t need your money. I told you, I love you. I told you that. Now make up your mind.” He had gone from debonair to sulky.

  Someone came down the stairs and headed for the ladies’ powder room and they fell silent, looking at the floor.

  “Nothing to say? Okay. See you around.” The man pulled himself off the wall he’d been leaning on, put his hat on, and walked up the stairs and through the curtain into the lobby.

  Meg stood, congealed with pain and fear in the quiet hallway. She couldn’t follow him or call him back. It was more than her life was worth.

  Griffin picked up the phone in his office and asked his secretary to put him through.

  “Yes?” The voice that answered was curt.

  “I thought you were going to take care of things. That sergeant is still grinding away at me. He’s found where the other money is going.”

  “Look, I told you, the case is going nowhere. I’ve got problems of my own right now, all right? You have to trust me.”

  “Honestly, I don’t care. I did trust you, and I did a favour for you on the basis of it. I’d just as soon not be involved. I don’t need another dead body on my hands.”

  “What do you mean another?”

  Griffin sighed. “I had to take care of a little family business, okay? It didn’t work out, but at least that cop, Martinez, is going in a good direction on that. Did I tell you I got a photographer? He takes pictures of the restaurant for my advertising flyers. He does some other stuff too. Very smart. I have a couple of nice photos of you and me, you know that? Anyway, I gotta go. I’m leaving this in your capable hands. But I don’t have a lot of time. I got a business to run.” He slammed down the receiver. It was useful to have a cop in your pocket, but it could be a big pain in ass.

  Griffin flung the papers he was holding on the large oak desk that dominated his office at the restaurant. The man in front of him was looking down, trying to hide his fear.

  “You’re an idiot, you know that? A simple job, that’s all I asked of you! Now what are we gonna do? The police are looking for answers. I can’t afford to keep them and you on the payroll if you’re going to be a jackass. I’ve got a good mind to toss you at them. One less stupid employee for me. Did you even listen to Hidalgo?”

  The man said nothing. It was obvious to him that if Mr. Griffin did feed him to the police, it would just blow back on him, but it would make him even madder to hear that.

  There was a long silence. Finally Griffin, perhaps reaching the same conclusion, blew out his breath in disgust. “Get out of here. Keep your nose clean, or I’m sending you to the operation in Albuquerque to get you outta my sight.”

  When the man had gone, Griffin sat down heavily and closed his eyes. He’d been in tight situations before. Tighter even. His big problem was that he couldn’t trust anyone. People used to do exactly what he told them. His wife, his men. Now it seemed like everybody did whatever they wanted. He had a momentary idea that he was getting too old for the whole thing. That he should cash out and move to Florida. His wife would like that. She always used to talk about Florida. He’d forgive her and they’d live the good life in Miami or Tampa. Maybe after the court case. That, at least, was going as planned.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Galloway drove into the parking lot of St. Mary’s and turned off the engine. Staring glumly at the building, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He inhaled a big lungful of smoke and then leaned his arm on the open window. Oddly, though he was assailed by some of the biggest problems he could remember having to confront—his wife was lying inside in a bit of a mess and he was beginning to have anxious doubts about the Griffin business—it was Darling who came to mind.

  He’d liked Darling back in Nelson when he arrived from Vancouver in ’36. He was studious and paid attention, especially to what he’d said to him. He’d shown young Darling the ropes. Now look at him. An inspector, and no doubt thanks to everything he’d taught him. But instead of being grateful, he seemed—he couldn’t find the word. Condescending, almost, as if Darling couldn’t quite approve of him. It wasn’t anything he said. It was the opposite. It was his silences, his noncommittal nodding, as if butter wouldn’t melt. And then he turns up with that beautiful wife. Cultured, smart, from the upper crust. The real deal, not like poor Priscilla with that put-on accent trying to cover her Cockney roots. Darling didn’t deserve a woman like that. He wasn’t man en
ough for her, he thought in a sudden flight of fancy.

  He flicked his cigarette onto the ground and rolled up the window. Maybe he could get Priscilla out today, get her home. She was making more of a fuss than was absolutely necessary, and he didn’t want to have to keep coming to the hospital. He hated hospitals. He’d talk to the doctor about it. Persuade him that she’d be better off at home where everything was familiar and she had a maid to look after her.

  The elevator opened on the hushed beige and green floor, the nurse’s station directly opposite with two white-capped women busy with papers behind the counter. He wouldn’t bother them. He knew what room Priscilla was in. He strode down to the end of the hall and pushed open the door. He was staring at an empty room, cleaned and starched. He frowned and stepped back to look at the number.

  “Where’s my wife?” he asked quietly, back at the counter. The nurses looked up. “My wife, in 403, where is she?” He spoke louder.

  “Keep your voice down, sir. Who is your wife?” one of them said. The other remained silent and looked at him scathingly.

  “Mrs. Galloway, Priscilla Galloway. She was in 403. Just tell me where she’s been moved to.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say.”

  “You can’t say? Do you have any idea who I am? What do you mean you can’t say?”

  “I presume,” said the nurse primly, keeping her voice down, “that you are Mr. Galloway. And I can’t say where she is because she checked out yesterday morning.”

  “She couldn’t have. That’s ridiculous. I never allowed that. I want to see her doctor.”

  The second nurse now spoke. “I am Nurse Yelland. I was here when you brought her in. You will have to keep your voice down, or I’ll ask you to leave. Your wife checked out yesterday morning, which she had every right to do. I’m afraid we have no idea where she is if she is not at your home. I can certainly fetch the attending physician. He will be able to explain all the medical treatments that were required while she was here.” Nurse Yelland’s voice rose slightly, as if challenging him.

  Galloway could feel the blood rising in his face. “How dare you take that tone with me. Do you know who I am? When I’m finished with you, you won’t know what hit you!”

  “As you wish, sir. Will I call the attending?” Nurse Yelland answered icily.

  Back out in the parking lot, he smoked and paced, trying to stop the panic and rage he was feeling, trying to understand what could have happened. The attending doctor knew nothing of her leaving and, considering the extent of her injuries, would not have recommended it. Yes, they did keep a record of the time people checked out, but she did not say she was leaving. No, she had not consulted him.

  Priscilla would never leave him. This was at the centre of all his thoughts. She would never leave him. She loved him. She had said so many times. They’d had bad times before, but she’d never wavered. Anyway, she had no money of her own. He desperately tried to remember who her friends were. Someone at the country club? He thought about the people they met there, golfed with, drank with. He couldn’t, not in a million years, go ask one of those arrogant, new-money bastards where his wife was.

  Mrs. Watts opened the door at Terrell’s knock. She looked from Terrell to Ames, as if she could scarcely remember who they were. Finally she said, “Yes?”

  “Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you again. There have been new developments in the matter of your husband’s death, and we just need to check on a couple of things,” Ames said, trying for a tone between unhurried and grave.

  She lifted her eyebrows and then backed away from the door to let them in. “Do you want coffee?”

  Ames was surprised at what seemed to him to be a lack of curiosity. “No, ma’am, we won’t be long. We have had a post-mortem, and I’m sorry to say the results suggest this has become a murder investigation.”

  At this, Mrs. Watts sat heavily, putting one hand over her mouth and looking down. “Oh my God! I don’t understand. I thought he’d had some sort of attack.”

  “No. He was attacked. Someone held a poisoned cloth of some kind over his mouth.”

  “But who would want to kill him?” Mrs. Watts looked up, her face white.

  “That we don’t know, at the moment. But can you tell us if there was anything unusual lately? Had he been more worried recently? A phone call, a letter maybe?”

  Had she suddenly blanched? It was difficult to tell in the shadows of the room, Ames thought. “I don’t think so. What sort of letter? What are you saying?”

  Ames sat down opposite her. “We’ve learned your husband was possibly planning to run off with a local girl, the underaged daughter of a workmate. He was supposed to be picking her up on the day he was killed, but of course, he never came for her.”

  Mrs. Watts put her hands over her eyes for a moment and then stood up, her face contorted. “The daughter of a workmate? My husband was not a good man, but he could not have been that stupid. It’s nonsense!” She walked towards the sink and leaned forward on it, looking down, then she straightened and turned abruptly. “I’ve had enough of this. I want his body, and I want to give him a proper funeral. His daughter deserves that.”

  Ames stood up and shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, ma’am, unfortunately we can’t release his body until we have a fuller understanding of how he died. I know these are terrible things to hear. Can we call someone? Can we pick up your mother for you? Perhaps she can stay for a bit, or we could take you and your daughter to her?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You’re telling me my husband was murdered. Then find his killer. That’s what you can do, Sergeant Ames.”

  “I should phone Inspector Darling and ask whether he remembers Tina coming in to report what happened to her,” Ames said, pulling on his beer. They were in the hotel bar, and it was crowded and noisy, as always. Smoke filled the top third of the room, its volume sustained by the cigarettes of a hundred miners, rail workers, and millworkers. But not by the two policemen.

  “You don’t smoke, sir?” Terrell asked.

  “My mom would kill me if I took it up again. She has some crazy idea my dad died of it because he coughed so much before he died.”

  “Certainly you could phone the inspector. Even if he remembered, though, I’m not sure it would help,” Terrell said. “We already know Miss Van Eyck went to the station and got insulted for her troubles. It doesn’t answer the question of who was in the car with Watts making him sniff rat poison, or why he went around to the garage to see if Miss Van Eyck had revealed the rape to anyone.”

  “True enough. I think I just want to find out which policeman it was so I can beat the bastard senseless.”

  Terrell smiled. “I know what you mean. Bad police work is infuriating. It reflects on all of us. Let me tell you, I know that only too well.”

  “How so?” Ames asked. “I can’t see you ever doing shoddy work. You seem meticulous to a fault.”

  “Thank you, sir. In my case, if I were dishonest or bungled things, it would reflect on my whole race.”

  “Oh,” Ames said. “I never thought of that. I remember Tina saying once that she had to be twice as good as a man to get half the credit. It must be something like that.”

  “Just like that,” Terrell answered. “Can I get you another?”

  “Sure, thanks. It makes you think. There’s that business of walking a mile in someone else’s shoes. I mean, I don’t think most people walk that mile. Or maybe I mean I don’t, not as much as I should. I just see the world from my perspective and assume everyone else sees it the same way.”

  “I think we’re all capable of doing that,” Terrell said. “But being born coloured, I don’t have much of a choice. I sometimes feel like my whole world is dependent on other people’s points of view.”

  Ames nodded. He thanked the waiter for the beer and looked around the r
oom. All men. The women, he knew, had a lounge next door, with a separate entrance, where they could go with their escorts.

  “This case is all about the women, isn’t it?” he said. “Either he was killed by an angry woman from his past, or by an angry father, brother, or even husband of one of those women. It’s still hard for me to imagine women committing murder even after the cases I’ve seen, but that’s because I really do see them as the ‘fairer sex.’ But what if I tried to see the world from the point of view of a Tina or an Ada Finch? Or even a Mrs. Watts, hearing her husband was planning to run off with a teenager. Maybe when they get angry, they want to beat people up as well.”

  “I bet they do,” laughed Terrell. “I’ve seen women kill with a look! But the real question is why now?” he said, serious again. “What happened just now, why did he suddenly come around asking Tina if she’d said something? As you said, he’s been relatively happily married for ten years except for perhaps a few affairs, but something changed that unleashed everything that led to his death. Something or someone spooked him about the past.”

  “And why be running after Ada? It’s unsavoury. He’s nearly forty years old. Maybe he thought this was his last chance,” Ames mused. “And which happened first, Ada or the warning about the past?”

  “And he never gets to her. That’s the part I find puzzling. He sets out, his clothes packed and hers too, only he ends up dead by the Harrop ferry.”

  “Wait,” Ames said, “Wait. The clothes. We’ve been assuming those are Ada’s clothes, when we found out they weren’t his wife’s. Why wouldn’t Ada bring her own clothes?”