by Medora Sale
He had already fed the first coin in the slot before he noticed the front page of the afternoon paper. His gut twisted in a spasm of pain. He took a deep breath, carefully opened the box, and took out a paper, then fed more coins into the morning paper boxes and took out one of each. He couldn’t read it out here on the street. People would look at him from every window in the development, wonder why he was buying all these papers, wonder what he was doing, wonder where he went in his lovely van. He walked sedately back into his house, wanting to run, not daring to. In the living room, he unfolded the paper, turned on the lamp beside the couch, and forced himself to look at the front page again.
“Have You Seen This Man?” the banner screamed in red above a sketch of someone intended to be him.
Police sources revealed today that they are seeking a man in his twenties, about six feet tall, with light brown curly hair, for questioning in relation to a series of vicious attacks on women in the Metro area in recent months. The sketch shown was supplied by police artist John MacVey, working from descriptions given by an unidentified young woman who was attacked on Friday. Thanks to the rapid intervention of three bystanders, she was unharmed. It is possible that he has scratch marks on his face. The fourth victim in this series of brutal murders died this morning (see story, p. 5).
He got up and trudged up the stairs to the bathroom and stared once again into the mirror. Then at the sketch. Then at the mirror. They had made his face too long and too thin, he thought, and his eyes too small and narrow. He splashed water in his burning eyes, then turned and walked back down to the living room.
Two miles away Ginny stood perplexed in her mother’s living room. After a minute or two, she walked over to the front hall and called upstairs. “Rob! Come down here a minute, will you?” A large, amiable-looking young man lounged down the steps, two at a time, and sat down at the bottom.
“What can I do for you, eh, lady?” he said, yawning.
“Are you busy right now?” Worried lines creased her face.
“Just studying. But it’ll keep. What’s the matter?”
Her eyes swam with tears. She always seemed to be on the verge of tears these days. “It’s Glenn,” she said. “Come up to my room. I don’t want Mom to hear.” He nodded and followed her up. He had long since ceased to expect his big sister to make sense. He sprawled on her bed and looked lazily at her perched on a hard-backed chair. “I’m not going back there,” she said, grimly, as if he had just told her that she must, on pain of death. “I don’t care what anybody says.”
“I don’t blame you,” said her brother. “He’s a jerk. And I don’t think you have to worry about Mom, either. She never liked him. But what can I do for you right now?”
“All my clothes and stuff are there, and I should tell him that I’m not coming back, but I can’t get through to him. I’ve phoned every time of day; I’ve let the phone ring twenty times. I just called Donna next door, and she said that he’s home. She’s seen him go out to get the papers and take the van out. But I don’t want to go over there and see him.” She shivered.
“Do you want me to go?” asked Rob. “I’m not scared of the son of a bitch. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll go over right now. I need some exercise. I can take Kevin with me and we’ll beat the shit out of him.” He yawned again as he sat upright.
Ginny laughed. “No, that’s okay. Just get my clothes—and my shoes, so I can go back to work. Here, I’ll make a list for you. You can stuff it all in my old duffle bag.” She pulled out a piece of paper from her little desk, and started making a list, looking animated and full of purpose for the first time in weeks. At that moment, the afternoon paper came flying across their front lawn, skidded over the porch, and landed, for the third time that month, in a wet and soggy corner of the front garden.
Rob had reflected briefly on his brother-in-law’s uncertain temper, and therefore when he pulled up in front of the townhouse his formidable friend Kevin was with him. “Just in case the guy pulls a knife or something,” he had said.
“Sure,” said Kevin. They played on the same hockey team, worked out in the same gym, and he was just as happy to be mixing it up here as on the ice, as far as that went. Anything to help out a buddy and a teammate. As they were getting out of their car, however, reinforcements in the shape of a police car pulled up behind them. A uniformed constable climbed out and walked over to them.
“You Mr. Glenn Morrison?” he asked, reading from a list in his hand.
“Nope,” said Rob. “He lives in there, and we’re just going to pay him a little visit.” The constable followed the two up to the minute front porch.
Rob leaned on the doorbell for about thirty seconds. No response. He looked at the police officer and shrugged. “Did you want to see him about something important?”
“Are you a friend?”
Rob shook his head. “Just a brother-in-law. What’s going on?”
The constable raised his large fist and pounded on the door. All three of them listened for answering footsteps. “Does he own a light brown van?” was the response.
“Yeah,” said Rob, “does he ever! It’s like his baby. Did he have an accident?” he asked curiously.
“Is there a back door?” asked the constable.
“I have something better than that,” said Rob. “I have the front-door key.” He pulled it out of his pocket. “My sister asked me to go in and get some clothes for her. You want to look around, be my guest.” He turned the key and threw open the door with a flourish.
The three men stopped dead at the front hall, assailed by the unmistakable stench of decay. “Jeez,” said Kevin. “What died in here? It stinks.”
“You better let me go first,” said the constable, looking distinctly unhappy. “Just in case.”
Rob walked up the steps into the kitchen and looked in. The afternoon sun played over the piles of filthy dishes and food that oozed with slime. He gagged at the smell, went purposefully up the steps into the living room, threw open the drapes and pushed the French windows open. There was a merciful blast of cool clean air. They glanced quickly at the chaos of the living room and solemnly followed the constable up the winding stairs to the bedrooms and bathroom. No rotting corpses, no surprises. Just filth and unmade beds. “Well,” said Rob, “since we’re up here, I think I’ll throw my sister’s stuff into a bag.” He pulled out the list, looked at it carefully, and then started with the top dresser drawer.
“Where would Mr. Morrison keep the van?” asked the constable.
“It’s probably in the garage, unless he has taken it out. Ginny’s car sat out all winter in the snow so the damned van could stay safe in the garage—and she was the one who had to take her car to work all the time.” He turned and started to stuff shoes into a big duffle bag he had taken from the closet. “Just let me finish this and I’ll show you where it is. Kevin, grab those things off the hangers and let’s get going. This place gives me the creeps.”
The three men wound their way down the ever-turning stairway as far as it went. Rob opened the door at the very bottom and felt around for a light switch. “There it is,” he said, as the lights clicked on. “I guess he didn’t take it with him when he went out.” The constable looked carefully all around the van. He peered in the side windows, rattled all the door handles, gave it one last look and walked out.
“Is that what you were looking for?” asked Rob.
“I couldn’t say, sir,” said the constable. “I suppose it could be. Anyway, thanks for your assistance.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Rob, cheerfully. “Anything to get that bastard in trouble, I always say. I hope he loses his bloody license. Here, Kevin,” he said, throwing him the duffle bag. “I’d better shut that door up there.” And the three of them closed up the house again.
Down in the garage, a trembling bundle of terrified humanity crawled out from underneath the shin
y new van and listened for the cars to drive away.
The bar in the Manufacturer’s Life building was almost deserted. Tuesday’s sparse after-work crowd had given up and gone home. Paul Wilcox stood at the door looking about, until a subdued wave from across the room brought him over.
“Hello, Grant. How are things?”
“Hi, Paul. Thanks for coming.” He ordered two Scotches from the lazy-looking waitress who padded over. “Things don’t look very good right now.”
“Really,” said Wilcox. “What do you mean?”
“Those goddamn cops were back at my door this afternoon, asking me the same stuff about Jane. Wanting to know exactly where I’ve been. Telling me everyone knows I had a fight with her the night before she was killed. Asking me about some guy I never even heard of—some cop. And asking me about some guys I’d just as soon not talk about when there are cops around.”
“Who’s that?”
“Never mind. Just some guys, okay?” He smiled automatically at the waitress and swallowed half his drink in one gulp. “Anyway, I can’t afford this, you know. I have possibilities of big contracts turning up in the U.S. I don’t like these guys breathing down my neck. They could screw me up.”
“Look, Keswick, I don’t know what you’re mixed up in—”
“The fuck you don’t. You were at enough of those parties. Stop trying to look so goddamn pure. Just because you’ve decided to have a shot at the Cabinet, and maybe the leadership—I have friends, I hear things, let me tell you—doesn’t mean that you weren’t there along with the rest of us, your tongue hanging out over all the broads, and trying every kind of shit that was going. You forget that? Because if you do, I’m here to remind you of it.” Grant’s anger was palpable. Wilcox pushed his chair back a bit.
“Okay. Don’t get so sore. Look, as far as I know, poor Jane was killed by that rapist—though, if they’re asking you questions, I suppose they’re not taking it for granted. But I can’t horn in on a murder investigation. Now, come on. That’s asking a bit much.” He laughed uneasily, ready to duck if Keswick exploded. He had been known to do that often enough. “But they’re not looking for drugs, you know—just trying to find out who killed her. So if you didn’t kill her, you haven’t got anything to worry about, do you? They don’t have time to mess around with small stuff like that.”
“What in hell do you mean by that? ‘If I didn’t kill her.’ Of course I didn’t kill her. Christ! It was probably that animal from Cobourg. The one who followed her around all the time. I don’t know why they don’t persecute him, instead of me. Or her husband. Being married to that slut would make anyone want to kill her. But I couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died.”
“The one from Cobourg’s dead. Didn’t you hear? So they can’t persecute him. He blew his brains out. Anyway, you don’t have to tell me. It doesn’t matter whether I think you did it or not.”
Keswick stood up, knocking the heavy chair over. “Christ almighty, I’ve had enough of you. And your fucking insinuations. I should paste you across the table, but I’d hate to damage the furniture. Goodbye.”
Wilcox watched him thoughtfully for a moment as he stormed out of the bar, then dropped some bills down on the table and strolled out after him.
Chapter 14
The offices of Van Loon and McHenry were in a pretty red-brick building with a tree and an attempt at a lawn on the tiny patch of dirt between building and sidewalk. A brass plate on the door proclaimed that a film company also did business there, and a dentist. A sign directed them up the stairs to the second floor. A young, vapid and gum-chewing blonde was typing rather inexpertly as they walked in the door. She abandoned her work in relief at the sight of them, and tried on a smile. “Yes?” she squeaked. “Did you have an appointment?”
Sanders nodded briskly. “Yes, we did.” The news seemed to strike her as singularly amusing. She tittered in response. “With Mr. McHenry, I believe.” That convulsed her in another burst of giggles.
The inner door opened, and a head stuck out. “Are these the gentlemen from the police, Stacey? Or have you bothered to ask?” She sobered up and cast him a reproachful glance. “Come in please. I’m Mark McHenry. Sorry about that girl,” he said, closing the office door. “She’s new, and not long for this firm, I’m afraid. What can I do for you?”
“You might be able to give us some information on one of your clients—a Mrs. Jane Conway. We’re investigating her case, and in the course of looking through her apartment, found some file folders marked with your firm’s name. We were hoping that you could shed some light on the background to the correspondence. Or on anything that might help us.”
He gave them the longish look of a man who is balancing conflicting ethical considerations. “I gather she was murdered,” he said finally.
“That’s right,” said Sanders. “There’s no question about that.”
“But wasn’t she killed by the same man who killed those other women? My impression was that she had been.”
Sanders shook his head. “Probably not. Although someone has gone to a certain amount of trouble to try to convince us of that.”
“Well, in that case, I suppose it’s more clearly my duty to seek redress for the crime, in a sense, than to preserve confidentiality.” He smiled and pushed a buzzer on the phone, then picked it up. “Stacey, bring me the Conway file. Jane Conway. Right now, please.” He looked up. “If I don’t say that, she’ll wait until after, lunch,” he said sourly. The door flung open and Stacey dropped a file on the desk.
“All right?” she asked sullenly.
“Thank you, Stacey. You may go now.” Conversation ceased as they watched her parade out. “Here it is. She wanted, in the first instance, to know how she could block divorce action on her husband’s part in spite of the fact that she had left him.” He grinned. “I told her it would be difficult, but she was very determined. Then she made a will, leaving everything to her Uncle Matt Jameson in Cobourg; then she came in to find out how quickly she could get a divorce and to ask me how she could invest around twenty thousand dollars without getting it too tied up in red tape. By that I got the impression she meant without having the tax people find out about it, so I steered clear of that one. And that was where we were as of March 27th. Oh, except that she called to ask about an action for unlawful dismissal, but since her position was only temporary, I told her she didn’t have a hope. She was, I would say, a very litigious lady.” He produced that little gem with a satisfied smirk. “Oh, and she left something to be kept for her in the safe. Said that she needed it later in the summer. There’s a note here about it. Do you want to look at it?” They both nodded. Sanders’ eyes brightened slightly. McHenry moved over to an old-fashioned safe in the corner and pulled it open. “It’s not all that secure,” he said. “But it makes a handy place to store things. I inherited the office and all its appurtenances—except for Stacey—from my father and his partner, old Van Loon.” As he spoke, he sorted quickly through the contents of one of the shelves. “Here it is. I’m afraid I’ll have to have a receipt for it if you want to take it away.”
It was a small white envelope with “Mrs. Jane Conway, February 24, 1984” written on the outside. It contained something small but bulky. Sanders accepted a proffered paper knife and carefully ripped it open. Inside was a black container, cylindrical in shape, with a gray top. Inside the container was a roll of film. Sanders dumped it out on his palm and looked at it.
“I’d be careful with that,” said McHenry. “It isn’t developed.”
Sanders quickly returned it to its container, and then to its envelope, wrote out a receipt and handed it to the lawyer. “Thank you very much. This looks interesting. You wouldn’t have any idea where the twenty thousand came from, would you? That’s even more interesting.” McHenry shook his head rather sadly.
“Ah well. Back to headquarters, Dubinsky, and get the lab on to this.�
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Not far from the legal office of Van Loon and McHenry, Eleanor was back at her desk at Webb and MacLeod, staring glassily at a pile of papers. Real estate seemed to be suffering from a mid-week slump, and she was having difficulty staying awake. It was warm and sunny out her window, and just as she was sleepily deciding to abandon all efforts at earning a living in favour of a walk, the harsh buzz of her phone sent her crashing back into the real world. It was a business call. A Mr. Jones, who had heard about her, and what a wonderful agent she was, from a friend of his, wanted to look at a house for sale in his neighbourhood.
“Certainly,” said Eleanor. Then, curious, “Who recommended me to you?”
“Al,” said the voice of Mr. Jones laconically.
“Oh,” said Eleanor, trying to remember an Al among her recent clients. Not that it mattered. “When would you like to look at this house? I could probably arrange something quite soon, if you wish.” Strike while the iron is hot, she thought. “And which of our houses is it?”
He gave her an address on the Kingsway, far in the west end of the city. Good fellowship and ethics struggled for a brief moment in her breast against the thought of commissions—prices were generally very high on the Kingsway—and she muttered weakly, “Our west-end office usually handles houses on that side of the Humber. They know the area better. But if you wish to deal with me, I’d be glad to show it to you.” That dealt with her conscience.
