Murder at the Movies (Albert J Tretheway Series)

by A. E. Eddenden

  “I’d say around midnight.”

  Zulp stared at Tretheway. “Isn’t that when you got here?” His deep, imperious voice took over the room.

  “Yes sir,” Tretheway answered.

  Chief Zulp lapsed into one of his meaningful not-to-be-interrupted silences. He bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind him. His lower lip pushed in and out thoughtfully. When in doubt, Zulp went by the book. But when flushed with confidence, he went by intuition, usually wrong. He spoke in short, ungrammatical phrases.

  “Did you see him?” Zulp asked.

  “Sir?”

  “The murderer. Perpetrator.” Zulp shook his heavy jowls impatiently. “The Indian.”

  “No, sir,” Tretheway answered. “Just missed him.”

  “But you gave pursuit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zulp pulled at his bulbous nose. “Why?”

  Tretheway looked puzzled. “To try and catch him.”

  “No. No.” Zulp’s jowls shook again. “Why are you here?”

  Tretheway was always caught off guard by the Chief’s unpredictable, rabbit-like, train-of-thought jumps.

  “Was there a traffic problem?” Zulp pressed.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “It was a movie.”

  “Eh?”

  “Gunga Din.”

  Another meaningful silence followed. Zulp’s forehead creased as he checked the room. Activity still buzzed around them. Doc Nooner excused himself silently to accompany the Bugle-Major downtown. A flashbulb popped outside. Zulp noticed that no one else in his immediate group looked confused. He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you should explain.”

  For the next few moments Tretheway, with the help of Jake and Wan Ho, filled in the chief as best he could. He started with Gunga Din, then rationalized his conclusions with Flying Deuces and touched on the combination of Only Angels Have Wings and the Dundurn aviary vandalism. The Military Museum burglary came briefly into the discussion. At the end of his explanation, Tretheway sensed that Zulp’s eyes had glazed over about halfway through. He waited. Eventually Zulp spoke.

  “You’re telling me that the killer of Bugle-Major Coombes was inspired by a movie?”

  Tretheway nodded.

  “Gunga Din?” Zulp said.

  Tretheway nodded again.

  “And it happened before. Twice. With Laurel and Hardy. And the escaped bird.”

  “Condor,” Tretheway corrected.

  “Do you know why someone is doing this?”

  Tretheway had to shake his head.

  “Horse with a hat. Stolen bird. Bhisti bugler. All with no motive.” Zulp’s lower lip went into action again. “You know what I think? You live in the movies. Fantasy land. Celluloid city. Tretheway, you’ve got to get down to earth. Reality.” His eyes bulged. “Steel-making. Garbage. ’39 Plymouths. Traffic jams. That’s reality.”

  “But what about the grave?” Tretheway argued. “And the pickaxe? The garroting? A lot of coincidence there.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said that holds water.”

  “Sir?”

  “Coincidence.” Zulp started bobbing again. “As simple as that.”

  “But…”

  “Did it ever cross your mind that the killer really is from India? What did you call him? A Thuggee? That the Bugle-Major was involved in some cult? Mystery of the East?” He unclasped his hands long enough to wag a finger at Tretheway. “Use your imagination. But keep both feet on the ground. Don’t be swayed by some Rudyard Kipling fairy tale.”

  Tretheway’s large abdomen heaved quietly.

  “So starting tomorrow,” Zulp continued, “a proper investigation. Leadership. Sanity returns. Back to the real world.” He glared at Tretheway. “You. Back to traffic.” His eyes flitted to Jake and came to rest on Wan Ho. “And first thing in the morning, Sergeant, round up all the Indians.”

  Chapter

  8

  For the next week Tretheway and Jake sat by and watched as Zulp directed his whirlwind investigation. One of the unearthed facts showed that Bugle-Major Coombes had indeed served in India for about six months during WWI, albeit in the wrong theatre for Thuggee activity. Zulp still took this as confirmation of his theory. The detectives, including Wan Ho, did dutifully round up all the East Indians in Fort York. There were seven. They ranged from an FYU professor of Eastern Philosophy and History to an incompetent fakir abandoned by a travelling carnival. By Friday it had been proven conclusively that, because of age, religion, caste, district or availability, not one of them came close to the target. Undaunted, Zulp merely assumed the perpetrator had escaped. He saw that descriptive bulletins were sent out to brother police departments in Southern Ontario, Quebec, the Maritimes and several neighbouring states in the U.S. “Now we’ll see what the net brings in,” he was overheard to say.

  As ordered, Tretheway went back to the traffic business. He and Jake also went back to the movies.

  The month of May was no slacker in the variety of entertaining films. Young Mr. Lincoln, Prison Farm, Out West With the Hardys, Confessions of a Nazi Spy, Topper Takes a Trip, Orphans of the Street (“alone in the world with his dog”) and Treasure Island flickered across the West End’s silver screen. Tretheway passed on Women Against Women, Annabella (“it’s the season for romance”), Three Loves for Nancy and Bridal Suite on the strength of their titles. Wan Ho joined them for The Saint Strikes Back, The Lady Vanishes and Bulldog Drummond’s Secret Police. Addie chose to view Bette Davis in Dark Victory and Three Smart Girls Grow Up. Miles Terminus and Doc Nooner at different times took in about half a dozen films, Bartholemew Gum saw close to half while Jake, as usual, didn’t miss a flick.

  Early in the month, a Tuesday, Tretheway and Jake, accompanied this time by Gum and Terminus, entered the world of desert warfare, brotherly devotion, white sapphires, beautiful gestures, Viking funerals and the French Foreign Legion. They saw Beau Geste. In a powerful opening scene, a relief column of Legionnaires marching across the Sahara halt a short distance from a strangely quiet Fort Linderneuf. An officer with a trumpeter leaves his troops to investigate. They circle the fort and find at each crenellation a lifeless Legionnaire staring glassily back at them, his long rifle pointing rigidly toward the sandswept horizon. The trumpeter scales the wall and drops inside. He never returns. The mystery deepens.

  On Wednesday, the last day of May, the clement weather continued into the night. Fleecy clouds vainly chased the bright moon. Stars glittered. Moonlight reflected brokenly on the rippley waters of Fort York Harbour. The clear conditions made it easy for the three man crew of the Judge Millander to spot the fireboat. The same breeze that pushed the clouds across the sky easily carried the crackling of flames over the open water.

  “What the hell’s that?” the Skipper shouted. He spun the wheel of the small tug-cum-police-boat toward the burning vessel.

  “A boat on fire,” the second crew member answered.

  “Looks like a sailboat,” the third said.

  As they closed in, the dry cotton sail of the flaming boat exploded in a fireball that for an instant lit up the whole of Fort York Harbour. But it seemed to expend the fire’s strength. By the time the Judge Millander’s steel hull nudged the wooden sailboat, the fire appeared manageable. Buckets of sand and water from the tug, along with more water from a primitive but effective stirrup pump, turned the remaining flames into heavy smoke.

  With the two boats roughly grappled together, the Skipper ran the beam of the tug’s high-powered spot-light up and down the length of the smouldering craft. Crewman number three jumped aboard. He prodded a turning bulge with a boat hook.

  “Gawd.”

  “What is it?” the Skipper shouted.

  “Looks like a body.”

  “What?”

  “With his arms crossed. Like he was laid out.”

  The Skipper swung the spotlight to where the crewman pointed. A partially scorched cadaver stood out
starkly in the harsh light. The crewman stumbled backward over another, smaller lump at its feet.

  “Gawd,” he said again.

  “Now what?”

  “I think it’s a dog.”

  The beam of light swung away.

  “Don’t touch anything,” the Skipper ordered. “Rig up a tow and come aboard. Quickly.” He picked up the ship-to-shore that connected the police boat to Central.

  The Judge Millander chugged shoreward, its smoking funeral pyre in tow.

  June first fell on a Thursday. Chief Zulp’s head throbbed. His skin appeared more leathery, more creased and, despite a nine o’clock bath, he looked unkempt. Strands of unruly grey hair stood on end and pointed in different directions. A smudge marred his celluloid collar. He had been awake most of the night heading up the murder investigation.

  “Well, Tretheway?” Zulp’s deep tone approached plaintive. His net had brought in nothing. Never backward about jumping on the appropriate bandwagon, he had called Tretheway in to pursue the movie theory. “What do you make of it?”

  Tretheway adjusted his bulk in the confining wooden armchair. He and Basil Horsborough were both fresh from a good night’s sleep. Horsborough had been called downtown to identify the remnants of the stolen French tricolour and the charred but salvageable Mark One Lee-Enfield rifle with bayonet, both found on the burned sailboat. They sat directly in front of Zulp’s formidable desk. A heavy-lidded Wan Ho shared the slippery leather sofa with a bright-eyed Jake. Zulp and Wan Ho had briefed everyone on the night’s events. It was now mid-morning.

  Tretheway looked at Jake. “I don’t think there’s any doubt.”

  Jake nodded. “There’s only one movie that fits.”

  “Beau Geste,” Tretheway said.

  “Bo what?” Zulp said.

  “Geste,” Tretheway said. “A family name. There were three brothers. Beau, a nickname for Michael, Digby and John. They ran away from England, a question of family honour, to join the Foreign Legion. A beau geste. Or beautiful gesture. Double entendre.”

  “You see,” Jake began, “one of them stole a rare sapphire from Lady Brandon …”

  “What has all this got to do with a burning boat in the middle of Fort York Harbour?” Zulp interrupted.

  “We’re coming to it,” Tretheway said. He decided to skip over the opening sequence of dead defenders. “There’s a flashback that shows the Geste brothers as children. They give Beau a pretend Viking’s funeral. A toy sailboat. A tin soldier stands in for Beau. A tiny Union Jack to cover him up. Toy weapons. And also in keeping with Viking tradition, a pet. In this case a china dog. They set the whole thing on fire and push the boat out into the pond. Beau makes them promise to give him the same send-off when he grows up. When he really dies. Kids would promise something like that.” Tretheway looked around. He noticed that although Zulp showed a slight impatience, so far his eyes had not turned to glass. “So, near the end of the movie,” he continued, “after Beau is killed at Fort Zinderneuf, his brothers once again give him a Viking’s funeral. Of course there’s no boat. They put him in his bunk. With his weapons. Cover him with the French flag, the only one available, and start the fire.”

  “Don’t forget the dog,” Jake said.

  Tretheway smiled. “That was a nice touch. No dog. So they laid Sergeant Markoff at his feet.”

  “Sergeant Markoff was the villain,” Jake explained.

  “Is that relevant?” Zulp asked.

  “Not really,” Jake said.

  “Then get on with it.” Zulp rubbed his temples.

  “Our Fan tried to duplicate the movie,” Tretheway said. “As best he could. The burning boat, I’m sure stolen. The dog, probably a stray. The rifle and flag from the museum.” He looked at Wan Ho. “And you say the murdered man was a vagrant.”

  “That’s right,” Wan Ho said. “Looks like an arbitrary choice. Target of opportunity.”

  “Maybe,” Tretheway said. “But he was a tramp. A knight of the open road.”

  “What are you getting at?” Wan Ho asked.

  “A hobo,” Tretheway said. “Sometimes shortened to Bo.”

  Wan Ho whistled.

  “I never thought of that,” Jake said. “How was he killed?”

  “Doc Nooner’s still working on it,” Wan Ho said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tretheway said. “Our Fan simply needed a body.”

  After a short silence, Zulp spoke. “Is that it?”

  “Except for the sailboat,” Tretheway said.

  “Eh?”

  “The central theme of Beau Geste was a stolen gem. All events revolved around a sapphire. It gave meaning to the title.”

  “So?” Zulp said.

  “It was called the Blue Water.”

  “The name of the sailboat,” Wan Ho said.

  Tretheway nodded. So did Jake.

  “So the boat wasn’t a random choice?” Wan Ho asked.

  “No,” Tretheway said. “It was calculated. We’re dealing with a planner.”

  Everyone sat with his thoughts for a moment.

  Horsborough broke the quiet. “When can I have my rifle and bayonet back?”

  Zulp ignored him. “I have to admit it’s a strong case. Plausiple,” he admitted. “But where are we going? Still no motive.” He looked at Tretheway. “What now?”

  Tretheway shrugged. “It’s hard to predict.”

  Jake and Wan Ho shook their heads.

  Zulp leaned back in his high, throne-like chair. He stared at the ceiling. Everyone ogled the quivering folds of his neck as he did his lip thing. “Birth of a Nation,” he said.

  “Pardon?” Tretheway said.

  “Last movie I saw. Couldn’t get into it. No sound. No colour.” Zulp dropped his gaze. He stood up abruptly, shooting his wheeled chair into the wall behind. “Back to business,” he said, signalling the end of the meeting.

  That evening Zulp attended his first movie in over twenty years.

  Back to business for Wan Ho and the detectives meant running down the few precious leads of the previous night. They traced the owner of the Blue Water easily enough, but he hadn’t used the boat for a week. It had been moored across the bay with a fleet of small boats loosely connected under the name, Wellington Square Yacht Club; no dues, no clubhouse, only seven moorings, and at that time of night, deserted.

  The victim was officially declared a John Doe, killed by a blow to the head before the burning, and the dog a stray. A positive note was the recovery of one Lee-Enfield rifle with bayonet. Basil Horsborough accepted the weapon gratefully but did little to hide his disappointment about the irreplaceable French tricolour.

  Leads fizzled. The investigation bogged down until it was expediently pushed aside for other matters. The seemingly senseless killing of a vagrant and a stray dog paled beside the imminent, once-in-a-life-time Royal Visit.

  Which is what back to business meant to Tretheway. He and Jake spent all their time up to the 2:45 Wednesday afternoon arrival of the Sovereigns checking and re-checking the parade route, traffic control, barricades, dress codes, protocol and the logistics of moving men and vehicles during the procession. These worrisome details kept them busy and away from other activities, even the movies.

  Although the King’s and Queen’s stay was to end at 4:09 the same afternoon, it was the longest and most carefully organized hour and a half in the history of Fort York. Except for a skeleton staff manning the police stations, all one hundred and sixty of FY’s finest drew street duty. As well, eighty-five Toronto policemen (including ten motorcyclists), fifty FY firemen sworn in as Special Constables, an RCMP Detachment and CN Railway Police fleshed out the FYPD ranks to control the expected three hundred thousand spectators.

  On the auspicious day, even the weather fell into line. As though by proclamation a royal golden sun shone in a royal blue sky. This did little however to soothe Tretheway’s impatience as he awaited the Royal Couple. He headed up a group of ten FY policemen, twenty more from Toronto and ten RCMP R
edcoats, all fidgety, at the CN station. When the King and Queen stepped down from the train on time, organized chaos broke loose. The RFYLI Brass Band struck up “God Save The King.” An army officer unfurled the Royal Standard. The RFYLI honour guard presented arms. All senior police officers saluted. Puffs of smoke blossomed on the mountain brow as a twenty-one-gun salute rumbled from the 11th Battery, Royal Canadian Artillery. Cheers rose from the reserved bleachers.

  On the dias, Prime Minister Mackenzie King took minutes to present the reception party. Tretheway, not a member of the official party, still managed to edge close enough to the Royal Pair just in case. He scanned the crowd while saluting. Surely, he thought, even someone as bold as the Fan wouldn’t dare….

  Spontaneous cheers from citizens lining the route engulfed the motorcade as it headed south on James Street. Chief Zulp rode in the first car with, and in awe of, the Chief Constable of Scotland Yard Metropolitan Police. The King and Queen smiled incessantly and waved to their subjects from an open, four-door maroon convertible driven by a Mountie and flying another Royal Standard. Four more cars carrying local diginitaries and members of the Royal party followed. Doc Nooner travelled in the sixth car with the Royal physician and an equerry-in-waiting.

  A similar reception took place at the city hall with more salutes, more militia and another honour guard. But this time the Mayor and City Council met the Royal Pair. And the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders’ Brass Band played the national anthem. The crowd sang. Everyone cheered.

  The parade continued south from city hall. Every possible vantage point held someone waving, shaking a flag, cheering or at least smiling. Children straddled the bronze lions at the foot of Queen Victoria’s statue for a better view. Others hung from trees. Everywhere red, white and blue bunting decorated the buildings. Bands stationed every quarter mile filled the air with martial music. Veterans, militia, auxiliary police and St. John’s Ambulance members bordered the parade route in front of the applauding spectators, some into their fourth hour of waiting. Plain-clothesmen, including Wan Ho, infiltrated the crowds looking for pickpockets or potentially embarrassing characters (Crazy Mary or Drop-pants Harvey to mention two) to forestall any humiliating incidents. Wan Ho shared Tretheway’s anxious thoughts about the Fan as his eyes skipped from face to face.