Seaweed on the Street (32 page)

“Who doesn't? But a guy like Fred, he always led with his chin, did things the hard way. Maybe things went wrong when he was a kid and he was pushed off balance. Got his feet set on a certain path and never was able to get off it.”

The captain snorted derisively. “Hogwash. You make your own luck in this life. I get tired of hearing how people turn out bad because society was mean to 'em.” The captain pointed outside. Black smoke was pouring from the rusty trawler's smokestack. He said, “You take them poor lubbers over there, for example.”

I said, “What about them?”

“They've made two attempts to get that rustbucket to Guatemala. Once they got as far as Race Rocks before they had to be towed home by the Coast Guard. Once they steamed three hours before they found out their bilge pumps don't work. Now they're at it again. Sailing at first light tomorrow for Guatemala. Non-stop. That's what
they
think.”

“Well, they're stubborn, Captain, give them that.”

His jaw worked from side to side. “Stubborn, hell. They're just dumb. Instead of learning from experience they'll go out, get drowned and blame fate. Them folks is bound and determined to commit suicide and there isn't a thing anybody can do to stop 'em. They'll wind up on a lee shore somewhere, mark my words, and that old tub will make a reef for the fishes to play in.”

My breakfast arrived; I started to eat.

The captain said, “Did you ever hear from Taffy Jones?”

“Nope,” I said. “But that reminds me of something. Look at this.”

I dug in my pocket, found the photograph I wanted and showed it to the captain.

The captain said, “Why, that's young Harry Cunliffe.”

“Right. Wearing a beard. I didn't recognize him at first.”

“No? Well, maybe not. But you didn't know him like I did.”

A black-hulled schooner came into view around the Coast Guard station. The schooner's skipper pushed down his helm and headed in for the marina. Captain Bloggs stood up, fastening the shiny brass buttons on his pea jacket as the schooner's crew lowered sail.

“I've got to run,” Captain Bloggs said. “That fellow will be looking for a place to tie up.”

≈ ≈ ≈

The lot behind Swans was full so I parked on Fisgard Street and strolled to my office, hoping to catch sight of the curvaceous Halvorsen. No such luck. I unlocked my door and went inside. At that moment a battering ram smashed into me. I went hurtling across the room till I hit a wall and fell. When I tried to get up there was an automatic pistol just inches from my nose.

Charles Service was holding the pistol in one hand and stroking his shoulder with the other. “Sorry about that, Seaweed. Bit clumsy, but I'm taking no chances with you.” He spoke in an ordinary conversational tone.

“What the hell is all this?” I said, reaching for my chin and feeling a thin trickle of blood where I had bitten my lip.

“Stop! Move and I'll shoot!”

I knew he wasn't fooling, but I was awkwardly half-twisted. I told him so and he let me ease myself around very slowly till I was sitting with my back against the wall.

Service watched this intently. When I was settled he said, “Don't move again.”

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe this time you'll finish off what you started earlier.”

Service narrowed his eyes. “I don't understand. Started what?”

“Are you denying that you shot me from that roof across the street?”

His lips twisted in a sneer. “If I had, we wouldn't be having this talk. You'd be dead.”

Service sat on the edge of my desk, swinging his foot, resting the gun on his knee. I said, “Is that the gun you used on Fred Eade?”

He thought this over and said, “Yes. It's old, but I keep it oiled. I thought of using it on you yesterday, actually.”

“Actually?”

“Actually. But Phyllis Williams came into my office. She didn't know it, but she saved your skin.”

“Tell me something, sir. Is that the gun you killed Harry Cunliffe with?”

Service's polite mask slipped and his face worked with the effort of concentration. “How did you find out?”

“You gave yourself away.”

His unblinking eyes were dull and opaque. “No doubt, but how?”

“I know how, and I know
why
.”

“You know why I killed Harry Cunliffe?”

I ignored that question and said, “When did Calvert Hunt change his mind about wanting to reconcile with his daughter?”

Service moved impatiently. “What difference does it make?”

“Let's just say you're humouring a dying man.”

“Yes. It's a simple question of priorities. Either I take care of you or I go to jail.” Service's self-assurance showed in his unfurrowed brow and easy conversational tone.

I wanted to disturb his cocky confidence. “But you didn't have that rationalization when you killed Harry Cunliffe. Greed made you do it.”

“I was needy, too. I needed money, still do. Lots of it.”

“And you know how to get it. Cocaine's expensive, of course.”

Service nodded, appearing genuinely sorrowful. “It was a rash act. I liked the boy, his father is an old and valued friend. That's why nobody suspected me. Shooting Fred Eade, on the other hand, gave me intense pleasure.”

“You're wrong about one thing, sir. I've suspected you since day one. Proving it was another matter. There never was a florist's van, was there?”

“I can see that you're going to tell me everything, aren't you, Silas?”

“Only if you want to hear it, sir.”

“And stop calling me
sir
, for God's sake!” snapped Service, irritated at last.

I managed a grin. “Sure, why not? There never was a florist's van.”

Service shook his head. “You were on the Cunliffe case for one day only, then were taken off. I know you're not that clever.”

“I was taken off the case because Victoria's chief detective inspector didn't want a muddy-booted savage clattering across Calvert Hunt's beautiful hardwood. It was a high-profile case. If there was any glory going, the dci wanted it all for himself. But that's incidental. You killed Harry Cunliffe because he went to Ribblesdale with proof that Alison Harkness, Hunt's presumptive heir, was alive and well and living in Nevada. I know that for years you've been spending huge amounts of money on cocaine and on Sarah Williams. I suppose you've been looting Hunt, have you?”

“Yes, there's no point in denying it now. I have to admit, you're smarter than I gave you credit for.”

I noticed Service's gun. It was a police-issue Glock and I wondered how he'd obtained it. I said, “So you killed Harry. Somewhere prior to that you saw an Aboriginal driving a florist's van. For reasons known only to yourself you railroaded that hard-working honest driver into the hoosegow. Poor guy. That florist-van story was entirely fake, a red herring. The missing paintings added weight to your tale, gave an apparent motive for the robbery. Yeah, the dci bought it. It looked as if Harry Cunliffe blundered onto the scene of a robbery and it was his bad luck to get blown away. But you removed those paintings yourself and hid them.”

Service's eyes were remote. “Yes. I concocted that story on the spur of the moment, but it worked.”

“Right. There was only one Aboriginal driver working for a florist in Victoria. He was in custody in less than a day. The case against Scow was entirely circumstantial. Victoria's detective squad wasted a lot of time trying to find those stolen pictures. All the time you were laughing up your goddam sleeve. The dci became convinced that Harry Cunliffe was shot by accident, just an armed robber's stupid blunder. So that's the background.

“Now let's talk about Calvert Hunt's wife. After meeting and speaking with the gracious Phyllis Williams, Mrs. Hunt's sister, I can understand that Marcia's mother was a woman who'd carry a grudge.”

Service nodded. “Yes. Calvert's wife
and
Phyllis were a fine pair of bitches. From Mount Royal, of course; they were thoroughly upper class. That's why Calvert married her. She was his intro to polite society. I don't know how Calvert tolerated her, but he did. He made a billion dollars in industry but was powerless before his spiteful, domineering wife. When Marcia turned out to be as determined as her mother, it was just a matter of time before bombs went off on Foul Bay Road. Marcia was kicked out and disowned. Calvert Hunt went along with it.”

“But later Calvert had a change of heart? Ordered that Marcia be found and brought back, correct?”

Service nodded.

I said, “You hired Patrick Coulton. Coulton didn't report directly to Hunt, he reported to you. Coulton was an experienced detective. Marcia hadn't been missing long. I think he traced her and told you where she was.” I moved my shoulders slightly.

Service pointed the pistol at me and said, “You're doing all right, so don't spoil it now.”

“You never told Calvert that Marcia had been traced. You paid Coulton off.”

“Now you're guessing,” said Service.

“Maybe. Anyway, a couple of years after Coulton found her, Marcia was dead. Killed in a freak accident.” I stared him in the eye. “Correct me if I'm wrong.”

“You are substantially correct. Actually, Coulton made two separate investigations and was successful on the second try. He found Marcia in 1985, I think. Maybe '86. In the main, you're right. I must congratulate you.”

Service was smiling again, enjoying my story. I decided to shock him and said, “You kept everything secret. Coulton was paid off and sent home. But Coulton had delivered a golden goose. Now you knew where Marcia was, you kept tabs on her. When Marcia was killed, you saw a way to loot Calvert's estate.”

Service's smile vanished.

I said, “That's when you set up that dummy heiress on Hornby Island.”

“That's impossible! You can't know that, damn you!” Service was visibly shaken. Colour had drained from his face. He said, “What else do you know?”

I stretched my legs a bit. “You were Hunt's lawyer, his confidant. You knew all about his last will and testament, probably wrote it yourself. You knew how much Hunt money was sloshing about. What you wanted was a piece of it.”

Service swallowed a couple of times and nodded.

I said, “Calvert Hunt has no direct heir. Most of his fortune would go to charity. Was there anything in it for you, the faithful retainer?”

Service's face smoothed to blandness. “No. Calvert thinks I've been adequately compensated for my devoted service. After his death I have to shift for myself. The house and a million or so would go to the Williamses. The rest of Calvert's assets would vanish down an enormous charitable sinkhole.”

“You didn't like that idea very much so you set up a phony heiress and plunked her down on Hornby Island to wait for the day when you could produce her at maximum benefit to yourself. On that day, no doubt, you'd also produce a second incontestable will.”

Service looked pleased with himself. “It's true, I've been robbing old Calvert for years. I have his absolute trust and, frankly, the old man isn't as sharp as he used to be. But hoodwinking him was one thing. Concealing my little peccadilloes from auditors after his death would be more difficult, hence the imposters. Once I get myself declared their legal guardian, I'll be home and dry.”

“You maliciously and unnecessarily wrecked an innocent man's life and you murdered two others, but apart from that I almost admire you, in a way. In a way. What you did took long-term planning and must have cost plenty over the years. That tattoo on the phony's shoulder was a nice touch.”

“I'm glad you like it. The woman on Hornby is a real drug fatality, by the way. She'd blown her brains out with drugs. I found her in Vancouver and set the scam up. It was a bonus that she had a daughter about the same age as Alison, but I could have faked that detail if necessary. The phonies were two lost souls living in an east-end women's hostel. I set them up on Hornby Island and gave them bits of identification in case I ever needed to produce them in a hurry. I had the woman tattooed by the same artist who did Marcia.”

“That was more or less the way I saw it, but there was a big foul-up. In fact there were two foul-ups. Things happened that you didn't anticipate,” I said slowly, spinning the story out. “The first foul-up involved Fred Eade. Fred had run into the phony Marcia Harkness on Hornby Island. He thought she was Frank Harkness's wife. But what he didn't know, at first, was that she was supposed to be a rich man's daughter. Fred forgot about Marcia until he saw the advertisement I put in the papers. That's when Fred decided to get clever. He had me tailed. The tail was a fat man driving a stolen green Toyota. His name is Sidney Banks. Sid followed me to Ribblesdale and, I assume, reported to Fred. Fred Eade was then able to put two and two together. Now he knew, or thought he knew, who Marcia Hunt was. But Fred Eade was a two-for-a-quarter grifter. He wasn't satisfied with a nice reward. Oh, no. He got clever and tried to steal the golden goose. Am I right?”

Service leaned forward a bit. “Yes. Fred Eade went to Ribblesdale and tried to get to Calvert Hunt directly, but that's impossible. He had to go through me. When I found out what he wanted, I had to shut his mouth.”

“You shut his mouth but you botched it. As I just told you, Fred didn't have his own car. Sidney Banks drove him around when necessary. You thought that Fred was acting alone.”

Service drew his eyebrows together, but his gun still pointed menacingly.

I said, “It didn't suit you to produce your phony heiresses at that point. So you went down to the
Ocean Reaper
and found Fred drunk. You killed him. When I went down to the boat I almost ran into Sidney Banks, who had just discovered Fred's body.”