The Suicide Murders (13 page)

They were about half way down the hill above me. They’d crashed into the bush as soon as they saw that I had. That slowed them up. They weren’t very bright. Now I stood on the edge of a grass margin with nothing between me and the door but a flat straightaway with a cement sidewalk inviting me the last fifty yards. If my three friends came straight down, I would be well ahead of them by the time they were in the clear. If they tried to come down on a slant in the direction I was running, I’d be home and dry by the time they reached the door.

I took a deep breath and made a dash for it. I could feel a pulse in my ear clipping me faster than I was running. Voices above me, and the sound of gorillas breaking through the undergrowth, dogged my steps. Over my shoulder I saw one of them break clear and pound after me. His face was twisted by the distorting overhead light at the beginning of the sidewalk. But I made it to the door. Further back, the two others had come out into the open, and were barrelling this way. I tried the door. The handle turned and the door gave inward. In a moment it was closed behind me, and, for the moment at least, I was safe.

TWENTY-ONE

I wished there had been a big, old-fashioned bolt for me to slap home behind me, but there wasn’t. I dusted myself off quickly in a vestibule of dark stained wood, with a display cabinet showing the new miracle fabrics that Rutledge is making part of our everyday lives; on the opposite wall hung an oil painting of the factory from the front, showing the immaculate slanted approach to the front door in the early 1900s. Through a frosted-glass double door I found myself in a hall leading, over a part-metal part-hardwood floor, towards a silver-painted heavy fire-door to both left and right. But in front of me lay an office with a geezer looking through the plate glass window at me. I smiled and sauntered into the industrial green charm of this refuge.

“’ello, wad can I do for you?”

“Oh, I was just passing,” I said, rationing my breath and trying to look calm and businesslike. “Rutledge around?”

“You gotta be kidding. Dere ain’t been no Rutledge ’ere for fifteen years. We keep the name, dat’s all.”

“You from Montreal? How’d you like Ontario?”

“Look, I was born in Ontario, spent all my life in Ontario, and dose bastards in Quebec can murder demselves in dere beds for all I care, and dat’s fur sure. Now, what do you want ’ere dis time of night?” I felt the door behind me open.

“I’m working on a project for school, and I wonder if I could bring my class through to see the machines?”

“Sure ting. Dey do dat all de time. I’ll show you around. Make you a hexpert.” I saw him looking over my shoulder at the newcomers. “We’re sure getting busy and dat’s for sure. You looking for somebody?”

I turned and saw the trio for the first time close up. I recognized the hefty one with the blue ski-jacket. There was blood on his shoe. The other two I’d only seen in silhouette against the light at the top of the alley. One was dark, the other darker. Both were wearing the sort of jackets hunters wear over plaid shirts, with twill trousers. The darker one displayed a large moustache over a blue chin and a black leather cap. The other was bareheaded with heavy acne scars. The chase through the bush had been kinder to me than to these guys. There were burrs on their trousers, scratches on their hands and faces. They were controlling their breathing well. The heavy with the black cap answered the foreman.

“We’re with him,” he said smiling at both of us.

“You sure look like you came down ’ere the ’ard way. Okay,” he said throwing down the clipboard he’d been holding since I walked in on him. “I’ll show you de working looms on dis floor. Upstairs it’s de same ting all hover again. Dat way,” he nodded toward my right, “is all finished now. Just storage, no machines. Dis way we ’ave hold machines, and den in de next room de new machines from St. Louis. Best in the world.” He led his docile group to the fire-door and hefted it with his shoulder; it rode uphill on tracks, so that it rolled down into place when we walked through it. What we walked into was a blast of noise from about fifty looms, in five rows.

It was like the screech of a high-powered engine as the engineer hears it. It looked like a scene out of a movie I went to once about the workhouse in Merrie England. The looms just had to be manned by orphans. Each machine set bobbins of yarn dancing overhead as an automatic shuttle ran back and forth. Every once in a while a take-up reel weighing a ton lurched a notch or two to keep the tension right. Above us, waterpipes ran over each aisle, sending out a fine spray into the already noise-clogged air. I saw a few women walking around, but they didn’t look like my idea of weavers. Nobody tried to talk in that din.

Directly across from the door we came in by was a new steel shutter door set into the old wall. The foreman pulled a chain that dangled to one side. He started a motor and the door began to lift slowly. Here was another room full of machines. As we passed into this room, an addition to the original factory, I saw that the chain for closing the door was on my side. The foreman had swaggered quickly to the middle of the room, I hung back. Then I made my second wild dash of the evening. I sprinted to the door, pulled the chain, tossed it over a high bracket on the wall, and ducked under the closing shutter. I hoped that it would take a minute for them to figure out how to open it. I could hear them shouting behind me, the foreman, for some reason, more plaintive than the rest. I was pushing open the silver-coloured fire-door when the other shutter stopped in the closed position. A moment later I was out the other doors and running ahead of my wind up the wooden steps. I was shooting up the lane when I heard the factory door slam closed behind me. My heart might burst from the effort of that uphill scramble, but I was miles ahead of them as I came up St. Andrew Street. I never loved this messy, gaudy, nearly superseded stretch of pavement so much in my life before. I headed across the street into the jungle-mouthed atmosphere at the Men’s Beverage Room of the Russell House. I walked through the smoke, enjoying the comparative quiet of the blue hazy room, past figures hunched over amber drafts on black-topped tables, until I found the bathroom. I passed a terrified face in the mirror as I went by. I felt better after splashing water on my face. The roller towel wasn’t much help; it offered a choice of filthy and filthier.

As I turned, thinking of phoning somebody, anybody, I became aware that the doorway was filled by something that wasn’t a door. It was one of my fleet-footed friends from down below.

“I’ve got a friend wants to talk to you. Nobody’s going to get hurt, just come peaceful.”

“Bill Ward?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.

“Smart guy, eh? Got all the answers. Well, maybe you got a couple answers for him. Let’s go.”

“Bloody hell! Why didn’t you say that Bill Ward wanted to see me. I’ve been meaning to see him for a week!”

TWENTY-TWO

A few minutes later I’d been stuffed into the back seat of a green four-door sedan between the heavy with the ski-jacket and the one with the black cap. The driver was the acne-scarred figure who followed me to the hotel. There was no room in the back seat to manoeuvre. I thought that if I had to send my regrets to Bill Ward, the fastest way to leave the scene would be past the gorilla in the ski-jacket. I thought I might clear the path by stepping heavily on his recently cut foot.

Nobody spoke. The driver headed south, towards the green eye of the water tower, through the best of Mortgage Hill, along the country road that climbed the escarpment, skirted the university and continued to Mal-ham. Black cap produced a small, dark flask. He removed the top and took a long drink. The sign that followed told me it tickled all the way down. He wiped the rim of the flask and passed it to me. I shook my head, and got a jab in the ribs for my candour. I took a gulp. Rye whiskey. Straight. I wiped the rim and passed it along to the mug in the ski-jacket. He drank carelessly, letting some of the booze trickle down his chin. He too wiped the rim and passed it back to me. I tried to hand it back to the owner, but he nodded to me in a manner that strongly suggested that I’d better have another swig. I did so. Only then could I pass along the flask. Black cap had another, then it was my turn again. It didn’t seem to be in the cards that I should get to exchange seats with one of them. By the time I’d had five turns at the flask, black cap had had three and the ski-jacket only two. For an alcoholic I was in a wonderful spot. Unfortunately, I’m not.

By the time the flask was empty (I’d had seven to four and three respectively) I was ready to start singing “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-winding,” but my comparatively sober mentors simply exchanged a glance and I shut up. It was perfectly timed. The driver pulled off the main road into a long lane. I recognized the pillars on either side of the entrance. Funny. I hadn’t seen those pillars since they pulled down my old art teacher’s home to make way for the Physicians’ and Surgeons’ Building. I’d heard that they’d been taken out here, to mark the lane to the Otterpool Golf Club, because Sam Zimmerman, the junk dealer, had tried to get them to mark the entrance to his junk yard. In the 1940s it was junk. Somewhere in the 1950s it became steel. And the golf course was still a golf course.

There were a few lights on in the front of the club house, but I was taken in the back. The sulphur in the air was purer up here, and off in the distance I could hear the pounding of a drop-forge. I was half carried, half shoved, into a deserted snack-bar with a white linoleum floor. I took some courage from familiar things on the tables: ketchup bottles, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holders. I couldn’t come to a bad end among such ordinary surroundings. I was pushed into a red-bottomed chair with metal legs beside a dark window. I think I may have closed my eyes. I remember feeling wonderfully refreshed when I let my cheek lean against the cool win-dow-glass. After a few years sitting like this, I became aware that there was someone standing in my light. It was Bill Ward. I think I said, “Hi,” and went back to my serious work which was trying to catch the little motes that kept swimming up inside my eyelids. There were red ones and purple ones. Mostly they were magenta.

“Cooperman, you’re in a lot of trouble.” He sounded like a television quizmaster telling a guest he had only ten thousands points and was about to be taken out of the final round.

“I’ll shape up, you’ll see.”

“You’ve got to lay off, Cooperman. I told you once, and I’m telling you again. That’s more than fair.”

“No coaching from the studio audience. Do you know why Chester was killed?”

“Don’t start that again. Chester killed himself. He wanted to get clear of his worries, his depression. Look, I’ve told the police to go easy on you. Sergeant Harrow is all for demanding your licence after the funny games you’ve been playing. I tried to calm him down.

“Okay, okay. But give me a minute on Chester. If he was going to kill himself, would he have bought himself a ten-speed bike a couple of hours before shooting himself? You were his pal, you answer me. Is it likely?”

“That’s unsubstantiated idiocy. There are a dozen explanations, and each of them makes more sense than what you are saying.”

“Everybody says he was depressed. What was he depressed about?”

“Business pressure. He’d been expanding too quickly. Growth wasn’t keeping up. Money was getting scarce. He was two years ahead of the game, and he didn’t have the capital to wait two years.” It sounded fine, but I didn’t believe a word of it.

“Is this the first tight corner he’s been in?”

“Of course not. But this was different.”

“Tell me. Tell me when the game gets so tough that you put your brains on the rug.”

“It’s no use talking to you. I’ll speak to Harrow.”

“You do that. But since it’s settled, how about answering some of my questions?”

“I’m a reasonable man, Cooperman. I’ve never met anyone so persistent. What do you want to know? These groundless assertions of yours are a waste of valuable time.”

“I suppose you’ve never heard of Phoebe Campbell?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that she paid me two hundred dollars to plant a gun in your house on Bellevue Terrace?”

“Be serious, Cooperman.”

“I’m telling you. Phoebe Campbell paid me to enter your house on Bellevue Terrace. She gave me a package to leave in a dresser drawer. The package contained a .32 calibre hand gun. The police have it now. Maybe Sergeant Harrow forgot to mention that. Why would someone want to plant a gun at your house? Somebody doesn’t like you, Mr. Ward.”

“Let me get this straight. You actually went into that house? How did you know it was mine?”

“The police told me.”

“What do they know of this?”

“Only that there was an attempted break-in. Your office probably has a report about it.”

“What did she look like, this Phoebe Campbell.”

“Tall, good-looking, brunette, long legs, clear skin, well-spoken.”

“This is insane. I never met this woman. It’s a mistake.”

“If you didn’t tell Phoebe Campbell about this hideaway of yours, whom did you tell?”

“Nobody knew about that place. I picked it up when a business associate went under. It was business. I accepted the house and let certain charges and debts ride. I hardly ever went there. I meant to dispose of it before long.”

“Did Pauline know about it?”

“I don’t want to hear my wife’s name in your mouth, do I make myself clear? Of course, she knew nothing of it. She knows nothing of my business affairs.”

“What about your affair affairs?”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re too modest, Mr. Ward. It is well known that you break a lot of hearts in a year.”

“Stand up! Stand up and repeat that!” He looked like he was going to pop his cork. I didn’t think these fellows socked people who weren’t wearing the old school tie, so I got up, and he glared at me. I hoped he wouldn’t hit me; I was still dizzy from the car ride. I remembered seeing a fight at a party over a girl: two men in their thirties exchanged glancing blows and then both got down on their hands and knees looking for dislodged partial dentures, glasses and a contact lens. Ward still looked angry when I got him into focus, but he didn’t look like he was going to knock me down any more.

“Mr. Ward, could I have a glass of ginger ale. I don’t feel so good.”

“What …?”

“I need something to clear my head. I don’t want to get sick.” He dropped his fighting stance, threw me a contemptuous look with nothing personal in it, and went to the bar. I drifted off, after finding my chair again, to where people drift off to. In far too short a time, I saw that the bubbles tickling my nose came from a tall glass under it. Ward sat down across the table from me.

“So you think someone killed Chester and you think I had something to do with it.”

“Could be. You were thick as thieves as far back as you can go. In a business way you’ve been in bed together before this. I think Chester was holding your end while you were playing around at City Hall. I think you might make a handy sum on this Core Two project, under the table, of course, and in a way that will look kosher on paper after the fact. I think you would steal pencils from a crippled beggar if you saw some advantage in it. But I don’t give a damn about your character, Mr. Ward. I only want to find out who bumped off your pal. You’d think that as his friend you’d want to give me a hand. Instead you call Harrow. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind. I’m used to being leaned on from one direction or another. Funny thing is that he’s your pal, not mine.” I took another sip of the ginger ale.

“Look, it’s ludicrous that anyone would kill Chester. But supposing he was murdered, I still can’t think of any motive.”

“You had a lot to gain. He was in your pocket. Wouldn’t you gain the upper hand in what you were planning to split on Core Two?”

“That’s the second time you mentioned Core Two. I don’t know where you heard about it, but you’ve been misinformed. I work for the city. I’m not a cheap speculator.”

“Who said you were cheap? There’s big money riding on Core Two. And the way you’re playing it, it isn’t speculating.”

“You’re drunk, disgusting, and way beyond your depth. Core Two is a city matter. I’m just an advisor to the mayor and the council. I get paid a fixed salary.”

“Yeah, about as much as a postman, I’ve heard, with perks, of course, with perks. But something like Core Two doesn’t come along every day. And there you are with Chester ready and waiting to help you again, just like in the old days. There’d be money in it for him too, naturally.”

“This is just talk; you can’t substantiate any of this.”

“I can prove that Chester knew about Core Two. So, at the very least, you’re the best guess as to who told him about it. That’s a breach of trust, before we get to any money. I’ve got that much in Chester’s handwriting. I’ve got more. I know you were being squeezed by Zekerman. He was also interested in Core Two. Zekerman was a greedy man, Mr. Ward. He found out about it from Chester. Chester wasn’t hard the way you are. Chester could be gotten around.”

“Shut up. You don’t know anything. It’s all bluff.”

“Well, if it is, why don’t you throw me out instead of taking it out on that ball-point pen.” Ward looked down at his hands. Two halves of the pen he was holding would never fit together again. Blue ink stained the heel of his right hand. He looked at his hand like it belonged to somebody else. In a moment, he shot a look at me. He had recovered and was going to counterattack.

“You don’t know very much, do you? Not when it comes to courts of law and proof. You don’t have anything with much weight.”

“Two men are dead, that should raise some eyebrows.”

“Chester killed himself. No eyebrows are being raised on that one.”

“That leaves Zekerman. He didn’t club himself to death. The most likely murderer would come from among his patients. You were one of his patients. Did you kill him?” He shook his head, not disguising his affection for me very skilfully.

“No, I didn’t kill him. He was a greedy man, but a small one. It was easy to pay his greed out of petty cash. Why should I have dirtied my hands with Zekerman’s blood?” He gave a snort that was supposed to show contempt for my accusation and me all at once. I thought it was time to shift ground.

“Let’s change the subject. Tell me about Liz Tilford.” He blinked like I’d asked him if he’d seen any good movies lately.

“There’s nothing to tell. It was a private matter. She is an attractive, intelligent young woman. I hoped to be of help to her, getting her launched, getting her established.” He looked out of focus to me as I looked across the table at him, fuzzy at the edges, but I could see that he was directing all his attention at me. I was in focus. “What has Miss Tilford got to do with this anyway?”

“She’s disappeared, that’s all.”

“That’s a little dramatic. She left town, that’s not against the law. She’s in Toronto; I think she went to Toronto.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“You insist on implying that our relationship was of a personal nature. A man like you can’t understand …”

“Ward, it’s late, and I’m not that shockable. You’ve been seen together. It’s on the record, so include me out of your play-acting. Why did she leave town? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. She just went away.”

“You’re sure she isn’t buried out there in the sand-trap of the sixth hole, or wearing a cement overcoat at the bottom of the lake?”

“Liz? You’ve got to be joking. Why would anyone want to kill her? She didn’t know anything.”

“Interesting way to put it. Unlike the dear dead doctor. He made a business of knowing. In fact he didn’t know when to quit.”

“You’re kidding yourself if you think you can drag Zekerman into this. It won’t wash.”

“He didn’t think Chester was depressed. He was his shrink. If he was lying to me, what was his game?”

“So far you’re the one with the answers.”

“You said that you could pay off Zekerman out of petty cash. My guess is that that’s a lot of petty cash. He knew about Core Two. That’s just the start. He also knew about you and Myrna Yates.”

“You bastard!”

“Let me finish. I got to the potting shed ahead of your boys. I know about Switzerland. So don’t get your indignation in an uproar. That’s two things he knew, but there was a third. He knew about what happened at Secord University during your last year. He knew about Elizabeth Blake.”

Ward looked sunk. His mouth fell open. He didn’t shout at me, he didn’t even look angry. I could see him better now. The effects of the flask were wearing off. The fuzzy edge had been sanded away leaving an outline that was sharp enough for a portrait painter. I remembered the sandy hair from the funeral. It was the sort that turns gray without anyone noticing. His face looked boyish from a distance, but now, up close, I could see that these broad youthful lines were criss-crossed with thousands of small wrinkles. His blue eyes looked out from under heavy brows, and there were signs around the chin that collapse of the firm jawline was only a matter of hours away. A minute slipped off the table. The ginger ale stopped bubbling.