The Suicide Murders (3 page)

“Yes?” he said, looking over his glasses. “Say, aren’t you Manny Cooperman’s boy?” I nodded. “I thought so. I’ve known your father for forty years. He used to bring you in here when you were a boy. Which one are you? One of you is a doctor, isn’t that right?”

“I’m Ben, the one that stayed at home.”

“That’s right, I see you go by once in a while. You don’t come in any more. Say, I remember one time your father brought you in here, you couldn’t have been more than three or four, but walking you know, and I asked you—it must have been in the 1940s, just after the war started—and I asked you, just kidding, mind, who did you think was going to win the war over in Europe. And you thought a minute, I’ll never forget it, and said that you thought that both sides were going to lose. Now can you beat that? Do you remember saying that? Did your father ever tell you that story? I know it was you. You or your brother. Couldn’t have been more than five or six. Yes, sir, I’ll never forget that.”

He seemed to sink into his private past for a minute, looking very tall and thin in the tall, thin store with the light coming in through the bicycle wheels in the window.

“It was my brother.”

“Hmmm?” he asked, pretty far away.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Is there something special you are looking for, Ben? We don’t see you much these last few years. We seem to lose them after high school and then pick them up again when they start tennis and racketball. But there’s a ten-year gap sometimes. I didn’t catch. Did you say you were looking for something special?”

“Oh, I was vaguely looking at your bikes through the window—it’s Mr. MacLeish, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. You know my brother’s gone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, that was a good many years ago now. It gets longer every time I add it up. You were asking about bicycles. Yes, a lot of people your age are riding safety bikes. You know I sell more to young adults than I do to teenagers. Isn’t that a pretty paradox for you? I guess it’s the gears they have today that they didn’t have in your day or in mine. And it’s all this play they give to fitness on the television. Don’t you think that’s so?”

I walked with Mr. MacLeish to his display of bicycles. He had about twenty on the floor and another bunch hanging from hooks on the wall. Behind a partition, a teenager in a mouse-coloured shopcoat was assembling more from wooden crates.

“Funny thing,” Mr. MacLeish said, his watery eyes winking over his lenses, “speaking about bikes. You know who came in through that door yesterday afternoon? It just goes to show you that you can’t be too careful on the subject of fitness. Well, sir, yesterday afternoon

I had a customer looking at bikes, and he was a dead man by the time I closed up for the night.”

“You mean Chester Yates?”

“Why how’d you know that? That’s right. Isn’t that a remarkable thing?”

“Well, I guess anybody can look at bikes even if he means to shoot himself in an hour.”

“Ben, I agree with you. It might calm a desperate man about to commit a desperate act. But Ben, looking at bikes is one thing, and buying them’s another.”

“What?”

“That’s what I say. Buying a ten-speed bike and then killing yourself, that’s a totally different can of paint.”

FOUR

I walked back to the office without seeing anything much. All I knew was that the file I had marked “closed” was open again, and written at the top of the first page inside was “Concerning the death of Chester Yates.” It didn’t add up and things that don’t add up give me heartburn. So, I went to work. I phoned Dr. Zekerman, but got an answering service. It was the same service I use, so I was able to quiz the girl and discover that the doctor sometimes picked up his calls between patients but often didn’t bother until late in the afternoon. No, there wasn’t a nurse or receptionist who picked up the calls, it was always the doctor. I left my number with her.

Next I called Peter Staziak in Homicide. We’d been in the same class in Chemistry at high school, and I’d been in a school play with his sister. I asked him who was handling the Yates suicide and he put me on to a Sergeant Harrow, who was supposed to have all the answers. I told Harrow what I had and I could hear him breathing steadily at the other end, without any sudden intakes of air. Then he wanted to know who I was and why it had become my business. He seemed to be more interested in that than in the news about a suicide buying a ten-speed bike an hour before killing himself. Finally he said, “Look, Mr. Cooperman, I want to thank you for coming forward with this information, but the case is closed.”

“There’ll be an inquest, won’t there?” I asked.

“Sure, but that’s just routine too. You see, sir, we have the report from the medical examiner who says that death came from a self-inflicted wound in the head. The powder burns say that it was a self-inflicted wound, the fingerprints say so and so does the paraffin test.”

“That doesn’t mean much to me. I mostly do divorce work.”

“Well, Mr. Cooperman, I think you’d better go back to your transom gazing and let us get on with our work. Thanks just the same.”

“Wait a minute! What have you got for the motive? Why’d he do it?”

“Like it says in the paper: he was depressed and overworked. Look, Mr. Cooperman, this is a dead one. If you want to play sleuth, we’ve got dozens of cases you can go to work on.” His irony had the same effect as someone digging you in the ribs with his elbow repeating “Did you get it?” I got it and then got off the line.

I was getting nowhere fast. I looked up the name of Chester’s company in the book and dialled it. I asked for Yates’ office, and when the noise of clicking and switching stopped I asked for Martha Tracy, Chester’s secretary.

“She’s off sick today, sir. Can I help you?”

“Can you give me Miss Tracy’s home number?”

“I’m very sorry, we don’t give out that information.”

“I’m sure you don’t, under normal circumstances, but this is an emergency.” I heard some talking through the palm of her hand which I didn’t catch and then there was a new voice on the line.

“Who is this?” it asked, “and who do you want?” I thought that in this instance the better part of valour was retreat. I hung up. I waited ten minutes and dialled again, heard the same noises and clicks and heard the first voice again.

“Can I help you?”

“This is Father Murphy over at St. Jude’s and we’re after arranging a high mass for dear Martha Tracy’s poor unfortunate employer, may he rest in peace. But Sister Kenny can’t seem to find the girl’s telephone number at all at all. Would you help us out, Miss, and may the blessing of St. Patrick himself be on you for helping us in this sad business?”

“Will you please stop doing that,” she said, with a steel edge to her voice. “We don’t give out private numbers. If you keep calling I’ll call the supervisor.” The line went dead. I took that hard, and went out for a cup of coffee. I’d had lines in
Finian’s Rainbow
at school. I’d been one of the silent singers. I just moved my lips during the songs. But I had real lines.

I decided that I’d better go down there to snoop around in my own way. It was Friday, so everybody would be anxious to get away promptly at five. That made the muscle in my cheek relax a little, and when I looked at my hands, they were almost dry. I ordered a chopped egg sandwich. In the seat next to me at the marble-topped counter an old geezer was rapidly making notes. I wondered for a second whether they were on to me, but he didn’t look up at me or at anyone else; the waitress scooped the soupbowl out from under his nose and slid the ham and eggs under without getting in the way of his pencil. I took a sideways look at his notebook; the writing went in all directions. The waitress saw me staring at him when she brought my sandwich. Without any direct reference to my neighbour she said, “I knew a fellow who wore Reynoldswrap in his shorts, once: to keep the radiation away from his precious jewels.”

Back in the office, I put in a call to Niagara. Said I was Sergeant Harrow from Homicide. I found out that Thomas Glassock would be on duty as usual in the Caddell Building beginning at five o’clock. Good. I was back on the track. I didn’t quite know what I was on the track of, but I was back on it and it felt better.

To kill the time before talking to Glassock, I wandered over to City Hall. There were tulips in bud in large cement planters in front of the war memorial as I walked up the wide expanse of front steps. I always got a good feeling walking up these steps which rise to a series of eight doors. Eight doors has a kind of New England town meeting feel. But when I got to the top, all but one of them was locked. There was a message there for me someplace; I decided to pick it up later.

I disappointed the girl behind the counter by not having my assessment with me. When I told her that I didn’t have an assessment, it nearly broke her heart. I asked her where I could find the elected members of council. She directed me and I obeyed.

The wall to wall rug down the corridor between the offices of the aldermen was thick and green. The doors were blue, I couldn’t figure that one. I found Harrington’s door, and was about to knock, when a stenographer picked the wrong moment to be efficient.

“Was there something?” she asked as though we were both speaking English.

“Yes, there was. In fact, there is. Is that Mr. Harrington’s office?”

“Yes, but …” I was wondering whether she was just playing a game with me or whether she really cared whether I got in to see him or not.

“Well, is he in it?”

“Yes, but …” It was happening a little too fast for her.

“Is he with someone?” She shook her head. “Is he asleep?”

“Sir, do you have an appointment to see Mr. Harrington?”

“No. Is it necessary to have one to see an elected official?” I pretended to bristle.

“Not really, but may I ask what is the nature of your business with Mr. Harrington?”

“Well, I wouldn’t tell everybody, but since it’s you, I’ll tell you. I want to ask Mr. Harrington just exactly what he intends to do about my wife. Call it family business or private business, whatever you like, but if he won’t see me, I’m afraid he’ll have to see my lawyer.”

“Oh! Oh dear. Why, of course, yes. You can go right in. I know he’s there. Goodness.” She visibly faded behind her pink plastic glasses, leaving only a smear of rouge and lipstick under her permanent wave. I knocked at Harrington’s door.

He was a big man by anybody’s scale. His face looked like a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings, with a huge portion of nose in the middle. The rest of him lived up to that start. I could see why I’d taken him for a cop the other night in front of the Yates house. He wore a two-piece blue suit with a wide dark blue tie. A brown paper-bag lunch lay spread out in front of him, and he began collecting the evidence in a napkin quickly as I crossed to his desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr.…?”

“Cooperman. Ben Cooperman.” He smiled an election smile and shook my hand until it was raw meat. I took a chair that looked like a cream-coloured plastic tulip and found that I could sit in it without being whisked off to the land of the little people.

“Well, Mr. Cooperman?”

“I’m a private investigator, Mr. Harrington, and I’m looking into some of the circumstances surrounding Chester Yates’ death. I know you were a friend of his. I need your help.” He smiled, but there was no charm in it. He began to size me up for the first time.

“What kind of circumstances?” He chose his words carefully. “Chester shot himself. What could be clearer than that?”

“Two hours before he killed himself, Chester bought himself a present.”

“How official is this?” He looked worried.

“I was there; I saw him buy it. If you were going to kill yourself, would you buy an expensive gift for yourself that you knew you’d never live to use?”

“Present, what kind of present?”

“A ten-speed bike. He got it at MacLeish’s on St. Andrew Street.”

“This is absurd. A bicycle! What are you trying to make of this, Mr. Cooperman? A man is dead. Isn’t that enough? I spent a couple of hours with Chester’s wife last night and now you insult a fine man’s memory with talk of bicycles.” His face was getting to look rare on the outside. He was a big man, and I didn’t want to picture him angry. He looked like he could do angry far too well.

“Look, Mr. Harrington, the normal assumption is that a purchase is made to be used. People who kill themselves don’t buy cars, rent apartments or reserve plane tickets. They may be killing themselves for the first time, but if you check the books in any insurance office you’ll see that every move is predictable, from the small nicks on the throat of a razor suicide to the clothes left at the top of Lovers’ Leap. It’s all been done before, thousands of times. It’s as unlikely for a man to have bought a bike before knocking himself off as for a woman to hang her self wearing long underwear or jump from a slow-moving passenger train. This thing will have to be looked into.”

“What’s the difference? Think of his family, Cooper-man. Walk away for it. That’s my advice.”

“I hear you talking, but I don’t think a little nosing around will hurt.”

“Cooperman, I’m telling the truth when I say that it would be best to drop this. You don’t know what you’re getting into. It’s disgusting, really. Like playing in your own dirt. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I can see that you aren’t prepared to be reasonable.”

“What you call reasonable, I call looking the other way.” I heard a buzzer sound. His right hand was moving away from a button on his intercom. His face was moving from mauve to purple. I intended to stay out of his reach, as he got up and started around the end of his desk in my direction. The door opened and the girl with the plastic glasses stood between us.

“Miss Keiller, Mr. Cooperman is leaving now. I want you to take a good look at him, because if he ever comes to the office again, I don’t want him to get by your desk. Do you understand?” She nodded, swallowing her explanation. Harrington grabbed a couple of his folders, and strode past me and Miss Keiller through the door and out into the real world of civic politics. Miss Keiller and I stood fixed like we’d been bolted to the broadloom until a door slammed at the far end of the corridor. I tried to flip her a grin as I went by her, but I think I missed.

Just before five o’clock I walked through the double glass doors of the limestone-fronted Caddell Building and punched the elevator for the eight floor. That put me on the floor above Yates’ operation. I decided to try walking to my right as soon as the doors opened in case I looked lost when some receptionist looked up. But there wasn’t a receptionist. The floor was divided into a number of small offices with doors leading off the corridor. I found the Men’s Room and went inside a cubicle for a smoke. At five after five I found the red exit sign and walked down one flight of stairs. Inside the door of “Scarp Enterprises” all was quiet. I found the door with Chester’s name on it in stand-out white plastic letters. It was locked. I fished around in the top drawer of the desk just outside Yates’ office, Martha Tracy’s, I guessed, and found a key in the paperclip box. I couldn’t be sure when Glassock would make his first check, so I had to get in and out quickly. I tried to ignore the geography once I closed to door again. I could take it all in again later. What I needed now was some link with the dead man that might carry me along for another couple of days. The desk top was clear. So were all the other surfaces. I pulled out the first drawer that opened: envelopes, paperclips, and company letterhead. If he had a private address book that had been taken with other obvious stuff by the police. I was looking for sloppy seconds, and found them in a middle drawer. It was a clipboard with the agenda of a board meeting on it. A few words were underlined and there was a feeble attempt at a drawing of Mickey Mouse in one corner. He was no artist. That was something. Elsewhere on the sheet he appeared to be trying to design a logo. The Arabic numeral two and the letter “C” were drawn in three different possible arrangements. There was one attempt with the Roman numeral for two, “II.” I scanned the agenda and couldn’t find anything beginning with “C” or having a “2” or “II” connected in any way. No, the meeting had to do with Scarp Estates, with a sewage contract, with tenders for foundation construction, and others for roofing. I was getting nervous, so I slammed the clipboard back in the drawer and left the room in a middle-sized sweat.

The outer office was still bright and silent. No sign of elevator noise. I could sit on my hands and wait, I thought, or I could see what useful information might lie out in the open. First I noted down Martha Tracy’s home telephone number from a typed list of names and numbers inside the lid of a metal desk-top file. I also found a glossy brochure describing Scarp Estates, a new subdivision planned for the top of the escarpment that runs through the peninsula like a spine, with Niagara Falls which tumbles over it supplying hydroelectric power for the expanding industries of the area. From the brochure it was plain that Scarp Enterprises was dabbling in some of that industrial expansion along with the real estate development. Nice going, I thought. But the brochure didn’t say anything about somebody dying in order to keep it running so smoothly.

I could hear the security man let himself into the outer office, and so I leaned back and lit a cigarette.