The Suicide Murders (5 page)

SIX

Saturday dawned a hot one. But these old brick walls kept the heat away from me until I hit the street around ten. After some coffee and toast at the United, I went back to the office. The Saturday crowd on St. Andrew Street must have been laid off. Three or four merchants stood at their doorways, wondering what had hit them. Somebody should tell them their former customers are out at the shopping plazas. Out there, the storeowners have customers knee-deep and wall to wall.

The sun cut a diamond-shaped patch through the transom, throwing the reversed letters of Frank Bushmill’s name across the stairs as I climbed to my floor. No mail on a Saturday. That meant less garbage. I tried reading an itch at the back of my knees. It seemed to say get in touch with Dr. Zekerman at home. He wasn’t listed in the phone book, so I turned to the city directory. No help there either. He must have a place out in the township someplace. I phoned Lou Gelner and he looked him up in the medical registry, complaining that he was doing all my work for me, which was true. He found that Zekerman lived out along the Eleven Mile Creek by Power Gorge. I thought that I might run out there after I went to see Martha Tracy.

The western part of the city is cut off from the rest of it by a canal to the north, dirty and full of nasty concoctions brewed in the papermills a few miles up the valley; and to the west by the river-sized stream called the Eleven Mile Creek. Except for the mansion of the chief mover and entrepreneur of the canal, built in the 1840s, this side of town has nothing to shout about. Most of the houses stand on small lots on narrow streets named after dead British colonial bigwigs. They are frame bungalows mostly with a few brick veneer specimens from time to time, and a sprinkling of pebble-dashed stucco. The coming of diesel did little to lift the grime of a century of coal-dust in the backyards along the right of way of the Hamilton-Buffalo line. Each of the houses presents either faded blinds or curtains to the outsider and all of them offer a generous veranda or porch to the inaccurate aim of the
Beacon
delivery boy.

Martha Tracy’s house backed on the tracks, but put up a brave front in the form of a well-cropped privet hedge along the walk. It was stucco, with black and white pebble dash, and had a green-painted wooden porch. The second step needed fixing. My knock rattled the screen door, so I tried to get at the inside door, but it was fastened with a hook. I rattled it again. Soon I could hear footsteps approaching. The doors opened and I was looking at a woman of fifty, stocky, blonde and with a Churchillian chin.

“You Cooperman?” she said. I nodded. She unhooked the door and invited me down the dim hall, past glimpses of an unmade bed through a doorway on my right to the bright kitchen. “I’ve got coffee, if you don’t mind instant,” she said and found two mugs inverted on the drainboard.

“I want you to know that I’m not from the police.”

“I’ve had a belly-full of them, I’ll tell you,” she said, raising her eyebrow significantly. “I don’t know how so many people can ask the same dumb questions so many times.” I hoped that my questions were better. Of course they were. I didn’t get them out of a book.

“Well, I hope that these questions won’t take up too much of your time.”

“Time. Heck, I’ve got nothing but time. There’s no job to do until they decide what they’re going to do with me, so I’ll be on sick leave for a week anyway. And it
was
a shock, you know. I’d been with him for more than five years. They always say, ‘Ask Martha. She knows where all the bodies are buried.’”

“And do you?”

“Well, that’s forthright! You’re doing fine. Maybe, to save you time I should tell you that I was the last person to see Mr. Yates alive. I left at five to five. It had been a scorcher and everybody took off when I yelled ‘Quittin’ time.’ I always yell that; it’s an office joke. But usually it’s closer to five.”

“Was he alone when you left?”

“M’yeah.”

“Was his bar open? Did he have a drink going?”

“You know Chester pretty well, don’t you? Right, he often had a drink on the way by five, but that day, Thursday, he had been out most of the afternoon, and only got back to the office at quittin’ time so he shot himself with an unclouded brain, if that’s what your little head is thinking.”

“When the police got through with their investigation, did you notice anything missing from the office?”

“You should get points off for hinting to the witness. There was a bar towel gone.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all. Do I get a free trip to Los Angeles if I hit the right answer? It should be easy: I outfitted that bar myself, got the set of eight glasses from Birks, kept the bar stocked …”

“… and the books dusted?” She grinned at me a lopsided friendly grin that was half shrug.

“As far as you know, he hadn’t planned to meet anyone after five?”

“Search me. He sometimes did, but he never told me half of what was going on.”

“Speaking of knowing what was going on, did you ever hear him say anything about ‘C2’?”

“‘C2’? What’s that?”

“I think it was something on his mind. He doodled a ‘C’ with a two and I wondered whether it meant anything to you. It doesn’t click?” She shook her head.

“Nope,” she said.

“As you know, the police are calling Mr. Yates’ death a suicide. Did you think that he was at the edge? Was he all that depressed as the papers are saying?”

“That’s leading the witness again. You should learn the rules. But no. Between me and you and the gatepost, Chester wasn’t depressed enough to kill himself. He had had a lot of business worries during recent weeks, but that man loved living too much to go and shoot himself. He was in a corner of some kind, but he was more the type to worm his way out of it, or change the rules, or something, than to take the way out he took. I thought I knew him pretty well, but that just shows to go you, doesn’t it?”

“Ms. Tracy …”

“Call me Miss Tracy. I’m a Miss not a Ms. I’m not one of those women’s libbers.”

“Miss Tracy, then, I want to thank you for being so helpful.”

“You’re breaking my heart. I told you I haven’t anything else to do, except try to find a hat to wear to the funeral on Monday. I used to have one around here someplace. Oh, well. Now, before you get on your high horse and hightail it out of here, what’s all of this in aid of? Who are you working for? You beating the bushes for Bill Ward?”

“Why do you think I might be working for him?”

“William Allen Ward moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.”

“And …?”

“Well, I’ve never seen him ask any questions, so I always guessed that he had other people collecting answers for him. He’s organized that way, if you know what I mean.” I had finished my coffee and had memorized the view of her long rectangle of backyard visible through the kitchen window. We both got up and she walked me to the front door. “You think that there’s something that’s not kosher about Chester’s suicide, Mr. Cooperman, if you’ll pardon the expression?”

“Miss Tracy, I don’t know.” I shifted my weight and held the screen door open.

“Somebody did the bugger in, eh? Well, it figures. It could make very good sense, Mr. Cooperman. Goodbye, and let me know how you make out.”

“I will,” I shouted over my shoulder as I went down the walk to my Olds at the curb.

I drove across the CN tracks on a rickety wooden bridge and kept on past more stucco fronts and kids playing jacks and marbles in the sunshine out Pelham Road. Beyond the rooftops, the ridge of the escarpment hogged the horizon, with the green water tower on the edge commanding the best view of the city below. The creek valley followed me out on my left. Gradually the curbing came to an end, the houses gave way to deserted farms and acre upon acre of former vineyards, all cultivating real estate signs. Occasionally, the stream below curved, and I could catch the glint of it in the sun. After a couple of miles of this, I could see the ten blue pipes running down the scarp to the creek. It was a domesticated

Niagara Falls, where nearly the same amount of water fell nearly as many feet as the famous cataract, but encased in steel, so it was a wash-out as a tourist attraction. Nobody was interested in falling water as long as it was in pipes.

Zekerman had his name stencilled on his mailbox in such good taste I nearly drove by his gate. It was a big, rambling house, what they still call “ranch style” in the area even if it rises to two floors. There were three cars in the carport, which was an extension of the line of the green roof. I drove up his lane and blocked at least two of the cars from getting out. There was an Audi and two Mercedes-Benzs.

I got out of the car, stretched my back muscles and walked up to the aluminum screen door. A red-faced woman with tortured red hair answered the bell, and told me that the doctor was down at the potting shed by the creek or in the shed behind the house. I thanked her and walked around the left side of the house, past half a dozen green garbage bags stuffed with the outlines of cans and cartons, and a sick-looking Irish wolfhound with swollen joints in his legs. He gave me a quarter-hearted wag of his tail, then went back to his worries. By now I could hear Zekerman, or somebody, making a racket in the aluminum-sided shed. In the gloom at the far end, he was bashing a piece of machinery on a workbench.

“Dr. Zekerman?” I said as I came up behind him.

Zekerman filled a tall track suit with a college letter on it without letting middle age spill through the middle. He was balding the same as I was only I was doing it more neatly. He had let his remaining hair grow into long ringlets of protest against the unfairness of his genes. His foxy nose was sweaty, as was his brow. His eyes hid behind fashionable lenses that he had paid a bundle for. The face, concentrated now, looked ungenerous, unyielding, as though the cords which pulled down the corners of his mouth would never relax, and the lines which scored his face had disappeared over the edge of stubbled chin into those of his neck knew something far more serious than any good news you might tell him.

“Blasted sump pump gave out. I think it’s this valve, but I’m not sure.” He was looking suspiciously at the thing which seemed to have outlets and intakes all over it. He looked up at my face. I frowned encouragingly. “You know anything about this make?” he asked, and I denied it in a way that suggested even to me that I knew all other makes on the market. “I bled it for an hour, but it didn’t do any good.” I tried to deal with a picture in my mind of the doctor treating his sump pump to a jar full of leeches. I could see I was going to be a big help. “Hold this.” He thrust a flashlight at me and indicated that I was to shine it up the hole his screwdriver had disappeared down. I stood that way for three minutes or more, while he clanked about down below. “That’s it,” he said at last as he removed a clod of muck from under the flap of the valve, “I got it!” We exchanged grins, and I gave him back his flashlight. “Now, that we’ve got this fixed, maybe you can tell me who you are and what your business is.”

“My name is Benny Cooperman, and I’m doing some work on the Chester Yates case.” The first part of my statement didn’t move him much, but the second part caught all his attention.

“What Chester Yates case? I don’t know any Chester Yates.”

“He was one of your patients, Doctor. You saw him last just before he died.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. My name’s Cooperman.” His foxy nose took on a pinched look. The mouth that in repose imitated a sneer opened slightly. His eyes began to shift about behind his glasses.

“Who the hell sent you here?”

“Nobody.”

“Who are you working for?” He looked scared.

“I’m a private investigator, and …”

“Don’t give me that garbage. Just turn around and walk away from here.” He was sweating now, and it wasn’t from the work on the pump valve. I’d touched a nerve. “Stop following me. Do you hear me?” He began to raise his voice. I tried to shrug and calm him down.

“Look, Doctor, don’t get excited. I only want to …”

“Get off my land. Get away from me!” He was shouting and the cords in his neck stood out white against his reddening face. I tried again to calm him down with a reassuring gesture.

“I only want to ask you a couple of questions. That’s all. Just a couple of questions.”

He backed up against the workbench and quickly shot a look to his right and left. He grabbed a blue cylindrical tank about a foot long with one hand and a thing that looked like a bent coat hanger with the other. The one struck a spark and at once the other came alive with a flame about a mile long. He lunged at me with it, singeing the arm of my coat as I lifted it to protect my eyes. “Hey, what are you trying to do?”

“Get out of here, do you hear me?”

“I’m going, I’m going.” I backed to the open front of the shed, then turned and started for my car.

“Stop following me, do you hear! Do you hear? Leave me alone.” I think he may have continued in that vein, but I missed it as I dashed the hundred yards or so to the Olds. My last sight of Dr. Zekerman, as I backed down his lane at fifty miles an hour, was of an irate gesticulating madman, brandishing a propane torch which nearly singed my baby-blue eyes. If that was standard practice for a shrink in these parts, I’m going to take all my future business to a chiropractor. And right then it looked like I was going to have a lot of business. I hadn’t had a headache like that since I fell in the dark on top of another private dick working for the other side in the same divorce case. Dr. Zekerman from where I sat, speeding back to town, looked like he was damaged and should see somebody about it and fast.

SEVEN

Back in town I did something I seldom do: I had a couple of belts of rye and a beer chaser at the hotel. Then I went upstairs to my room and nearly brought it all up again. To hell with putting my nose where it wasn’t wanted. On Monday, for sure, I was going over to see my cousin Melvyn. What I needed on a hot spring day was a cool morning searching titles at the registry office. Title searchers live a long time and hardly ever lose their sight to a propane flame. I lay back on my bed, looking up at the ceiling thinking of my resolution, when the phone rang. I grabbed it mostly to stop it making such a racket. It was Mrs. Yates.

“Mr. Cooperman? I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate what you have been doing. Mr. Ward was a little harsh with you on the telephone yesterday, and I’m sorry. We’ve all been under a great deal of pressure as you’ll appreciate.” Her voice sounded washed out, almost like she was reciting a chant.

“Mr. Ward’s word for what I’ve done is ‘harassment,’ Mrs. Yates. I know you’ve been through the wringer these last three days and you’re not in the clear yet. What I want to know, Mrs. Yates, is do you want me to go on harassing you? Are you satisfied to hear that your husband wasn’t seeing another woman, but going to see a psychiatrist?”

“Chester is dead, Mr. Cooperman.”

“Mrs. Yates, you know what you asked me to do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I did that. I was with your husband up to an hour before his death. I can tell you that his afternoon appointment was not with the Water Board as it said on his deck calendar; he went to see Dr. Andrew Zekerman. The name mean anything to you?”

“No.” She said it breathlessly.

“He’s a psychiatrist, across from the Hotel Dieu Hospital on Ontario Street. I’ve been to see the shrink; and found out that he’s scared of something. He thinks he’s being followed. I’d like to find out why. Believe me, it’s not my imagination, Mrs. Yates. You didn’t see his face when I mentioned your husband’s name.”

“But I still don’t see …”

“Mrs. Yates, two hours before your husband died, he ordered a ten-speed bike for himself. You can check at MacLeish’s sporting goods if you don’t believe me.”

“I see.” She didn’t sound as though she did, but I took her at her word. I waited for a minute.

“Can you tell me, Mrs. Yates, who would want to see your husband out of the way? Who would profit by his death? Did he have any enemies? Don’t tell me now. I want you to think about it and let me know later on. May I suggest that we keep what I’ve said under your hat until I can find something that a court of law would recognize as proof? That is if you want to keep me busy, because frankly I don’t think we’ve got enough right now to go to the police with. If you want me to drop everything right where it is, just say so. I can take a hint. But to tell you the truth, Mrs. Yates, I’ll take it better from you than from that stuffed-shirt Ward.”

“Bill Ward? But how …? Oh, on the telephone. Yes, I understand, Mr. Cooperman. Please, Mr. Cooperman, if Chester
was
killed and you can find out who killed him, I’ll be eternally grateful. If it’s a matter of money …”

“I didn’t say anything about money, although I could use another two hundred. But I can wait until you get back on your feet again. Take it easy. And let me know if you think of anything that might help to shed some light around here.”

“Yes, I promise. Goodbye.” I heard the click, but listened to the dead line hum for a minute before I replaced the receiver. I was back in business. I might get burned to a crisp after all, but at least I wasn’t going to have to be nice to that bastard cousin of mine, Melvyn.