Good Year For Murder (7 page)

Henry Plain and his civil servants encircled Alderman Emmett O'Dell as he stood, like Gulliver in Lilliput Land, drinking Irish whiskey and telling off-colour stories of the old sod.

His colleague, F. McKnight Wakely, was doing sit-ups in the officers' washroom.

Old Henry Ammerman told Bartholomew Gum a story that he had told him before, but Gum didn't remember it anyway.

Mayor Trutt reminisced with a group of grey-haired former smoke eaters.

Controller Pennylegion was surrounded, as usual, by swarthy, dark-suited, shifty-eyed companions while, in contrast, MacCulla praised his senior patrol of fair, clean-cut Sea Scouts (soft drinks in their hands) for their part in the parade.

Gertrude Valentini politely refused drinks while abstemious Ingird Tommerup became louder and more physical with each glass of what she thought was ice water given her by a gold-digging suitor.

Alderman Taz and Morgan Morgan argued good naturedly while they got drinks for each other.

And the rest talked on, outwardly oblivious to the possibility of another killing.

The activities of the evening slowed in direct ratio to the hands of the clock. At 11:30 there was a steady murmur of conversation, at 11:45 low whispers and at ten to twelve, relative silence. Politicians
looked over their shoulders at other politicians. Policemen strained their eyes searching for something out of place.

Suddenly a waiter fell with a large metal tray of glasses. Gertrude Valentini fainted. The quick, general intake of breath sounded like a giant vacuum cleaner. It took a few long seconds, but when everybody realized what had caused the commotion, relief flooded the armory like laughing gas. The embarrassed laughter and smiles of released tension took up the rest of the time until midnight.

When the hands of the clock passed twelve, there was a roar of resumed chatter. As on New Year's Eve, backslapping and handshakes were the order of the day. Everyone smiled and recharged their glasses—except Tretheway. He wore a puzzled frown and shook his head.

“Can't figure that one out,” Tretheway said to Jake.

“Can't guess them all, Boss.”

“Something must've happened.”

“Eh?”

“To change his mind. His plan.”

“Maybe there won't be any more,” Jake offered.

“Maybe,” Tretheway said. “Let's hope.”

A roll of drums from the brass band demanded the attention of the crowd. Chief Zulp made an announcement from the bandstand that reinforced Jake's belief.

“The Master Plan is no longer in effect. It has proven its worth. Good plan. Achieved its objective.” He paused, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet as though he had forgotten the objective. “Protection. Protection of our civic leaders. Of course you'll still be watched. Watched over. Fear not. We'll be there. The Master Plan will be reinvoked the weekend before the next holiday. Which is …”

Zulp stared at the crowd. The bandmaster whispered in his ear.

“Civic Holiday,” Zulp continued. “August five. It's just a precaution. There will be no more trouble. Speaking as a professional I say the fiend has moved on. To somewhere the police aren't quite as clever.”

“Like Toronto!” a Fort York newsman shouted from the floor.

Other good-natured shouts and hollers came from the flushed gathering. Chief Zulp tried to regain their attention but failed and
ended up waving to the crowd as he went down the steps of the bandstand.

The party didn't last much longer. After the impetus of relief had burned out, people tired quickly. Tretheway, Jake and MacCulla were home by one-thirty, even having taken the time to pick up Jake's car at Central. This time, MacCulla sat in the rumble seat. He had decided to stay over one more night for convenience sake and return to his apartment the next day. Mac went straight to bed but Tretheway and Jake stayed up for a few minutes, although they were both tired. Tretheway checked the calendar over the sink while he popped a beer.

“August 5, Monday. Civic Holiday.” He poured some beer into a glass for Jake.

“Thanks.” Jake accepted the glass. “You think something' 11 happen then?”

“I don't know. I thought something'd happen today.”

“But the Master Plan protected us.”

“Scared the fiend away.”

Jake drained his glass. “I'm beat. Have to go to bed.”

“G'night, Jake.”

“G'night, Boss.”

Jake heard the pop of another beer as he went up the stairs.

The Master Plan wasn't abandoned but it was watered down drastically. Zulp had an obscure but not unrealistic theory that the Cosentino killing was the climax of some mysterious plot, and that therefore nothing else would happen. Politicians were still kept under surveillance during working hours and their homes were checked regularly through the night. But the all-night, sleep-over vigil was discontinued as unnecessary and impractical as a long range plan. Gradually, the FYPD returned to normal police business. And the city returned to normal summertime routine—for wartime.

The factories turned out endless materials for war, which were shipped overland to an eastern port and then convoyed overseas where the people of Britain were beginning their finest hour. Local high schools stayed open during the summer months for the Commonwealth Air Training scheme. The Armory and HMCS Fort York (stationary) did their bit in producing army privates
and able seamen. And the University, as well as graduating theologians and arts students, turned out officers and gentlemen with its ROTC course.

At Monday breakfast, July 15, Tretheway and Jake sat in their usual places around the kitchen table. In the large, but somehow intimate room, bacon sizzled, freshly-cut flowers blazed from the table's centre, and the distant doorslams of awakening students punctuated Addie's tuneful humming. Today, instead of morning sunshine, rain was falling. It drummed cosily on the striped canvas awning over the back porch.

“Oh, dear.” Addie looked out the window.

“What's the matter?” Jake asked.

“Look at that.”

Tretheway and Jake pushed their chairs back and went to the window. They tried to follow Addie's gaze. Tretheway looked easily over her head while Jake stooped slightly and peered through the triangle made by his Boss's arm and side.

Outside, the thick well-kept grass glistened with moisture.
Two
maples, a mature black walnut, several clumps of white birch, a young oak and an apple tree (fruit half formed and reddening) grew informally about the yard. At the bottom of the garden, healthy evergreens were background for snapdragons, spiky hollyhocks, iris, tall, electric-blue delphiniums, summer phlox and bunches of hardy gold and yellow marigolds. Small white and blue alysum bordered the flower beds. In the rain, all the colours of the garden were tastefully muted.

“What is it?” Tretheway said. “I don't see anything.”

“It's raining,” Addie said.

“Raining.” Tretheway repeated. He looked at Jake.

“Addie, it's summer,” Jake said. “It's bound to rain. What's wrong with that?”

“But not today.”

“Why not?” Tretheway asked, this time slightly impatient.

“Don't you remember the rhyme we learned at school? For July 15?”

They both shook their heads.

“Oh, you wouldn't, Jake. It's English.” Addie looked at Tretheway. “But you should remember.”

“Addie. Where's my breakfast?”

She turned from the window and recited, in a classroom, singsong rhythm:

“St. Swithin's Day, if thou dost rain,

For forty days it will remain;

St. Swithin's Day if thou art fair,

For …”

“Jezuz!” Tretheway bolted from the kitchen, almost taking the swinging door with him.

“Albert!” Addie glared after her brother.

Jake steadied the kitchen door while he and Addie followed the Inspector. They found him in the front hall shouting into the phone.

“Swithin's! St. Swithin's! S-W-I, never mind. Where's the Chief?”

“What is it, Boss?”

Tretheway held up his huge hand, palm facing Jake. He barked more orders into the mouthpiece.

“Get every available man down there on the phones. Find out where the Council members are. You must have a list. Tell them to lock themselves in somewhere. Eh?” Tretheway listened for a moment. “I don't know. In the bathroom. Or closet. Or in their cars. Then send someone out to watch them. Every one of them.” He listened again. “Cruisers. Their own cars. Bikes. Street cars. I don't care how. Use your head. I'll take full responsibility. And hurry, dammit!” He covered the mouthpiece. “Jake. Jump in your car and check on Ammerman and Bartholomew Gum.”

“Right.” Jake ran out the front door without questions.

Tretheway uncovered the phone. “We'll look after our ward. Ward three. I'll be here if the Chief calls.”

Tretheway slipped the receiver back onto the phone. Several boarders were standing at the bottom of the stairs, attracted by the smell of breakfast and the loud excitable pitch of Tretheway's voice.

“Everything's all right,” Tretheway assured them. “I just want to borrow Addie for a few minutes.” He motioned to his sister. “Would you come with me, Addie, please?” Tretheway went down the hall into the parlour.

“Oh, dear. Could you look after yourselves?” Addie said to the curious onlookers. “There's porridge on the stove. And tea's brewing.” She followed Tretheway.

“Now, Addie. There's nothing to worry about. Just sit here.” He indicated the red plush chesterfield. “And tell me all you remember about St. Swithin's Day. I know you're up on these things.” Tretheway lowered himself onto the deep, cushiony foot stool in front of his superchair.

“Well,” Addie began, “there isn't much to tell. He was an English saint. Ninth century. Saint's Day July 15. He's called the Rain Saint.”

“Rain Saint?”

“Yes. That's what the rhyme's all about. He was a very humble man and when he died, he wanted to be buried outside his Cathedral, under the eaves, so that the rain would fall on his grave and the feet of passersby would tread upon it. Isn't that nice?”

“Go on, Addie.”

“Well, after he died and was buried there, this Bishop decided to have his body moved inside the cathedral, as it happened, on the 15th of July. Just before the men were to dig him up, it started to rain. For forty days it rained. So the Bishop had to give up his plan. That's why, now, if it rains on St. Swithin's Day, ‘For forty days it will remain'.” Addie smiled. “Sort of a religious Groundhog Day. Don't you remember?”

“Vaguely. Was there anything else?”

The front door burst open and Jake came in with Alderman Ammerman in tow. They stopped at the parlour entrance.

“That was fast,” Tretheway said. “Morning, Harold. Come on in.”

“Good morning, Tretheway. Addie.” Ammerman stayed in the hall and dripped on the carpet.

Addie jumped up. “Harold, let me take your coat. You're wet. You'll catch your death.”

“Nonsense. Never felt better in my life.”

Addie shook the rain from Ammerman's coat and carried it to the hall. “Go into the parlour and sit down. What are you doing walking in the rain, anyway?” She hung the coat on one of the large brass hooks jutting out from the wood-framed hall mirror.

“Morning constitutional, Addie. Haven't missed a day in over forty years.” Ammerman looked at Jake. “Until this morning. What's going on?”

“Just a precaution, Harold.” Tretheway waited for Addie to come in, and then closed the sliding doors to the parlour. He turned to Jake. “Where's Gum?”

“On a hike.”

“How do you know?”

“I just caught Alderman Ammerman coming down his front walk. He told me that Bartholomew Gum was up at Mount Nemo. The Scout Camp.”

“Where's Nemo, exactly?”

“About ten miles north of Wellington Square.”

“When did he go?”

“Friday night. According to the Alderman, it's a weekend thing. You know, hiking, passing badges, sleep in tents, start a fire with one match. They'll be home tonight. Incidentally, MacCulla's there too. With his Scouts.”

“Good. Two less to worry about. Now …”

“Precautions against what?” Ammerman interrupted.

“Sorry, Harold,” Tretheway said. “Today's St. Swithin's Day.”

“Why wasn't I told?”

“There was no need for anyone to be told.”

“Is there a parade?”

“No, Harold. No. It's just an English Saint's Day. July 15. Like St. George or St. Patrick's Day. Only St. Swithin wasn't as well known.”

“Then what's all the fuss?”

For the first time, doubt crept into Tretheway's mind. But he spoke with confidence.

“You know what's been happening around here on holidays. Remember Father Cosentino?”

“Well, yes.” Ammerman looked resigned. “I suppose you have your duty.”

“Albert,” Addie said quietly.

“Hm?”

“There was one other thing. About St. Swithin.”

“What was that?”

“Probably not important.”

“Addie! Just tell me.”

“Well.” Addie wriggled herself into a more comfortable position on the chesterfield. “Well,” she repeated, “Swithin was a monk. King Egbert of Wessex was having a terrible time defending England against the Danes. They were robbing and slaying a lot across the Channel. The king called all the monks together to
help. To slay back. Now, they all did, but Swithin did a better job than the others. So he was awarded …”

“Hold it Addie.” They all waited while Tretheway lit a cigar. “Just go back a bit.”

“To where?”

“Who was Swithin fighting?”

“The Danes. From Denmark.”

Tretheway puffed vigorously on his cigar. “Harold, are there any Danish people on the Council?”