Good Year For Murder (16 page)

Tretheway and Wan Ho sat without answering.

“Morgan's still placed at the scene. At the right time. Holding the sword. Did he see anybody else? Did anybody see anybody else? Tell me I'm wrong.”

“What about the music?” Tretheway asked.

“From a student residence.”

“Wagner?” Wan Ho asked.

“Why not? I like him.”

“But why did Morgan do it?” Tretheway asked. “Where's the motive?”

“It'll turn up,” Zulp said confidently. He stood up, his usual signal for an end to discussion.

Wan Ho stood up. Tretheway didn't.

“One more thing, Chief, if you please,” Tretheway said.

“Make it short,” Zulp snapped.

“What are you going to do about Hallowe'en?”

The wrinkles on Zulp's face seemed even deeper when he flushed. “Inspector Tretheway,” he said with control. “I don't
know what you are going to do about Hallowe'en, but I will be at home, with Mrs Zulp, handing out bags of candy.”

“Oh,” Tretheway said.

“On second thought.” Zulp smiled. “I do know what you are going to do. Or, at least, I know what you are not going to do.” His smile disappeared. “You're not going to play Boston Blackie. Or Sherlock Holmes. You're not going to call the dispatcher. Or organize chases. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tretheway stood up.

“Now.” Zulp smoothed the front of his tunic. “Take my advice. Spend a quiet evening at home. Hand out treats. Read. Play cards. Listen to the radio. And control yourself.”

Tretheway and Wan Ho stood motionless.

“That's all.” Zulp dismissed them.

They turned smartly and left the office. Outside, Jake fell into step beside Tretheway. He knew better than to ask anything. Besides, he had heard the louder parts of the discussion through the thick oak door.

On All Hallow's Eve, the weather changed as though to match the mood of the holiday. The temperature dropped close to the freezing mark and a capricious, blustery wind ushered a cold front across the southern part of the province. When the clouds covered the full moon, cold darts of rain lanced into squealing groups of scurrying, costumed children running from house to house, clutching pillow cases or brown paper bags brimming with treats. And when the clouds scudded on, the moon threw shimmering, mysterious shadows of black cats, witches, spiders, bats, and most scary of all, unknown things, on the variegated greys of wet sidewalks and lawns. To the young, it was a delicious, giggly fear. But to others …

By eight o'clock, Addie had handed out fifty-seven prepared bags of goodies to assorted ghosts, pirates, tramps, ballet dancers, clowns, fairy princesses, one ugly toad, four tin men,
(The Wizard of Oz
had played at the local cinema two weeks before) and other creatures too amorphous to classify.

The children ranged from pre-schoolers, chaperoned by their parents, to sixth-graders. As the evening progressed, the stream of trick-or-treaters lessened in number but grew in years. By nine-
thirty, it had slowed to a trickle of ten year olds, mostly ghosts. And the last group was four first-year high school boys, with hasty daubs of lipstick and smears of eyebrow pencil on their faces as a weak excuse for a costume. They left the Tretheways', pushing and jostling each other off the sidewalk, at ten o'clock.

“Eighty-three children,” Addie said. She was busy tidying up the card table they had set up in the front hall for Hallowe'en. “A dozen more than last year.” The number of callers the Trethe-ways had was well above average. Reputations travel and Addie packed a mean Hallowe'en bag. “That leaves seventeen for your lunches.”

Tretheway made a face behind Addie's back.

“That's great, Addie,” Jake said.

Tretheway and Jake were sitting in the parlour with the sliding doors open close to the front entrance, ostensibly to help Addie hand out treats, but also to be near the hall phone. They had all avoided the obvious topic until now.

“It's after ten,” Addie said. She was carrying the left-over bags of candy back to the kitchen. “It looks like it might be a quiet Hallowe'en.” Her voice rose questioningly as she walked past the parlour.

“Could be, Addie,” Jake answered.

Tretheway remained silent.

Addie continued down the hall. Tretheway and Jake listened while cupboard doors banged noisily in the kitchen for five minutes before she went into the sun room to look for company.

“It has been pretty quiet,” Jake said.

“You're right,” Tretheway said.

“Do you think it will stay quiet?”

“I hope so. But don't get into your pajamas yet.”

Except for trips to the ice box for Molson Blue, the two men sat in the parlour half-listening to the “Kraft Music Hall.” Tretheway didn't care at all for Bing Crosby, but waited for the parts of the program when Bob Burns performed. Jake did exactly the opposite. At eleven o'clock, while Jake fiddled with the dial to get the local news and Tretheway rested low in his special chair, the phone rang. Addie easily got there first. Tretheway and Jake waited.

Addie appeared in the opening of the parlour doors. She was pale. Optimism had disappeared from her face.

“That was Mrs Ammerman. She can't find Harold.”

Jake was first at Addie's side.

“Sit here, Addie.” Tretheway pushed himself to the front of his chair. By the time he was standing up, Jake had made Addie comfortable on the settee.

“Try not to worry, Addie,” Jake said.

“Do you think …” Addie started.

“Don't try and guess,” Tretheway said. “You know Ammerman. He's absent-minded. Probably made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“I don't know,” Addie said.

“What did Mrs Ammerman say?” Tretheway asked.

“That Harold left the house just after supper. He'd gone to the Children's Garden. The clubhouse. To help out at the party. The costume judging. But she said that was over at nine. He never came home.” Addie looked up at Tretheway. “Where could he be?”

“We'll find out.” Tretheway caught Jake's eye. “Get the car.”

Jake hurried out of the room.

“Put the kettle on, Addie.” Tretheway drained the beer bottle beside his chair. “We won't be long.”

Jake backed jerkily down the driveway. The Pontiac protested the cold start by coughing, sputtering and finally stalling. “Damn!” He pulled the choke out farther and restarted the engine as Tretheway climbed into the passenger seat.

“Let's go, Jake,” Tretheway ordered.

“Where?” Jake asked.

“You know where Ammerman lives?”

“Not far from the park.”

“Go there.”

Jake flicked the high beams on as they pulled into the dark street and headed toward the park. He started the wipers.

“No,” Tretheway said to the windshield.

“Eh?” Jake said.

“Gum.”

“What?”

“Gum. Bartholomew Gum. Doesn't he work with Ammerman on this Hallowe'en thing?”

“Ah … yes.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Right across from the park.”

“Go there.”

In less than five minutes, Jake turned the heavy convertible into Bartholomew Gum's narrow driveway. Seconds later, they stood on Gum's front lawn, pulling their police-issue rubber capes around them against the weather and staring up at a light in the attic window.

“Is that Gum's room?” Tretheway asked.

“I think so.”

“Let's check the garage.”

The gravel crunched beneath their feet. Through the small, dusty window of the garage, they saw Gum's bicycle, locked and leaning against his mother's ‘28 Essex.

“He's home,” Jake said.

“I'm surprised he's up this late,” Tretheway added.

They walked back around to the front door.

“We'll just have to knock until he hears us,” Tretheway said.

“And wake his mother?”

“Can't be helped.” Tretheway knocked on the door. The wind whipped the sound harmlessly away. Tretheway knocked again, or hammered really, much harder, while Jake stood on the lawn watching the third floor window. He noticed a movement. The window opened.

“Go away!” Bartholomew Gum shouted. “No more candy!” The window started to close.

“Gum!” Jake shouted as quietly as he could. “Bartholomew Gum! It's me! Jake!”

The window opened again. Bartholomew Gum leaned out and stared down at the voice.

“C'mon down,” Jake shouted. “It's important!”

“It's after eleven!” Gum shouted back.

Tretheway loomed into Gum's view. “Get the hell down here!”

The window closed.

Tretheway and Jake scurried back to the protection of the verandah. When Gum finally appeared, he had heavy rubber boots on and a Scouter's trench coat over his pajamas. He closed the front door quietly behind him.

“I hope we didn't wake your mother,” Jake said.

“She sleeps on her good ear,” Gum answered. “What's going on?”

“Ammerman's missing,” Tretheway said.

“Harold?” Gum looked surprised. “I was with him earlier.”

“When earlier?” Tretheway asked.

“Oh, nine o'clock. Maybe even before that. We judged the kids pretty fast because of the weather.”

“Where, Bartholomew?” Jake asked.

“The Children's Garden. In the clubhouse.” Gum thought for a moment. “Harold was there when I left. Cleaning up.” He pointed across the street to the dim outline of the clubhouse, partially obscured by the trees in the park. “As a matter of fact, I think there's still a light on over there.”

“Is there a phone?”

“No. It's just a roughed-in workroom, really. And a storage area.”

“You have your flashlight, Jake?”

Jake patted his pocket and nodded.

“Let's take a look,” Tretheway said.

They crossed the street, three shadows huddled together.

The moon shone through a hole in the clouds to show them a pathway through the maze of oddly shaped, exotic trees. Tretheway, Jake and Gum dodged around Scheidecker Crabs, Weeping Nootkas, Crimson King Norway Maples, Hinoki Fals Cypresses and other angular Oriental specimens. All had been neatly labelled—unpronounceable Latin names engraved on metal tags and attached to the proper trees—by the Fort York Royal Botanical Garden Society.

Tretheway, leading the way, reached the actual garden first. About an acre in size, it was bordered on three sides by a six-foot cedar hedge. The low, ivy-covered clubhouse, topped by a louvered cupola with an ornate weather vane, edged the fourth side. By this time of year, only four or five large pumpkins had escaped the children's harvest. A few late annuals still bloomed, but these would go with the first frost—maybe tonight.

The moon ducked behind a cloud. Tretheway bumped into something solid.

“Damn!” He stepped back. “What the hell's that?”

A sturdy post set into the ground supported an old suit of clothes stuffed with straw. Its arms, a two-by-two wooden cross-piece, stood out perpendicularly from the body. Old cowboy gauntlets were sewn on the cuffs for hands. In deference to the
war, a dishpan-like steel helmet was strapped onto the ball of straw that served as a head.

“It's the scarecrow,” Gum said unnecessarily. “I don't know if it works, but the kids enjoy it.”

Tretheway rubbed his forehead. “Well, watch out for it.” He continued to the clubhouse. Jake and Gum followed. Tretheway tried the door.

“It's not locked.” Tretheway barged in, too carelessly, Jake thought. Jake entered warily, but Gum hung back.

“Ammerman!” Tretheway shouted. “You in here?”

There was no answer. The interior of the workroom smelled of damp earth. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling glowed weakly. Most of the floor space was taken up with long potting tables covered with small hand tools, plant containers, a hot plate, a dented kettle, an old mantel radio, variously sized tuberous roots and boxes of planting records. One wall was covered with botanical charts. Another held a rack for the storage of long tools such as rakes, hoes, cultivators, shovels and pruning shears. There were bushel baskets stacked in two corners.

“C'mon in, Bartholomew,” Jake said. “Ammerman's not here.”

Gum came in slowly, looking around. “He was here. Did you check everywhere?”

Tretheway poked his head into the storage area. He turned back. “Nothing there.” A reflection caught his eye. “What's that?”

“Where?” Jake said.

“There.” Tretheway pointed to the floor.

Jake picked up a shiny metallic object about three inches long and pointed at one end.

“Looks like … an arrowhead. Or spear tip.” Jake handed it to Tretheway. He turned it around in his thick fingers and examined the end that wasn't pointed.

“Clean break,” Tretheway said. “It broke away from something. Looks important, doesn't it?”

Jake nodded. “Part of a costume?”

“It's no garden tool.” Tretheway looked at Gum. “Do you remember anything like this?”

“Not offhand,” Gum said. “There were some Indians. But they had little arrows. An African native. He had a spear. Could've been him.”

Tretheway nodded. “Anything else?”

Gum thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “A Roman soldier! I'll bet that's it. I know the kid, too.”

“Could you find out for sure?” Tretheway asked.

“Sure,” Gum said.

“Is it important?” Jake asked.

“Probably not.” Tretheway pushed his hand under his cape and stuffed the alleged spearhead into his pocket. “Just something else to file.”

“And we still haven't found Ammerman,” Jake said.

“Where can we look now?” Gum asked.

“The woods,” Tretheway said.

“The woods?” Gum repeated.