Good Year For Murder (25 page)

Jake picked himself up. “Sorry, Boss.” He trod unsteadily on the lumps of coal at the edge of the pile. “Let me help you up.”

Tretheway, temporarily out of breath, didn't answer. With Jake's help he turned over, got to his knees and finally regained his feet.

“Are you all right?” Jake flicked coal dust from Tretheway's new smoking jacket and his own suit.

“Never mind that now.” Tretheway pointed over Jake's shoulder. Jake turned around.

Five shadowy figures, dramatically backlit by the single overhead bulb, crouched threateningly in a defensive half-circle around The Machine. The chromium ball swung rhythmically from the miniature tower already three-quarters of the way down the ramp. A brilliant highlight shimmered on the vial locked in the lower end of The Machine. And five shadowy arms each held a handgun.

“God,” Jake said softly.

Four of the five were small calibre revolvers. They wavered slightly, but pointed at Tretheway and Jake. The fifth, an ugly automatic Mauser pistol, flailed wildly through the air in the white-gloved hand of … Tretheway wasn't sure.

“You have two minutes to live!” the figure shouted.

Tretheway didn't recognize the voice, the B-movie German accent, nor the uniform, or really, the costume …

A broad red stripe ran down the grey legs of the trousers; one leg was tucked in, one leg hung over the scruffy, knee-high riding boots. The navy blue tunic with a scarlet high-necked collar and matching cuffs supported a pair of oversized gold epaulets with
matching embroidery. Decorations glittered on the figure's chest. A dull gun-metal grey Iron Cross hung at his throat. This Tretheway did recognize. And a broken pickelhaube, slightly askew and throwing the face into deep shadow, capped this apparition of nineteenth century Prussian military might. The figure raised his head to the light.

“In one and one half minutes we all die for the Fatherland!”

Despite the dark coal smudges on his features, both Tretheway and Jake recognized MacCulla.

Tretheway noticed a change of expression come over the other four—Mac's Sea Scouts. In the cellar light, their navy uniforms appeared black. Homemade white crossbelts formed x's on the four young chests. One Scout, slightly taller than the others, wore silver epaulets, the mark of an NCO. And four genuine pickel-haubes, chinstrapped into position, glistened menacingly. Tretheway recalled the pointed heads he first saw at the top of the paper pile the night Henry Plain suffocated. Three of the Scouts lowered their 22s and looked at their leader. The tall NCO kept his revolver trained on Tretheway and Jake, but also looked a question at MacCulla. Mac ignored them. It appeared to Tretheway that, as far as the Scouts were concerned, being part of the explosion was not part of the plan.

“Sir,” the NCO Scout began, “you said …”

“Courage above all things is the first quality of a warrior!” Mac shouted.

Tretheway could see that The Machine was less than two minutes away from its climax. And the Scouts knew it. He wasn't so sure about MacCulla.

“Stay full of good courage!” Mac's eyes were large. Drool wet his chin. “Fight with zeal and spirit!”

Tretheway took one calculated pace toward The Machine. The NCO Scout pointed his revolver at Tretheway's stomach.

“Do you know what's in that vial?” Tretheway transfixed one of the other Scouts with a glare that had bent stronger people to his will.

“Ni … Ni …” the Scout stammered.

“Nitroglycerin,” the other two answered together.

“There's enough there to blow up the whole house.” Tretheway
stabbed his coal-stained finger at the Scouts. “And you along with it!” He thought he saw even the NCO Scout's lip tremble.

“A commander must show great energy of purpose!” MacCulla ranted on, paying them little attention.

Tretheway heard a commotion at the head of the stairs. Addie was trying to get by Wan Ho. The door opened.

“Albert! Jake!” Addie shouted. “Are you down there? It's one minute to twelve o'clock!”

Tretheway sensed Jake's sudden tension. So did the NCO Scout. His revolver swung around. Jake lunged forward. With the speed of a snake's tongue, Tretheway's arm shot out. Jake's progress was stopped when Tretheway's ample hand grabbed him by the neck. He pulled Jake back and turned him around. Their eyes were inches apart.

“Have faith.” Tretheway watched the fear and courage in Jake's eyes give way to perplexed trust.

“I know you're down there,” Addie shouted.

The noise of the party intruded through the open door. Premature experimental toots on horns sounded in anticipation of midnight. The radio blared. Someone started counting the seconds.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

The Machine hummed on.

“The field of genius raises itself above the rules!” MacCulla raved. “Seven! Six!”

At five, the three Scouts dropped their revolvers. One ripped off his pickelhaube and sank weeping to his knees. The other two bolted for the coal bin.

“I'm coming down!” Addie shouted.

“Three! Two!”

“Decision by arms!” MacCulla screamed.

At midnight, several things happened at once. The swinging metal ball smashed full into the vial, spattering the harmless liquid around the room. Tretheway let go of Jake, stepped forward and took the gun from the remaining NCO Scout with no fuss. Jake grabbed the two escaping Scouts. Fred came down the coal chute. The upstairs revellers swung noisemakers, blew horns, threw streams of paper and cheered. Mac raised his gun hand and fired his unbelieveably loud Mauser pistol, sending a bullet through
the rafters, through the hardwood floor of the sun room, through one of Addie's Persian rugs, through the seat of Zulp's chair and slightly penetrated the fleshy part of the Chief's right buttock. Guy Lombardo struck up “Auld Lang Syne”.

In January, 1941, the German city of Bremen was bombed with incendiaries for three and a half hours in retaliation for the fire raids on London; Stanford defeated Nebraska in the Rose Bowl; a local movie house screened the musical
Tin Pan Alley
starring Alice Faye and Jack Oakie; Bette Davis married someone called Arthur Farnsworth; Eli Culbertson explained a five diamond bid; the Toronto Maple Leafs stayed in first place, a skating step ahead of the Detroit Red Wings; and an alarming sequence of events took place on New Year's Eve at the home of Inspector Tretheway.

All these events were reported in the first
Fort York Expositor
of the year, published and delivered on the second of January, a Thursday. The last item filled the front page of the second section.

It began:

At the stroke of midnight, festivities came to a shuddering halt when Chief Horace Zulp was felled by a madman's bullet while attending a New Year's Eve celebration at the Tretheway residence. During the melee, the infamous Holiday Killer was unmasked. Who? None other than Controller (Mac) MacCulla. Inspector A. V. Tretheway, Constable Jonathan Small and Sergeant of Detectives Wan Ho also took part in the arrest.

Near a large picture of the Chief, the item went on to say, among other things, that Zulp was out of danger and would be back at his desk fighting the enemies of society again in a few days. The story contained many mistakes.

Zulp
was
out of danger, but then, he was never
in
danger. He
was
gunned down, but nobody realized it. When the bullet partially entered his rear, there was still enough force from the powerful projectile to knock the chair down along with Zulp. He was immediately replaced in his uprighted seat by two Boy Scouts and continued to enjoy the party.

Hours later Mrs Zulp noticed the large bruise on her husband's
backside when they were undressing for bed. What little blood there was had been absorbed by his clothing. And when Mrs Zulp plucked the squashed bullet from her husband's rear and examined it, she concluded that it was probably a misshapen upholstery tack from Addie's dining room chair. One of Wan Ho's men actually traced the bullet's path and correctly deduced what had happened. Zulp was far from the first one to know he had been shot.

And the festivities did not come to an abrupt halt. Most of the guests partied on into the wee hours and went home, like the Zulps, not realizing what had happened. In all the commotion at midnight, few people guessed it was a shot when MacCulla squeezed off his last round. Those in the cellar, of course, knew.

After Tretheway had carefully pried the Mauser from Mac-Culla's clenched fist, Jake explained things to Addie. She punctuated his explanation with tongue clucks and several “Oh, dears” while absently brushing coal dust from his sweater. But she took the frightening events well.

“I'd better look after our other guests,” Addie said finally. She turned and started back up the stairs.

“Would you send my men down, Addie?” Wan Ho had followed Addie downstairs.

“And Doc Nooner,” Tretheway added with his eye on MacCulla.

MacCulla had stood quietly all this time. He appeared stunned, alternately smiling and frowning. And always averting his eyes from his Scouts. Tretheway approached him. He placed his hand gently on Mac's shoulder. Mac jumped.

“Why?” Tretheway asked.

“Wh … what?” MacCulla successfully focused his gaze on Tretheway. His pickelhaube was pushed to the back of his head. He rubbed at his eyes and further dirtied his coal-streaked face. His collar was undone. An epaulet had fallen off.

“All those people,” Tretheway went on. “Taz, Father Cosentino, Miss Tommerup. And the others. Why did you do it?”

“Politics.”

“What?”

“You guys have a coal fight?” Dr Nooner appeared beside Tretheway.

“The conduct of war is political policy,” MacCulla said.

“What's he talking about?” Nooner asked.

“It takes up the sword instead of the pen.”

“Would you mind checking him over?” Tretheway pointed at Mac.

“Why?” Nooner questioned.

“We must burn with a passionate hatred of one another!” Mac shouted.

“Because I'm taking him to jail,” Tretheway said.

“Jail?” Nooner questioned again. “He's the killer!”

“All right.” Nooner seemed more sober than before. “I'll talk to him.”

“Mac!” Mac blinked, but seemed to focus on Tretheway. “I want you to talk to Doc Nooner.”

“I talk to the others,” Mac said.

“What others?” Nooner asked.

“Clausewitz?” Jake suggested. “No, no,” Mac said. “Don't be silly.”

“That's something,” Nooner sighed.

“I
am
Clausewitz.”

Tretheway and Nooner exchanged looks.

“I talk to Marie.”

“Marie?” Nooner repeated.

“Mrs Clausewitz,” Mac said impatiently. “And sometimes to Scharnhorst. And King Frederick the Third. Or was it the Second?”

“That's okay, Mac,” Tretheway said. “Take it easy.”

“And Machiavelli. Now there was a …” Mac's voice dwindled off. He stared around the room. Everyone was watching him. He offered no resistance when Wan Ho handcuffed him.

It was ascertained that MacCulla was physically all right. He had just lapsed into silence. As Dr Nooner said, raising an eyebrow at Tretheway, “He's just reacting to whatever happened down here.” Nooner also said that MacCulla was healthy enough to go to jail but, if possible, could questioning be postponed until tomorrow?

Tretheway nodded. “Unless he volunteers anything.”

Dr Nooner nodded.

Tretheway planned the logistics.

“Jake, you lead the way. Then two Scouts. Then you.” Tretheway pointed at Wan Ho's men. “Then the other two Scouts. Wan Ho. Nooner. MacCulla and I'll bring up the rear. Let's go. Right to the cars.”

“Do we have to go up where everybody can see us?” Jake asked.

“You want to go up the coal chute?”

Jake started up the stairs without answering. In his excitement he led the file of men from the inner hall through the sunroom instead of unobtrusively out the back door as Tretheway had assumed he would. And by the time Tretheway got there, it was too late to change direction.

The merry-making crowd parted and stared while the procession of seven men, four boys and a dog—most streaked with coal, one handcuffed—passed through on their way to the entrance. When Tretheway looked back from the front hall, he was surprised to see that, except for one or two people staring after them, the party had resumed.

Tretheway decided that it was unnecessary for him and Jake to accompany everyone downtown. Besides, he realized, there wasn't room. The three Scouts were put in the back seat of the first unmarked police car with two of Wan Ho's men up front. Wan Ho sat in the back of the second car between MacCulla and the NCO Scout. Dr Nooner sat in the passenger seat beside the detective who had played at being bartender.

“You'd better get back to the party,” Wan Ho said. “You'll have to mix your own drinks now.”

Tretheway nodded.

Wan Ho waved as both cars pulled slowly away from the curb. The NCO Scout had his head in his hands. MacCulla looked neither to the left nor the right. Tretheway watched with Jake as the two cars ran silently over the snow-covered road to the corner, gave two proper hand signals, then turned left and disappeared into the darkness.

Fred nuzzled Tretheway's bare hand.

“Come in from the cold,” Addie shouted from the front door. “You'll catch your death.”

When Tretheway came downstairs fifteen minutes later, he was clean in looks and smell. His smoking jacket, covered with black smudges and with one sleeve torn half-off, lay where he had
dropped it, at the foot of his giant bed. He wore instead a comfortable canary yellow sweatshirt. This one carried the words, “Windsor/Detroit Police Games 1929”, with the appropriate city crests.