Good Year For Murder (5 page)

Gertrude Valentini was everyone's idea of a mother, and she was one. Her son, Gregory, was serving in the Atlantic Squadron of the Royal Canadian Navy. She had a becoming, sexless smile, a comfortable round body and bosom, a penchant for fainting and a wardrobe in which, somehow, everything resembled an apron. Her eyesight was poor. When time or privacy permitted, she would ferret out an old-fashioned lorgnette from her knitting bag to read the phone book or clarify a distant scene. She crocheted uneven antimacassars during Council meetings.

Mrs Valentini lived in a small four-room bungalow with lace curtains and a white picket fence. It was close to the factories. The fence was painted four times a year, at no charge, by the public relations department of a giant steel mill.

One of the other things her husband had left her was a secret formula for making odourless gin from rutabagas. Alderman Valentini drank a six-ounce tumbler of neat gin at bedtime and had a large smash every morning before breakfast.

Alderman Ingird Tommerup was the senior Alderman from ward four and looked every part of it. She was taller, louder, and huskier than Mrs Valentini. Her hair, as yellow and thick as her Viking ancestors', was always braided and either wrapped around
her head or hung in girlish pigtails to her waist. She seldom wore a hat. Her big-boned frame was usually clothed in a mannish but expensively tailored suit. If necessary, she could out-ski, out-sprint, and out-folk-dance any man on Council.

Miss Tommerup had the confidence that comes with generations of wealth. Her father was the President and largest stockholder of STELFY—Steel Company of Fort York—the same company that painted Mrs Valentini's fence. He had used his power and wide influence to gain a seat for his only daughter on Council. “It's nice,” he used to say, “to have a friend at City Hall.”

Ingird lived mainly at home, but maintained a secluded cottage in the small, neighbouring village of Wellington Square for those days and weekends when she wished to get away from it all and literally let her hair down. Every morning before she left for City Hall, Ingird Tommerup shaved her upper lip.

The two police matrons assigned to ward four touched their white-gloved fingers to their foreheads and curtsied self-consciously to the lady Aldermen before pushing in behind their chairs.

Chief Zulp shuffled his papers importantly, looking for phase two of the Master Plan.

“Fair crowd down there, Jake,” Tretheway observed.

“Building up,” Jake confirmed.

“You suppose he's there?”

“Who?”

“The one who murdered Father Cosentino.”

“Eh?” Jake sat up straighter

“And killed Mrs Valentini's chicken.”

“You think he's down there?”

“Just making conversation.”

“What about Nooner's theory? There's more than one?”

“Could still fit in.”

“You mean they're all down there?”

Tretheway abruptly changed the subject. “God, it's hot.” He jammed his fingers in between his collar and bulging red neck, to let cool air in and hot air out.

Chief Zulp, as usual, had dragged the meeting out longer than expected. During this time, the temperature had risen and the humidity had increased. The inadequate ventilating system—two
small, portable fans—did little to lessen the discomfort of the policemen and politicians who were being packed together on the platform.

Zulp cleared his throat noisily. He had found phase two of the Master Plan.

“And now for the Controllers,” Zulp began.

“Controller MacCulla. And Controller Joseph L. Pennylegion.”

Tretheway pushed himself up again and, accompanied by Jake and two other policemen of suitable rank, walked down the steep gallery steps. They climbed onto the dais. With Tretheway leading the way, he and Jake gingerly twisted around and side-stepped people on the way to their assigned positions behind MacCulla.

“Jake,” Tretheway observed, “this platform doesn't feel safe.”

“I know,” Jake answered. “Just tread lightly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Everybody should just walk easy. That's all. Hi, Mac.”

“Hi, Jake. Tretheway.” Mac pantomimed wiping his brow and panting. “Pretty hot, eh? Got enough room back there?”

“No,” Tretheway said. “Pull your chair in.”

“It is in.”

“I'm too close to the edge.”

“Me too,” Jake said.

“I'm sorry,” Mac said. “You'll just have to squeeze in more.”

As Tretheway eased his way sideways into the safety valve of space left respectfully around Controller Father Cosentino's chair, he noticed his and Jake's counterpart squeezing behind the chair of the Senior Controller.

Joseph L. Pennylegion's smoothly run and financially well-oiled political machine had managed to get him the lion's share of the votes for Board of Control. This made him, politically, second only to the Mayor. If for any reason Mayor Trutt was unavailable—sickness, vacation, death, etc.—Controller Pennylegion officially headed the City of Fort York as its acting Mayor. This situation frightened most of the Council members.

Although Pennylegion had no known police record, he had the aura or mystique of the successful criminal. His chauffeured car was a black eight-passenger Packard rumoured to be bulletproof. Strange people had been seen dropping into his fashionable mansion at odd hours. His friends, strangers to most of the Council,
appeared and disappeared mysteriously without being introduced. And they had names like Quick Roy, Crowbar, Salamander, Dink, and The Beak. “Old buddies,” Pennylegion would say when forced into an answer, “from the car days.”

True, he had been in the car business—more used trucks, really. It was said that he had made his fortune selling specially equipped trucks to the bootlegging fraternity during American Prohibition. But, as Tretheway said in defence of the judiciary system, if hearsay evidence was acceptable in court, most City Council chambers would be empty.

Controller Joseph Pennylegion was a big man, too heavy, with flaming red hair and a temper to match. He was loud in voice and dress, offensive to well-brought-up ladies, and a compulsive gambler.

On the plus side, he was neat. His hair was always waveset into place, his clothes and fingernails always clean. He took two baths a day and smelled of cologne. Pennylegion had practically no formal education but was a mathematical genius at mentally figuring complicated betting odds.

“And last, but certainly not least,” Chief Zulp regained the wandering interest of his audience, “Mayor Phinneas Trutt.”

Zulp nodded at his two deputies who had stood beside him through the entire explanation. They put their briefcases on the bench and went down the stairs toward the Mayor's desk at the top of the dais. While they wormed their way through the crowd, Zulp began his summation.

“I know everyone will do his duty. My men have been instructed to be alert at all times. And never leave your side. Within reason. There will be times. Of course. Not really never leave. Everything can be worked out.”

He looked over his shoulder. In the middle of the gallery sat two grey-uniformed crossing guards. Zulp stared at them, perplexed. Then he remembered.

“What are you doing
there?”

The two guards looked at each other.

“You're supposed to be up
here.”

“But you never called …”

“Come, come.” Zulp turned back and smiled toward the civil servants. “Henry. Henry Plain. Your guard approaches.”

The two pensioners, grumbling under their breath, walked slowly and carefully down the steps to the inner circle.

“One more thing,” Zulp said.

Tretheway felt the platform start to sway. It had never been stable, but now both he and Jake detected a slight, but definite, back and forth motion.

“We should be thinking ahead.”

The temperature in the room was ninety-eight degrees. There was no movement of air and the humidity was as high as it could be without raining. Cries from the marketplace now sounded irritable. The odour of perspiration displaced the sweet smells that had earlier permeated the air. Several species of flies buzzed noisily.

“Dominion Day. A holiday. July one. Maybe nothing'll happen. Should be on our toes. No cause for alarm. The Master Plan …”

A distant rumble of thunder promised relief. Outside the sky darkened, an erratic, welcome breeze swirled around City Hall and the thunder drew nearer and became louder with appropriate, spectacular flashes of lightning. The rain fell, large single drops at first, mixed with hail, and then a torrent which eased to a steady downpour and eventually turned into a warm, gentle drizzle. The small storm had moved quickly through its stages—perhaps no more than ten minutes from warning thunder clap to soft rain. During this time the platform collapsed.

No one was hurt or greatly alarmed. In an extremely slow motion performance, the unique Fort York Council chamber platform snapped some final, inner, key support, which, in turn, ruptured other wires, struts and fasteners and, like a giant cardboard box with no ends, simply folded on itself.

It took the full ten minutes to achieve this. No desks, paper, phones, people—sitting or standing—or anything fell off or were harmed. Gertrude Valentini reached for, but didn't need, her smelling salts. There was little noise and some dust.

When the storm and collapse ended, the Aldermen, Controllers, Police and Mayor were only inches from the floor. They were close to the eye level of the incredulous group of civil servants. In the dream-like silence that followed the miraculous three-tiered descent, Mayor Trutt was the first to react. He tapped his gavel politely. “Lunch.”

The funeral went well, as funerals go. Mayor Trutt, Controller Pennylegion, a church elder and a representative from the church (one religious rung higher than Father Cosentino) said the proper words over the well-loved man of God. Although the weather was an improvement over the cloying atmosphere of the Council chamber, the air was still uncomfortably heavy at the graveside. A melancholy, soaking drizzle accompanied the churchman's final eulogy.

After the service, the crowd milled about by threes. Whenever a politician wished to speak to a colleague, it meant a group of six. When three conversed, it meant nine, and so on. The Master Plan was proving unwieldy. But it was working. The reminder of the open grave caused both parties to be over-zealous. If the policemen guarded a little too closely, the politicians didn't object.

“The novelty'll wear off,” Tretheway said. “For sure after Dominion Day.”

“Do you think something'll happen then?” Jake said.

“It's possible.”

“You really think so?” Mac asked.

“Let's put it this way,” Tretheway said. “If the crazy bastard kills again, Dominion Day is the most logical time. In his mind, I mean.”

“Why?” Mac asked. “And why do you assume he's crazy?”

“It's the next big holiday. There'll be plenty of activity. Good cover. Parades. Parties. And I said, logical. After all, the killer doesn't show that much imagination. Valentine's, St. Patrick's, Victoria Day. What could be more logical than Dominion Day?” Tretheway paused for a moment. “And all murderers are crazy.”

“Oh, c'mon, Tretheway,” Mac said. “Not that old saw.”

“That's right. They can be intelligent after a fashion. High IQ. Appear rational to everyone. But somewhere, somewhere inside their skulls, be it genius or idiot, there's a loose screw. A crossed wire.”

“There were some, I'm sure, that were completely rational,” Mac said. “Some that had a just cause. Perhaps an ideal.”

“In their own mind, certainly. But not in the eyes of the law. There's no way you can condone murder.”

“What's war then?”

“What the hell's that got to do with it?”

“Just a minute, Boss,” Jake interrupted, noticing Tretheway's reddening neck. “You said
if
he kills again. There's some doubt?”

“Yes!” Tretheway shouted. Then more quietly. “Yes.”

“How come?”

“I told you before, the Firecracker Day thing didn't sit right.”

“Oh?” Mac said.

“At least, I told Jake. Nothing really to go on, Mac. I just don't think it went as planned. By the way, how are your hands?”

“Sore.” Mac looked down at his hands and clenched them experimentally. “Doc Nooner says they'll be all right in a couple of weeks.”

“That's good.”

“Then you're just guessing about Dominion Day,” Mac persisted.

“You're absolutely right,” Tretheway answered. “I could be full of hot air. I've been wrong before. Eh, Jake?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“When?” Tretheway asked.

“Eh?”

“When was I wrong?”

“I don't know. You said it.”

“So it's Dominion Day then,” Mac asked.

“I think so,” Tretheway said.

“But you don't have to worry, Mac,” Jake said. “We'll look after you.”

“I've been thinking about that, Mac.” Tretheway felt in his pocket for a cigar; then remembered he was in uniform. “You'd better move out to the house.”

“What for?”

“Just ‘till after the holiday. It'll be safer.”

“I just can't move in on Addie,” Mac protested.

“Either that, or one of us'll have to stay with you. In your apartment.”

“I don't know.”

“That's settled then.” Tretheway looked at Jake. “We'll drive by your place now. You can pick up whatever you need for the next few days.”

“Like your cheque book,” Jake said.

“What?” Mac asked.

Jake smiled. “For the euchre games.”

Tension grew steadily for the next ten days until you could feel it in the air, like fog or drizzle. Everyone followed the Master Plan to the letter. There wasn't one politician left to his own means of protection (not counting Controller Pennylegion). Tretheway, or Jake, or both, kept an eye on MacCulla just about twenty-four hours a day.