The Memory Book (12 page)

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to rattle their chains with the news. And the Grantham police know about the break-in, even if they haven’t yet tied it to the murder in the Dumpster here.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Sure I do. Frank Bushmill would have reported it. Frank’s a good friend. By now, all the cops in the province know about it.”

“You started to tell me about this Rose you’ve remembered,” said Anna, bring me back on topic.

“Right, I was, wasn’t I? Well, somewhere in this junk pile of a mind, I found the name Rose or Rosie. She’s the daughter of Stella Seco. You remember Stella? Have I already told you this?”

“Don’t worry. Keep going.”

“Remember Stella Seco?”

“Who could forget her? She started building a career for herself before she was weaned. She was
All About Eve
and
The Little Foxes
all rolled into one attractive, but ticking, package.”

“Well, now she’s a big deal in television here in Toronto. Rosie’s her daughter. Oh! I said that. After talking to Stella, I have a feeling that Rose has disappeared. A woman named Sheila Kerzon is her roommate. Both of them might be in danger. There may be a third student, but I don’t know anything about her. Sheila’s a young medical student from Ottawa, where her father’s a power in the Tory party.”

“So, why are you worried about Rose?”

“Because she hasn’t been near me. How long have I been on University Avenue? First in one hospital, now in this one? Weeks? Months? And not a squeak from my client. She needed my help, brought me here to Toronto, and when I get hurt, she vanishes. Does that make sense? If she is okay, she’d have been in touch with me. If she’s in danger, she may be hiding out someplace. In the light of what happened to that professor and me in the Dumpster, hiding out is the most optimistic possibility.”

“All right, Rose has reasons for lying low. Besides you, who else is in danger?”

“Danger?
That may be a little strong: more melodrama than hard facts.” Anna nodded for me to keep going.

“Okay. Her roommates at Clarendon House. Home of the Dumpster. Depending on how much they know.”

“In what way are they in trouble?”

“Well, they know at least as much as I do about all this. They may suspect where she’s gone. I don’t know. Maybe roommates don’t talk to one another nowadays. The feeling I get back of my knees says that I should talk to her.”

“But that’s not much to hang an investigation on. Unless you’re holding back on me.”

“After talking to Stella, I have a feeling Rose has disappeared. It’s a hunch, nothing I can take to the bank. Sheila Kerzon is her roommate. They live in the residence where Fiona or Flora McAlpine was living. So you see, she’s as likely to get into trouble as I am.”

“Is there anything more I can do?”

“You can try this number. See if you have better luck than I did.” I gave her a crumpled copy of the phone number of the Moss/Kerzon residence.

“I’ll try to find her next time I’m in town. Meanwhile, try to stay out of trouble for a change. And, Benny, remember what I said: this guy you’re after is smarter than most crooks, and he has more resources. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

I promised, of course, and we finished our milkshakes like a couple of teenagers, seeing who could make their straw bark the loudest.

FIFTEEN

I tried to wrestle all my separate confusions into one big ball and bounce it out the window. Of course, the window was closed. And my problems were not corporeal enough to allow themselves to be rolled up and tossed away.

I was on some villain’s mind. On his
hate list.
He had put me in here, and he probably wasn’t finished with me yet. Had the hospital security staff been told that my hide might be in danger? I pictured security guards sitting at a desk dozing off in front of a TV monitor. I saw a gang of black-robed, masked gunmen carrying a gigantic, horseshoe-shaped garland of red roses, like a victory wreath for a winning racehorse, pass the security desk. Perhaps getting helpful instructions on how to find my door from the least sleepy of the security guards. So much for daydreams coloured by too many Saturday afternoons at the Granada Theatre in Grantham.

Without thinking about it, I picked up the phone and called the number I had for Sykes and Boyd. I was startled to attention when I heard Sykes rasp out his familiar croak of response:

“Sykes.”

“It’s Ben Cooperman, Jack. I have to talk to you.”

“They haven’t sprung you from the Lame Brain Institute, have they?” I could always trust Sykes to be politically incorrect in private; he vetted his language in public.

“Maybe I got time off for good behaviour. Anyway, I was luckier than Flora McAlpine, wasn’t I?” I enjoyed the pause that followed. I could almost hear the changing of gears.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, Benny. We had to see how much you knew or remembered. Yeah, that was a damned shame about her. She was a terrific teacher, they say.”

“You didn’t honestly think I put her there and climbed in after her, did you?”

“Now, hold on, Benny. We go by the book: we check out all the angles. And we’re still checking.”

“Will the leaves have dropped from the trees before you move on to another suspect?”

“Come on, Benny! Let a guy do his job! Are you feeling any better?”

“Let’s stay on the subject. I’ll tell you about my sore head later. Was she hurt the same way I was?”

“Yes, she was, only her skull was crushed. Both of you went into the Dumpster at the same time. Are you sure you don’t know her?”

“What am I going to use for a memory? As near as I can figure, she was a stranger. But I do have some kind of echo going around in my head. Let’s say there’s the ghost of a possibility. No more.”

“In that case, Jim and I are going to try to come down to eat your chocolates. You got any of those boxes of fancy nuts?”

“Jack, I need to know about what the papers have said about my being beaned at the university residence. What’s known about my condition?”

“Worried they might try again?”

“Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Benny, my boy, the
world
knows about your getting clobbered.”

“That’s only partly true. What’s the rest of it?”

“What do you mean ‘the rest of it’? What makes you think there’s more?”

“It’s in your voice. You should never have become a cop. Your voice gives you away.”

“Okay. You’re right. Whenever we have a material witness we want to keep under wraps, we tell the papers that the victim can’t remember his own name. It’s done to protect the witness. Now, as it happens in your case, what we said to the press was right on the money. You couldn’t remember squat about what happened to you. So, we were only telling the truth to the press.”

“Don’t take any bows in public about that. It’ll blow your game.”

“I figured that angle, too. If they didn’t believe us, you could be in a lot of trouble. I know that. I’ll call the liaison man at the hospital and have them change your room.”

“Yeah, to one with ‘John Q. Public’ or ‘John Doe’ on the door. Have you any idea how many people are trying to get a bed in here? The hospital people can’t afford to play those games, Jack. They’ve got stretchers parked along the walls downstairs. What other good ideas have you had today?”

“We’re still working out how the caramel filling gets inside the chocolate bar, Benny. There’s lots of time. They told me you don’t have to worry about rent until summer’s nearly over. Try to look on the bright side.”

“While I’ve got you on the line, tell me what the waiters from Barberian’s told you about my car. You said it had been parked behind the restaurant.”

“Yeah, Barberian’s on Elm Street. A good place to go for a steak.”

“Great! I’ll remember that. Now, what did you learn?”

“Not much. One waiter remembered that it was pretty beat-up for a car belonging to one of their customers. How long
have
you been driving that thing?”

“Since the reconquest of the Sudan by Sir Herbert Kitchener in 1895 or whenever. Let’s try to stay on the subject, okay?”

“Start by leaving dead generals out of this. Eliminate the irrelevant.”

“Pachyderms aside, don’t forget which of us has the brain injury. You been clobbered recently?”

“Okay.”

“Unless you’re interested in buying the car from me. They’re getting scarce.”

“That
car? It should be in a landfill. The guy at our garage is still kidding me about it.”

“What else do you have from the restaurant besides scullery gossip?”

“One of the busboys remembered that a man and a woman got out of the car. It’s a small lot, takes maybe half a dozen cars, tops. The back door of the scullery, since you know the word, overlooks the lot. The woman was not much more than a girl, really. Much younger than he was. He didn’t really get a good look at her. She maybe had fuzzy blond curls. He was dark with a moustache and dark glasses. But since nobody remembers seeing them in the restaurant, maybe the busboy was thinking of two other people.”

“Or they walked right through and out the front door.”

“Any way you like it, Benny.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Hey, are you really feeling better?”

“I can still tie my shoes and scrub my neck. They don’t make me wear Depends at night. Why?”

“Oh, I’m just glad you’re getting along.”

“I’d feel a lot better if I knew who broke into my office in Grantham and went through my files.”

“Yeah, we heard about that. Your pal Savas phoned me. Police work would be a lot easier if the hoodlums stayed within departmental boundaries. The way it is now, if a hoodlum is working in the next jurisdiction you might never hear about it.”

“Yeah, I can think of a couple of examples.”

I heard him sucking air through his teeth. At length, he added: “See you, Benny, so long. Keep your feet dry.”

“Hey! One more question.”

“What?”

“Last time we talked, you mentioned something about that college. I should have pressed you on that, but I didn’t. What’s going on over there?”

“Benny, you remember that movie
Chinatown?”

“That’s a long time ago. What about it?”

“In the movie, Chinatown in Los Angeles represents everything that is chaotic about this business, everything that doesn’t play by the rules, that can’t be figured or brought to book. For us here in this town, Simcoe College is Chinatown.”

“Can’t be as bad as that. They’re just kids, after all.”

“It’s not just the kids, Benny. It’s like
Chinatown,
I tell you.”

“Hey! One more thing.”

“Who do you think you are, Benny? Columbo? You’re hounding me like I was a suspect.”

“I need to tell you something. Something I think I’ve remembered. You want me to save it for later?”

“Okay, spill it.”

“I was in Toronto working a case …”

“We figured that much. You’re all finished at the dentist’s.”

“… and I think I may have been working for the daughter of Stella— You know her as Vanessa Moss.”

“Her again! How does the daughter figure?”

“She’s a student. She knows about me through her crazy mother. I may have come to Toronto to do some work for her.”

“Since when are kids hiring private investigators? She give you a piece of her allowance?”

“My crystal’s getting murky, Jack. I don’t know more than what I’ve told you. Just remember I levelled with you.”

“Sure, sure, sure. All I need are more clues from the Cracked Head Ward. See you.” And he was gone.

I held on to the phone for a minute. The experience of phoning had been reborn in me. If I went at it fast and didn’t think about it, I could call anybody.

Who was the girl in my car? The man was a car thief at least, but who was his companion? Was she there by choice or under duress? If the latter, it could have been Rose. Okay, why didn’t she yell or run for it? Why did she play along? If the girl was part of the scam, then she might have been a witness to the murder, maybe an accessory. If Rose knew what had just happened to me and that poor professor, she wouldn’t have gone along with the heavy without a murmur. Either this was a different woman or she didn’t see me get clobbered. She trusted the guy at some point: she led me to him. Maybe he was about to get rid of her. I didn’t like that.

Why would the staff allow anybody to park behind the restaurant and then walk out without ordering anything? Maybe they were good customers? Maybe the driver at least was well known to the maître d’?

I wandered down the hall looking for something to drink. My worries had brought on a thirst, and I could find only a juice dispenser that had run out of paper cups. The elevator down the corridor went ping, admitting new people to the floor. For the first time, but not the last, I wondered who they might be. I found a cup in my room and retraced my steps to the cooler. There I had a brief exchange with the former diplomat about the problems he was having in his end-game. While I nodded at what he said, only half listening, my mind went back to my conversation with Sykes. Why would my villain park his car behind a place where he or the girl were well known? Obviously, he wouldn’t. But then, why not simply park the car on the street? After all, it was stolen. He could have left it anywhere. With me in the Dumpster, maybe dead or dying, the heavy had no reason to ditch the car right away. No doubt he had a car of his own somewhere nearby. But there was no reason I could see for bringing Barberian’s Steak House into the plan at all. Unless it had something to do with the girl. It might have been part of the story he had been telling her.

So, what have we? Our villain was playing a double game. He was stringing the girl along, letting her think he had the run of the city, knew all the nifty places where he could park without paying, giving the impression of sophistication and mastery in small matters. All this to impress the girl? Maybe. Maybe it came as second nature to this particular villain. He liked to appear at ease in the big world. But what were the chances of his really knowing
the restaurant? Slim. Very slim. He wouldn’t take either her or his hot car anywhere near where he was known. That was enough reasoning for the moment.