The Suicide Murders (4 page)

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, putting his time clock down on the edge of a white metal desk.

“I’m Behan of the
Beacon
. You’re Glassock?”

“Yeah.”

“You found the body?” He just stood there like someone had given him the prize in the box of Cracker-jacks.

“Yeah.”

“My editor thinks that there’s a lot of this story that didn’t get in today’s paper. He wants me to try a new angle, human interest stuff:
TOM GREENOCK FINDS CORPSE.
How’s that for a headline?”

“Glassock.”

“Even better.
HARDWORKING TOM GLASSOCK STUMBLES ON BODY OF CORPORATE GIANT.
How’m I doing?” I hated to take advantage of the poor geezer, but everybody’s got to make a living. So, I strung him a little. I wasn’t stealing his watch. “What I want you to give me is the whole story in your own words.” I picked up a green pad with a spiral binding from Martha Tracy’s “Pending” basket and licked the end of my pencil.

“You going to write down what I say? Put it in the paper?”

“That’s right,” I said giving him my Pulitzer Prize smile.

“Well, now, I don’t know about that. I got a family to think of. It’s as good as my job if I blab to everybody.”

“Well, Tom, the
Beacon
isn’t everybody.”

“True, but …”

“Tell you what. Anything you say is off the record, I’ll forget I ever heard it. You’ve got my word on that.”

“Well, I guess it’s all right, or they wouldn’t have sent you. What do you want to know?”

“Why don’t you just walk through it and show me the way it was?”

“Right. Well, I came in that door over there,” he indicated the main door leading from the two elevators.

“That was about this time yesterday? A little after five?” He bent his head and studied his leather-bound clock for a minute. I could see the pink of his scalp through his gray hair.

“Later than that. I was on my first round, but this is a big building. I have to answer for the whole twelve floors, keeps me hopping. It must have been same time as usual, that’s five forty-five.”

“Is that the time on yesterday’s card?”

“Well, yesterday, it was a little later. It was five fifty-seven, they told me. That’s a little off my regular time but not by much.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No. These places are built with thick concrete floors. I couldn’t have heard anything unless I was on this floor somewheres. Well, sir, I came through this aisle as usual and saw that Mr. Yates’ door was open.”

“Were the other office doors open?”

“Most of ’em. And I saw that Mr. Yates’ door was open.”

“But you just said …”

“I know. Well, it was open, that’s all. And I looked in and there he was.”

“Could you show me?”

“Sure.” He brought out a bunch of keys and studied them closely. “This should be it,” he said and it was.

Chester Yates’ office, which I now took in for the first time in detail, told the world what Chester wanted it to know about him. He had a corner office with light coming in through windows on two walls. Through the sheer floor-length curtains I could see north to the lake and follow the coast around in a gentle arc until it disappeared in the haze. His desk was a wide expanse of immaculate white, without a paper on it to suggest that these surroundings had a hold on whoever sat behind it. The walls were industrial wallboard, whose covering suggested wood panelling. The wall that Chester faced as he signed his name on the dotted line all day was a busy place. He had one of those credenza things which covered his files, over which a three-tiered bookshelf caught my eye. The chair behind the desk was the same sort of orange that the green broadloom was. The kind of colour that doesn’t exist outside an interior decorator’s mind. I took a closer look at this handsome object. It was a swivel chair, and from now on when it swivelled would swivel over a dark brown stain on the rug.

“They’ll never get that out,” Glassock muttered, shaking his head. “They’ll just have to junk it. That’s where I found him, right there in that chair. Sitting up he was, with his head bent over the top, like he expected the dentist to look at his teeth. The gun was on the floor where he’d dropped it.”

“Was everything in the room the way it is now, except for the body?”

“Yes, I think so.” I saw Glassock’s eye go to the book cases. “Yes, it was just like this.”

“Why did you look over there? Is something different?”

“Well, yes, there is,” he smirked. “It’s the bar.”

“Bar? All I see is a bookcase.” Glassock’s smirk opened up to reveal a mouthful of teeth that were aggressively false. He went over to the bookshelves and transformed them.

“He had it specially made. It’s got a sink and fridge, and like you see, it’s well-stocked.”

“And you say it was open last night?”

“Yeah. I could smell it too. There was the odour of drink in the air. That’s one of those off-the-record things we agreed about.”

“You mean you didn’t mention this yesterday?”

“Bad enough him killing himself like that. No sense adding insult to injury I always say.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. Tell me, was there a glass on the desk, or on the credenza? A glass with a half-finished drink in it?”

“Let me see …” He walked over to the bar, stroked his chin and pulled at his earlobe. “He always kept his empty glasses on this tray. Kept them lined up in two rows the way they are now.” I counted six highball glasses. They were dry and clean. I backed up and pulled at my earlobe too. Glassock watched me as I looked from the desk to the bar, from the bar to the door, and from the door to Glassock.

“Did you ever talk to Mr. Yates?”

“Sure.” He stretched the syllable out making Chester sound like a regular democrat.

“And you’d seen the bookshelf open before last night?”

“Mr. Yates used to tell me things. He’d invite me in here and we’d chew the fat, you might say.” He looked over to me like I should hand out little gold stars. “Many’s the night we’d have a noggin and he’d stand looking out the window at the lake, sort of far away in his thoughts, and jangling his keys in his pocket with his free hand.” Glassock showed me exactly what a far-away look was and tried to imitate Chester rattling his keys. On a cliff-top, it would have made quite a picture. Under the fluorescent lights, it lost something.

“Where does that door lead?” I asked him, shattering his reverie.

“Just a cupboard.”

“May I …?”

“Help yourself.” Inside the door was sports wear for all occasions: a track suit, three different kinds of brand-name running shoes, a squash racket, and something that looked like headphones for a stereo set. I picked them up. There were no wires attached. “Them’s ear-plugs for the firing-range. He was a crack shot, they say. Used to practise with the police shooting team sometimes.” Near the ear-plugs hung a black leather holster. It was empty.

“He was quite a sportsman,” I said.

“He could afford to be.” Glassock was beginning to shift from haunch to haunch.

“Tell me one more thing: did Mr. Yates like a good time?”

“Same as most, I guess. Never told me anything personal. He mostly went on about the opportunities in this country for people like me from the old country. He’d get a few drinks under his belt. He liked to drink, he did. But he wasn’t the sort to … play around, you know. But then, you never know.” He let his words hang in the air for a second or two, then I broke his beautiful moment again by crossing the room with my hand outstretched. I thanked him for his help. He asked me not to print anything that might get him in trouble and to be sure to let him know when the article was coming out. I backed my way into the elevator while he discussed the best time to get pictures of himself with Violet, his wife, and Alfred and Edward, the twins. When I hold him that he had been very helpful, I wasn’t telling a word of a lie, as Dr. Bushmill would have said.

FIVE

It was nearly six o’clock when I got back to my room at the hotel. I stripped off my clothes like a snake sloughing last year’s skin, and slipped into the shower. I let the water run at full pressure first as hot as I could take it and then slowly I turned the tap around to cold. I stepped onto the white bathmat feeling somehow like I’d deserved the good feeling building up in me. Then I remembered that I was going to my mother’s for dinner.

I drove up Ontario Street past the drive-ins on both sides of the road, and finally parked a quarter of a mile beyond in one of the guest parking spots at the condominium.

“It’s you!” my mother said, as though she was Stanley looking for Livingstone. I didn’t try to figure it out. I was so surprised to see her up, dressed and in the kitchen. “I wasn’t really expecting you,” she said.

“I told you yesterday I was coming.”

“What?” She made the vowel so you could slide it under the door.

“Ma, you knew I was coming. I told you last week, and I told you last night.” She frowned and looked hopelessly in the direction of the refrigerator.

“You’re going to kill your mother one day with these surprises. You hear? Well, I guess I could put a couple of frozen steaks on. Your father’s downstairs. You’ll eat a steak, Benny?”

“Sure, Ma, but try not to broil the hell out of it, please.”

“So look who’s telling me how to cook. Go talk to your father and leave me to be the Mystery Chef if you please.” I found the unopened
Beacon
on the tangerine loveseat and took it with me downstairs into the rec room. Pa was sitting in front of the television. My parents spell one another off like that. Between the two of them they don’t miss much.

“She said you weren’t coming.” He was looking older tonight; his gray-black hair, his brow, like onion skin, and the purple ant-tracks on his cheekbones made me go over and give him a hug and kiss on the cheek. He smelled of talcum. He’d been in the sauna at his club. “Are you working hard?”

“A little.”

“Melvyn. I saw Melvyn your cousin today. He said that you haven’t been to see him like you promised. He could throw some work your way, Benny. He’s got contacts. You shouldn’t end up like your father a poor man at the end of your life.”

“Pa, what are you talking about? You’re comfortable, aren’t you. So what if you’re not a millionaire.”

“Leave my brother Harry out of this. Believe me, Benny, if I had wanted to make money, I would have made it. There’s nothing easier. Like the poet says, ‘Does a rich man sleep as soundly as a poor man? Is he happier?’ Still, don’t put me off what I was saying. You’ll promise me to go in and talk to Melvyn on Monday. Okay? Tomorrow, he and Doreen are going to the Seligman bar mitzvah in Toronto at Temple Sholom.”

“Good for them. I’ve got the paper. You want to see it?” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

“I get all the bad news I want on TV. I don’t need it in the paper too.” I took that as permission to open it myself. In the first section, there was a short editorial about Chester running twenty lines after a long piece on the abuse of higher education by taxi drivers who are actually Ph.D.s in sociology. Writing about Chester the editorial writer mused on the pressure of modern life, the loneliness of the men at the top, and the loss of our ablest citizens because they are always willing to walk the extra mile. For a minute it looked as though he was going to throw in a blast at food additives, but at the last moment he swerved off in another direction. Food additives came in for a column on their own further down the page. On the inside of the back page under
Deaths, Marriages, Funerals and In Memoriam
I discovered that the Yates funeral was slated for Monday. The coroner hadn’t seen fit to hold Chester’s body while the investigation continued. I was still way out in front in a field of one.

In about twenty minutes, my mother called us to the table. The Friday night candles had been lit, and there were two bowls of soup on the plastic cloth, one for me and the other for my father. It was canned vegetable.

“Where’s your soup?” my father asked.

“I never eat soup,” she answered. I was still in short pants when I first heard that exchange. “If anyone wants a salad, I can make one,” she dared us. I said that a salad would be just the thing. She didn’t budge. Pa went into the kitchen to retrieve the steaks from the broiler. “Manny, let Benny have the rare one.” He placed the platter of steaming meat in the middle of the table, after I cleared a place. “You know how he likes his rare.” He handed me my plate and I cut into the meat. It was liver gray all the way through. The vegetables were canned peas and carrots; lukewarm. Ma repeated her invitation to salad. Maybe there remained in the back of her mind the ghost of a servant lurking in the kitchen who could whip up these trifles at a moment’s notice. The meal concluded with the traditional passing of the teabag from cup to cup, followed by the time-honoured squirt from the plastic lemon. After his last sip of tea, Pa pushed himself away from the table observing, “Benny, it does you good to get a home-cooked meal for a change, after the
chazerai
you eat in restaurants.”

Later, back at my office, I did a few useful chores. I attached the key I’d taken from Martha Tracy’s desk to a piece of paper with Scotch tape, slipped it into a stamped envelope, addressed the envelope to Martha Tracy care of her office in the Caddell Building on James Street and put it with my out mail. Then I tried to reach Dr. Zekerman again. No luck. I left my name for a second time with his answering service. Then I lit a cigarette and dialled the number Myrna Yates had given me.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Yates, this is Benny Cooperman.” There was the sound of some sort of mental process down at her end of the wire.

“Oh yes, Mr. Cooperman.” Her voice became metallic and formal.

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about what happened to your husband.” I was trying to find a way to tell her what I’d found out without saying too much over the phone. “I wonder if we might meet to discuss some business—after Monday, of course.” That was the best I could manage.

“Mr. Cooperman, I don’t think we have any business to discuss. I thank you for what you’ve done, and I’m sure you understand that there is nothing further …” At this point another voice, on an extension somewhere, joined in with an authority familiar with the forms and arts of chilling a poor private investigator to the marrow.

“Look here, Mr. Cooperman, I don’t know what business you are talking about, but Mrs. Yates is in no condition to discuss business at a time like this. I’m sure you appreciate the severity of the shock she’s had and I don’t think that I want to see her suffer any more if I can help it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Bill, I …”

“Let me handle this, Myrna. I think that Mr. Cooper-man understands the situation.”

“My business,” I began to say, “is with Mrs. Yates, Mr.…?”

“This is William Allen Ward, Mr. Cooperman, and I think I’ve made it plain that Mrs. Yates doesn’t wish to be harassed by people just now. I don’t wish to sound unpleasant, but if you don’t get off the line, I will be forced to report this unfeeling and distress-causing behaviour. Do we understand each other?”

“Sure, Mr. Ward. Have it your way. But since when is a single phone call ‘harassment’? I’ll bet Mrs. Yates could tell me to hang up all by herself if she wanted to.”

“It seems to me I did just that, Mr. Cooperman,” she added, filling an inside straight that I’d left wide open to her.

“Okay, okay. I’m hanging up. Sorry to have caused all the commotion.”

So Myrna Yates had William Allen Ward running interference for her. I guess the mayor could spare him for a few hours in such a good cause. Ward was a comer in local politics, the mayor’s shadow, and the man responsible for adding the Harvard Business School phrases to the most recent crop of official documents. A local boy, he had brushed the hay and alfalfa off his jeans and made good in a way that looked like it was going to pull the whole city into the big time behind him. Even the mayor looked like a cracker-barrel hick when sitting next to Bill Ward on a public platform. I was impressed by Myrna

Yates’ taste in protectors. She couldn’t have picked better.

Next, I thought I’d try Martha Tracy. I dialled her home number. Bill Ward couldn’t be in two places at once. I was getting smart in my old age.

“M’yeah?”

“Martha Tracy?”

“That’s the name. Who wants her?” It was the husky voice of an original. I could picture her at her desk shooing away unlikely visitors from Chester Yates’ door.

“This is Benny Cooperman. I’m a private investigator.”

“Come off it, who is this?”

“No, really. I want to talk to you about something concerning Mr. Yates’ death. Can I come over to see you?”

“I got a house full of people here.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“M’yeah. But not before noon. And it better be good. I’ve had my craw full of policemen the last few days. What was the name again?”

“Cooperman. Benny Cooperman. See you at noon, tomorrow.”

“Goodbye.” And she hung up. Martha Tracy was going to be someone I wouldn’t like to miss. She sounded as shaken by the death of her boss as the security man, less. Chester must have been a wonder to work for.

I locked up the office and started for the stairs. Frank Bushmill’s light was burning, so I wandered in. The Doc was sprawled in his waiting room, dead to the world. An empty bottle had rolled from where he’d dropped it across the worn carpet to the opposite side of the room. His mouth was open and he was blowing soft bubbles at the glass globe supported by three brass chains above his head. I found a coat on the chipped walnut rack and threw it across the body. He mumbled something unintelligible, which I agreed with, naturally, and then I left him there. He didn’t have patients on Saturday morning, so he wouldn’t be awakened by an emergency case of athlete’s foot at the crack of dawn.

Back at the hotel, it was the usual Friday night din. The beat from the band hammered at the floor like an electric vibrator. Somehow the melodic line was lost in transmission through the joists and plaster, just the amplified bass notes tickled my toes out of my socks like magic fingers in cheap motels. I climbed out of my clothes and into bed. I tried to sleep but got tangled in the loose ends of the bed sheets. I hate loose ends.