There was an Old Woman

PENGUIN CANADA

THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN

HOWARD ENGEL
is the creator of the enduring and beloved detective Benny Cooperman, who, through his appearance in twelve best-selling novels, has become an internationally recognized fictional sleuth. Two of Engel's novels have been adapted for TV movies, and his books have been translated into several languages. He is the winner of numerous awards, including the 2005 Writers' Trust of Canada Matt Cohen Award, the 1990 Harbourfront Festival Prize for Canadian Literature and an Arthur Ellis Award for crime fiction. Howard Engel lives in Toronto.

Also in the Benny Cooperman series

The Suicide Murders

Murder on Location

Murder Sees the Light

The Ransom Game

A City Called July

A Victim Must Be Found

Dead and Buried

Getting Away with Murder

The Cooperman Variations

Memory Book

East of Suez

Also by Howard Engel

Murder in Montparnasse

Mr. Doyle & Dr. Bell

HOWARD ENGEL

THERE

WAS

AN OLD

WOMAN

A BENNY COOPERMAN MYSTERY

PENGUIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1993

Published in Penguin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1994

Published in this edition, 2008

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

Copyright © Howard Engel, 1993

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher's note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in Canada.

ISBN-13: 978-0-14-316759-4

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For

Eric Wright, Julian Symons and Justin Kaplan who know a quotation when they see one

Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength faileth …

Psalm LXXI

There Was

an Old Woman

ONE

As I went up the twenty-eight steps to my second-floor office, I heard, as usual, the sound of the running toilet. I swallowed a curse as I came to the top of the stairs and went into the washroom to jiggle the flush handle. It was a slight mechanical adjustment, but it meant the world to my sanity. The tank began to fill and I closed the door behind me. What angered me about the sound of the running water was the fact that it announced to me and to the world in general that Kogan, the caretaker, that little man of little work, was goofing off again. Kogan hated work.

When I first met him a few years ago, he was panhandling along St. Andrew Street. His favourite stand was the stretch between the Diana Sweets Restaurant and the bank at the corner of Queen Street on the north side. As a panhandler, Kogan could really indulge his sense of independence. You never saw him downtown on a nice day. I imagined him off fishing or having a sunbath on a picnic table in Montecello Park. I speculated that he might be a secret millionaire, who simply pretended to be destitute for his own amusement. He certainly seemed to be a student of human nature. He knew just what to say to each of his customers to make them part with more than just a
few quarters. During the cold months I'd come into the office in the mornings and find him rolled up in a corner in Frank Bushmill's
Globe and Mail.
Sometimes he'd pick the washroom, which made do for both sexes, where he would be lullabied to oblivion by the bubbling waters in the ancient plumbing. Kogan was an old rummy, but he had character written in every leathery line of his face. In his third- or fourth-hand blazer and gray flannels, he looked almost dapper.

Kogan stopped being a fixture on the streets and began working at 220½ St. Andrew Street when Frank Bushmill, the chiropodist, and I convinced our landlady, Mrs. Onischuk, that she needed someone to take out the garbage and sweep up the offices. I think we both had the sense that we were going out on a limb in recommending him and we both lived to regret it. It was one of those good deeds that dribbles stale beer on you instead of getting you a gold star in heaven. Not only was Kogan a hopeless caretaker who neglected the garbage and failed to sweep out the offices, but he quickly became a favourite of Mrs. Onischuk, for whom he could do no wrong. When I complained that his empty bottles were turning up in my waste-paper baskets or that his lunch was sometimes left in my files, Mrs. Onischuk laughed at Kogan's devilment and thought less of me for complaining. Frank told me that Kogan had become fond of the Black Bush that he kept among his medical records. What broke Frank's heart was that it was all one with Kogan whether
he was drinking fine old Irish whiskey or nail-polish remover.

The bubbling noise of the filling toilet diminished to the sound of a spring freshet as I unlocked the office door and kicked off my rubbers under the hat stand. Outside it was a wet December morning, but mild enough for the time of year. I looked around. My framed licence to practise as a private investigator was still hanging crookedly behind my chair. The file drawers were closed to hide their emptiness and the desk was cluttered by the mess I had abandoned yesterday at closing time.

With the toilet finally silent, I could settle down to what, from the other side of the desk, might pass for work. I paid a few bills, wrote a cheque for the renewal of my licence, and finished a report to my one and only client, whose cat had allegedly been poisoned by a jealous neighbour. Once the paperwork was under control, I rubber-tipped my teeth the way the dentist keeps telling me I should. (God forbid I shouldn't go to my grave with a full set of teeth!) When I had once more stolen a march on plaque build-up, I made a couple of phonecalls. From one I learned that the cat had been killed with a herbicide. I added that information to the report and put it into an envelope for the “Out” basket.

It was about twenty after ten, just when I was thinking of going out for a coffee at the Di, when there was a knock at the door. It was Kogan. He opened the door, but he didn't make a move to cross the threshold. He stood
there, holding a mop, as though that would fool anyone who knew him.

“You busy, Mr. Cooperman?” he said.

In spite of what I've already said, I should say that I liked Kogan. He had a way about him that made him his own man. Even in the old days when he was panhandling, I always got a kick when he accepted the change I passed along to him. He didn't take money from everyone. He prized his independence at a higher price than a loonie or a couple of quarters. His way of life was a criticism of everything a would-be taxpayer like me stood for. He didn't own anything and he didn't want to. His only possession, his only treasure, was his discharge pin from the Canadian army That made him at the very youngest at least seventy. I remember him telling me about heavy fighting at Carpiquet Airport near Caen in Normandy. Maybe he felt that having risked his life there, he was all paid-up in the work department from then on. Certainly, he had always made me feel as though he had been doing me a favour when he took on his caretaking responsibilities.

“Come in, Kogan. I want to talk to you!”

I gave him hell for the way he had been letting the garbage accumulate, the way he had all but abandoned my carpet. From his fixed stand by the door, he nodded. There was no sign of dumb insolence as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He stood his ground and took my criticism patiently. I left the toilet for last. It was the clincher, the single item that would make him see into
his very soul. Again he nodded agreement. I told him that the time had come for him to make up his mind about whether he wanted the job or whether he would prefer to return to St. Andrew Street. He stood there, mute, like an old print I'd seen in a book in the library: the teacher scolding the lazy scholar. When I'd finished, he looked up again and said:

“I'm sorry, Mr. Cooperman. Sorry. You see, it's my girl-friend—”

“You shouldn't let that interfere with your work, Kogan.” I was warming to the role; I could almost imagine Kogan as the lazy student. And yet somewhere I had the notion that he was setting me up. The way he stood there nodding told me he was holding his completed assignment or at least a handful of aces.

“Sorry,” he repeated.

“No excuses!” I said, knowing that my comeuppance was only a word away.

“She's dead,” he said. “My girl-friend died and I had to look after all the arrangements. She not having any family at all.

“Kogan,” I said, feeling like the father who has just shot the faithful family dog that turns out to have been defending his child from the marauding wolf now dead beneath the bloody bedclothes. “Why didn't you say something?” I don't know why I asked. It wouldn't have been Kogan if he'd told me straight out.

“You never asked. I was going to wear a black armband, but I haven't had a minute. What with the police and all.”

“Police? What have the police to do with it?”

“I called them. She shouldn't have died, Mr. Cooperman. Liz had a few more good years in her. Even if her mind was going.”

“Kogan, why don't you leave that smelly mop out there in the hall and come in and sit down?” He slowly came into the office and took a chair in front of my desk. He left the mop leaning against the door frame, but the smell followed him. “Now start at the beginning,” I said, popping a cough candy into my mouth. “Tell me about it. The whole story”

He sat there collecting his thoughts and pinching the non-existent creases in his trousers. At last he looked at me. “Lizzy Oldridge and me go back a long way,” her said. “Our parents were friends before the war. I call her my girl-friend, but it's just that she needed somebody and she didn't have family …” Kogan wiped his nose on his sleeve, forgetting the buttons there were designed to prevent that useful service. “She'd been poorly for some time and needed somebody to do for her.” I said a silent prayer, hoping that Lizzy had fared better than Frank Bushmill and me.