Good Year For Murder (10 page)

“Here comes the
Lady York!”
someone shouted.

The Tretheway party had driven around the bay in an unmarked ‘39 Mercury police car, partly because they were on police business (guarding MacCulla) and partly because Tretheway disliked water, particularly boat rides. Most of the crowd was expected to arrive on the S.S.
Lady York,
an old but seaworthy ferry that made several return trips every navigable summer's day from a
public dock at the foot of Fort York's ward two to LaSalle Park. In minutes, it was at the dock below them.

Tretheway watched as the excited crowd ran toward the starboard side gangway. The ferry listed slightly while people spewed from the
Lady York's
innards. A small crowd of disembarking civil servants remained dockside to watch a calisthenics demonstration put on by a hand-picked group of older Scouts.

“Watch this, everyone,” Mac said.

Four of his Sea Scouts started their performance. Even from a distance Tretheway was impressed by the obvious training and discipline of this young group. The Scouts bounced up and down on the balls of their feet, opening and closing their stances while alternately clapping their hands above their heads and slapping their thighs, all in perfect unison. As part of a memorized plan, they would switch to another exercise, increase the tempo, then switch to yet another. They glowed with health. At the end of their last exercise, the Scouts stood stiffly at attention. The sound of polite applause filtered up to the picnic area from the wharf. MacCulla smiled broadly.

During the demonstration, Henry Plain and group had taken the next table. There were twice as many in the City Clerk's party as in the Tretheways'; but they took up the same amount of space. The two parties exchanged waves.

“I wish they hadn't sat there,” Tretheway said.

“They're good people, Boss,” Jake said.

“They're too damn small.”

“Albert! They'll hear you,” Addie said.

Tretheway popped a Molson.

The children's races and games started at a medically sensible interval (determined by Dr Nooner) after lunch. For the next while Tretheway and party were entertained from a distance by the thudding of juvenile feet, the blowing of whistles and the presentation of prizes. Cheers rose whenever a winner crossed the finish line or won an event—which was often.

“Good kids,” Tretheway said.

“A pleasure to watch,” Jake said.

Addie smiled.

“Look at Controller Pennylegion.” Tretheway indicated another table, apart from the rest and closer to the road, where the Pennylegion bunch sat.

As usual, Pennylegion himself sat in the centre of his group. Surrounded as he was by hirelings dressed in black and medium grey, Joseph Pennylegion stood out in his immaculate white flannel shirt, white shoes, dark trousers, and wildly designed red and purple tie that matched his hat band and clashed with his hair. Even from four or five tables away, his jewelled stick pin sparkled noticeably. Pennylegion's bunch, with the exception of the two ill-at-ease police guards stationed at either end of the table, was drinking a local red wine. Their black Packard was parked close to them on the grass. A man called Crank, reportedly an expert driver, sat on the running board cleaning his nails.

“What about Pennylegion?” Jake asked Tretheway quietly. Addie and Mac were busy talking to some of the Plain people at the next table. “Is he clean?”

“As far as I know, yes. His past is … obscure. Nobody seems to know much about him. You know all the rumours about his trucks. During Prohibition. But, according to Wan Ho, there's no record.”

“He sure looks the part.”

“I wouldn't bat an eye if Edward G. Robinson sat down with him.”

“Or George Raft.”

“Certainly not Warner Oland.”

“Or William Powell.”

The two chuckled. Tretheway stood up and made a spectacle of stretching. “Let's go for a walk.”

Jake stood also. “You expecting anything?”

“It won't hurt to move around.”

“You think that today, maybe, being a holiday and all that …” Jake swallowed. “… something might happen?”

“The Chief says not today.”

“I know. St. Bartholomew's Day. But what do you think?”

Tretheway moved away from the table. He looked squarely at Jake. “I hope nothing happens. I hope the whole train of events has been a series of ridiculous coincidences. A bunch of practical jokes topped off by an unrelated strangling and a stupid drowning.”

Tretheway continued to stare but Jake wouldn't look away.

“Today,” Tretheway said finally. “I think something'll happen today.” He looked back at the table. “Let's go, Mac.”

“Hm?” Mac was pouring his second lemonade.

“C'mon,” Jake said to Mac. “We're going for a walk.”

“No, thank you. I'll stay here.”

“You have to go, Mac,” Tretheway said. “The Master Plan. It's time for your ball game anyway.”

“We won't be long, Addie.” Jake smiled. Addie smiled back.

The three of them started off.

“How's the investigation going, anyway?” Mac asked.

“Not too well,” Tretheway said.

“Depends which paper you read,” Jake added.

The investigation was
not
going too well and it
did
depend on which paper you read. Toronto papers, still smarting from last year's humiliating football season at the hands and feet of the Fort York Taggers, said the case was being “badly botched”. “The leader of the investigation,” the quote continued, “the old right winger himself, has once again dropped the ball in his own end zone.” This was an uncalled for, but true, reference to the finale of Chief Zulp's football career that occurred the last time Toronto beat the FY Taggers on a sunny autumn afternoon in 1927.

The local
Fort York Expositor,
on the other hand, with several impressive but mysterious references to a secret Master Plan, said that the Department, led by Chief Zulp, was zeroing in on the lone religious fanatic, but “at this time, because of security reasons, was unable to release a statement”. In between these two views, with perhaps a slight leaning toward the Toronto papers, lay the truth.

Nothing newsworthy had been uncovered. Zulp still backed the Single Perpetrator theory against Dr Nooner's conflicting More-Than-One hypothesis—in Ingird Tommerup's homicide as well as Father Cosentino's. Sergeant Wan Ho had done all he could under the circumstances. Regular criminals had been rounded up, questioned and released. The alibis and whereabouts of all concerned parties had been checked out with no damning conclusions. In a search for possible eyewitnesses, neighbours had been interrogated, leads run to sterile ground, with the result that, as Wan Ho put it in his Charlie Chan voice, “No suspects, therefore, all suspects.”

Tretheway led Jake and Mac toward the pavilion. This year, as usual, it had been freshly painted for the holiday. The glossy white walls and columns stood out clearly in the park and contrasted
sharply with the bright blue trim and matching shingles. A sturdy, weather-vaned cupola rose from the roof.

They mounted the shallow steps and slid across the concrete floor which was already sprinkled with sand for the evening dance. Tretheway made his way through a crowd of boisterous children to the inside hot dog stand. He held up two thick fingers to the concessionnaire.

“You want anything, Jake?” He looked over his shoulder. “Mac?”

“No thanks,” Jake said. Mac shook his head.

They went down the steps on the other side of the pavilion, Tretheway clutching a hot dog in each hand.

“Should we be looking for anything special?” Jake asked. “Or should we be looking at all?”

“What's that mean?” Tretheway asked.

“I thought Zulp said…” Jake hesitated.

“That I was to confine myself to traffic duties,” Tretheway finished. He ate his first hot dog in three bites.

“Then what should we do?” Jake asked.

“What we always do. Follow orders.”

“Oh.”

Tretheway finished his second hot dog. “However. A policeman is on twenty-four hour duty. A detective can write a parking ticket. A desk man can deliver a baby. A motorcycle patrolman can stop a bank robbery. And a Traffic Inspector,” he smiled at Jake, “or his able assistant, can arrest a murderer.”

Jake smiled.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Mac said.

“You just stay close,” Tretheway said with an edge to his voice.

The trio skirted two smaller buildings the same colour and architecture as the larger pavilion, except for “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” painted on the white walls. Conversation was pointless as they passed the wading pool, filled with squealing children and surrounded by mothers with worried looks and wet towels. They bypassed two temporary hot dog stands, a busy multiple horseshoe pitch, a pick-up football game, all the while dodging children and adults going to or coming from other activities in the large park.

At the edge of the softball field, behind the right foul line well out of play, stood a ridiculously large, conical pile of newspapers
at least forty feet high. The area schoolchildren had spent weeks gathering the paper, house to house, store to store, farm to farm, in a remarkable show of patriotism for the war effort. LaSalle Park had been selected as a convenient depository.

“That's the biggest pile of paper I've ever seen.” Jake said. “Those kids deserve a lot of credit.”

“It's for a good cause, Jake,” Tretheway said.

“Mac.” Jake pointed toward home plate. “Isn't that your team warming up?”

They noticed most of the Fort York politicians milling around in front of the backstop screen, kicking the dust, gossiping, exercising lightly; two of them were actually tossing a softball around.

Mac appeared excited. “You're right, Jake,” He loped off toward the group.

For the members of the City Council, the high point of the picnic was the baseball game. Each year the Mayor, the Board of Control and all the ward Aldermen faced a handpicked team of civic employees in a five-inning (they'd never finished) half-serious, grudge match. The civic team, having so many departments to choose from, were unfairly superior. They played a lackadaisical game. The politicians, on the other hand, played as competitively and aggressively as they could. In twenty-one consecutive picnic games, the elected officials of Fort York had never won.

“Play ball!” Henry Plain shouted from behind home plate in a voice surprisingly deep for his size. The City Clerk traditionally umpired the ball game because his category was not as clear-cut as say, a Controller or garbageman. “Neither fish nor fowl,” as Mayor Trutt humorously put it. Henry wore a chest protector and mask borrowed from a city-sponsored bantam team.

Because of the numerical advantage of the civic employees and the age difference between the two teams, the politicians were allowed to field their whole group of ten. Mayor Trutt, leader in the Council and leader on the field, (his own slogan), pitched to Joseph Pennylegion who affected a loud, talk-it-up style of catching. F. McKnight Wakeley, in his summer drill uniform, played first base, Bartholomew Gum second, Emmett O'Dell shortstop with MacCulla rounding out the infield at third base. He had taken off his tie.

From where Tretheway sat behind the third base line, he could
hear Morgan Morgan in left field within conversation distance of Taz in centre field. They both carried hip flasks. Ammerman in right field chatted with Gertrude Valentini, who had been officially designated outfield rover.

“One thing, Jake,” Tretheway said. “It makes our job easier.”

“Hm?” Jake said.

“The baseball game. Gets them all together. We can keep our eye on Mac. And all the other officers can watch their charges.” Tretheway waved his hand across the field of players. “Our city fathers. All together in one bundle. One convenient bunch. Every …” He stopped short.

“What's the matter?” Jake asked.

Tretheway stared at the inept group of politicians as though he had just seen them for the first time.

“What is it?” Jake persisted.

“If you were the killer,” Tretheway proposed, “and, just for fun, had decided to do away with the whole City Council He lit a cigar.

“Go on,” Jake encouraged.

“You've carried out a few pranks. You've eliminated Father Cosentino. Then Miss Tommerup. Both successfully. Your confidence is growing. Now here's an opportunity where they're all together. In one spot. I mean, this game was no secret. What would you do?”

“Ah … I don't know.” Jake craned his neck and checked the parking lot, the pavilion and even the distant woodlots. He saw plenty of people but they were all doing what they were supposed to do. “But, all of a sudden, I feel nervous.”

“Why?” Tretheway asked.

“Because of what you just said.”

“Oh hell, Jake. That's all conjecture. Top of my head. Nothing'll happen right now.”

“How can you tell?”

“It's just not his style.” Tretheway brushed ashes from his front. “Doesn't fit the pattern. And there's no joke about it. Stop worrying.”

“All the same.” Jake checked the crowd again.

“For one thing,” Tretheway suggested, “how do you know the killer isn't out there right now?”

“Out where?”

“Playing baseball?”

Jake stared Tretheway full in the face. “You mean … that … you're saying …”

“Jake, Jake.” Tretheway leaned over and squeezed both Jake's knees together with one hand as a young boy might squeeze the straws in his rival's soda. “I'm not saying anything. Just thinking out loud. Watch the game. And keep your eye on Mac. I'm going for a beer.” He stepped off in the direction of their picnic table, puffing smoke. Jake rubbed the feeling back into his knees and turned his attention to the game.