Good Year For Murder (20 page)

“We'll never know from here,” Jake complained.

Despite all the activity, no other new, or startling, information turned up. By the time the sun rose to herald a new work week for the citizens of Fort York, most of the policemen, including Tretheway and Jake, had been sent home. Addie met them at the front door.

“Let me take your coats,” she said. “You look perished.”

“That's not the greatest heating system you've got in that car,” Tretheway complained.

“The roof's a little drafty,” Jake defended.

Addie hung their coats up on the hall stand. They both laid their fur hats on the top of Tretheway's trophy cabinet.

“How about some hot tea?” Addie offered.

“Love it, Addie,” Jake said.

“But not with that mob.” Tretheway referred to the breakfast noises coming from the kitchen and dining rooms. Students with early morning classes were noisily eating porridge, toast, eggs, waffles and anything else Addie had prepared for the morning meal.

“In here.” Addie pulled apart the sliding parlour doors. “I'll bring some toast in with the tea.”

Tretheway and Jake glanced uncertainly at each other. “Addie,” Jake began.

“I heard about Major-General Wakeley on the radio,” she said.

“Oh,” Jake said.

“And I think it's just terrible.” Addie's lip trembled. “What's going to happen?”

“Don't you worry, Addie,” Jake said.

“But I do!” Addie grabbed Jake by the arm. “It just can't go on and on. I'm really afraid this time.”

“Well …” Jake tried to think of something reassuring to say.

“There won't be any more, Addie,” Tretheway said.

“Pardon?” Addie said.

Jake looked just as surprised as Addie, but didn't say anything.

“I said there won't be any more killings.” Tretheway locked eyes with his sister. “That's a promise.”

“But…” Addie began.

“Addie,” Tretheway said, “if you want to worry about something, worry about the tea.”

“Well …” Addie let go of Jake's arm and looked down selfconsciously as she straightened the front of her dress. “Oh,” she remembered suddenly, “Wan Ho called.” She took the message from her pocket and read aloud. “Medical Report. Three small calibre 22's. One large calibre tentatively identified as WWI Mauser pistol…” She looked up. “Does that make sense?”

“The big bang.” Tretheway brightened.

Addie started for the kitchen. “I'll bring in some hot buttered buns, too. You look starved.”

The thought of Tretheway looking starved made Jake chuckle to himself. He was tempted to ask about the “no-more-killings” remark, but refrained. Over the years Jake had learned that if Tretheway wanted to tell him something, he'd do it in his own good time—and probably tell him before anyone else—but asking or prodding didn't hurry the process.

For the next two weeks, Tretheway was noticeably quiet. He went upstairs to his own room earlier than usual, spent more time sitting back in his oversized chair puffing smoke rings at the
ceiling and, although not grouchy, used no more words than necessary when forced into a conversation. The only time he came slightly out of his shell was when word reached him of Zulp's new theory.

Apparently when Chief Zulp was researching November 18, he stumbled on, or in his words was guided to, the fact that Sir William Schwenck Gilbert was born on this day. And that this was the Gilbert of Gilbert and Sullivan who wrote, among other things,
The Pirates of Penzance.
One of the most popular songs from the operetta and Zulp's favourite was “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.” The fact that Wakeley held the same unusual rank in the Cadet Corps was enough to excite Zulp into forgetting, or at least putting aside, the John Dillinger Birthday Theory.

“And now it's my job to find some sort of tie-in,” Wan Ho moaned. He was in the traffic office where he had come to tell Tretheway the latest turn of events.

Tretheway laughed out loud. “Like he was killed by a travelling Gilbert and Sullivan chorus?”

“Or sung to death,” Jake suggested.

Wan Ho had to smile. “Our Chief huge reservoir of irrelevance,” he said in his best Charlie Chan imitation. Wan Ho folded his hands across his stomach and bowed stiffly. “Thank you so much.”

Tretheway's good mood lasted the rest of the day, but the next morning he was as sombre as before. He continued so into December.

On Wednesday morning, exactly two weeks before Christmas Day, Tretheway made a short announcement without lifting his eyes from the breakfast table.

“I've got some thinking to do. It might take some time. I'll be upstairs.” He looked up at a surprised Addie. “I'd appreciate it if you'd send my lunch up. And maybe dinner.” He pushed his chair back.

“But… what about work?” Addie asked.

“I've got some sick leave coming.” Tretheway pushed his way out the swinging door.

Addie and Jake listened while the sounds of Tretheway's footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

“Well,” Addie said. “What do you make of that?”

“Just what he said,” Jake said. “He's got some thinking to do.”

“Should I call Dr Nooner?” she asked.

“No. Leave him be, Addie.” Jake stood up. “I'll look in on him tonight.”

As it worked out, Jake had to alibi for his boss for the next three days. He coped with all the paper work he could manage and hoped that the department would more or less run itself temporarily.

Addie inveigled some students to run Tretheway's meals upstairs four times a day. Tretheway acknowledged their services with a curt but civil grunt at his door. Between meals, he would bellow from his doorway for different things—an encyclopedia, the ‘C' volume of the
Book of Knowledge,
an obscure history book of Jake's—which were also run upstairs. But mainly, he stayed in his room.

At one point, Addie tip-toed to the door and listened. She was rewarded only by the sound of chalk squeaking on a blackboard, low mutterings, pages turning briskly and, just before she went back downstairs, the unmistakeable pop of a bottle top. Finally, on Friday night, Tretheway ended his self-imposed quarantine.

Jake and Addie were making themselves as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances, in the parlour. Tea was brewing on the wheeled table. The radio was tuned to the NBC Red Network in anticipation of “The Amos and Andy Show”. Faint noises came from the kitchen where some of the boarders were cleaning up and finishing the dishes for Addie. It was relatively quiet. The students who hadn't gone home for Christmas were studying for the last of the exams. O. Pitts, though, had announced that he wasn't going anywhere for the holidays, so Addie had invited him for Christmas dinner and to the New Year's Eve party. It was just as well, she thought, that her brother was upstairs. He would find out soon enough about O. Pitts.

When the first bars of the “Amos and Andy” theme song floated over the air waves and the Westminster chimes of the mantel clock marked seven o'clock, Tretheway dramatically pulled open the doors of the parlour.

“Albert!” Addie said. “You gave me quite a start.”

“Hi, Boss,” Jake said, with genuine relief.

Tretheway's face shone from a recent shave. His hair was neatly brilliantined into place. He looked pleased with himself. Stretched across his chest, on a freshly-laundered white sweat shirt were the words “Individual Champion Empire Games 1928.”

“Addie, Jake,” he said in quiet greeting. “Is there any tea left?”

“Certainly.” Addie pushed forward in her chair. “Your mug's on the trolley.”

“Don't get up.” Tretheway poured himself half a mugful and carried it back to his chair.

“Everything all right?” Jake said. “Is there …”

Tretheway held up his hand in a gesture perfected by thirteen years of directing traffic. “Let's hear ‘Amos and Andy'.”

For the next thirty minutes, they smiled, chuckled and belly laughed through the blackface comedy program. At least Tretheway and Addie did. Jake recalled later that, although he had laughed along with Tretheway and Addie, he couldn't remember one funny line, situation or joke in the whole show. At the end of the program, which seemed interminable to Jake, Tretheway was ready to talk.

“Jake.”

“Hm?” Jake perked up.

“I'd like to go over a few thoughts with you. About the case.”

“Sure,” Jake said. “Anytime.”

“It might take an hour.”

“That's all right.”

“Or two.”

“There's nothing on the radio anyway.”

“Let's go.” Tretheway stood up. “If you'll excuse us, Addie.”

Addie wrinkled her forehead.

“Don't look so worried,” Jake said. “Everything'll be all right.”

Addie looked questioningly at Tretheway. He nodded.

Inside Tretheway's quarters, Jake was struck once again by the warm, intimate atmosphere. He had been there before and his reaction was always the same. On the one hand, Jake enjoyed the relaxed and interesting surroundings, but, on the other, he felt as though he was prying into Tretheway's private life.

It was a high-ceilinged, spacious room, decorated in muted browns, on the second floor corner. There were two recessed nooks on either side of the door that couldn't be seen until you had gone into the room and turned around. The one on the left held Tretheway's roll-top desk, a swivel chair and a floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcase. Many contemporary whodunits, Shakespeare's tragedies and a complete set of law books jammed the shelves. On the right hand side, behind a closed door, Jake knew there was a bathroom. It contained the usual toilet and sink, but because of a previous embarrassing experience, similar to the rumble seat episode, Tretheway had replaced the bathtub with an elaborate, king-sized shower stall.

Directly opposite the door was Tretheway's impressive oversized bed. To one side of it, by a large window, stood an eight-drawer dresser, side table, lamp and straight chair. On the other side, by another large window, was Tretheway's favourite orange chair with matching footstool and a small table that held some magazines, a humidor of cigars and a souvenir ashtray made from a World War I artillery shell.

The room would have been symmetrical if it were not for a curtained recess beside the orange chair. Tonight the curtain was open, revealing a small counter and cupboards flanking an ice-box that held Molson Blue and several old cheeses. On the counter top rested a toaster, a single hot plate and the makings for tea.

Near Tretheway's bed hung a group of framed photographs.
Addie appeared in a couple—once alone and once with an older couple who Jake assumed were the elder Tretheways. A picture of a ridiculously young, khaki-clad soldier, with two wound stripes on his sleeve, showed Tretheway in earlier days. Several pictures of policemen, at ease and in uniform, shared the gallery with some of Tretheway's track and field companions. There was one picture, no larger or more colourful than the rest, that dominated the grouping. In a simple, oval frame was a soft-focus sepia print of a girl in her early twenties. Her hauntingly beautiful eyes demanded your attention. Jake had never asked about her and Tretheway had never volunteered an explanation.

The room boasted the unusual luxury of an open fireplace. Overall, a mixture of fresh linen, cigar smoke, burning applewood and Yardley's after shave provided a pleasant aroma.

“Make yourself comfortable, Jake.” Tretheway handed Jake a beer and popped one for himself. He dragged a blackboard into the centre of the room.

Jake sat down on the bed, then realized that because of the two mattresses and double sets of springs, his legs dangled uncomfortably over the edge like a young child's in a high chair. He climbed down, decided against being engulfed in the orange chair and took a few tentative squats on the footstool.

“Dammit, Jake. Sit down.” Tretheway said.

Jake settled for a straight chair in front of the blackboard. He crossed his legs and looked attentive. Tretheway began.

“The first three, or really four happenings, were trial balloons. Tests. Experiments.” He wagged his finger at Jake for emphasis. “And practice.”

Jake raised his hand uncertainly.

“What is it?” Tretheway asked.

“Is it all right to ask questions?”

Tretheway thought for a moment. “It might even help,” he said. “Do you have one?”

“Yes.” Jake stood up. “When you say the first three or four, do you mean starting at February? Or is the piece of coal thing one of them?”

“You don't have to stand up,” Tretheway said. Jake sat down. “But you're right. New Year's Day was the first one.” He picked up a giant night stick—a souvenir piece covered with pen and ink signatures that his division had given him—to use as a pointer.
“This case has a logic, even a rhythm to it. As I've said before, a pattern. There are things we're supposed to see, such as the ceremony, or rituals. And there are things we're not supposed to see, like the mistakes.”

Tretheway tapped the blackboard with this stick. He had chalked the left half into twelve squares with neat, but hard-to-read, scrawls in each space. The right half was blank.

“I've marked the board, here, into twelve months. And as you can see, I've written in the holiday and any pertinent facts for each one.”

Jake looked puzzled.

“You can't see,” Tretheway stated.

Jake shook his head.

“Very well.” Tretheway pointed at the first square. “This is January. It says Gum. New Year's Day. Coal.”

“I see,” Jake said.

“The holiday was New Year's Day. Not New Year's Eve. And the piece of coal is what I mean by ceremony. In this case, a European custom that says, to bring luck, the first visitor to a home in the new year must be of dark complexion. That is, not blonde. And bear a gift. The traditional gift being a piece of coal. And you've never heard of that?”