Good Year For Murder (21 page)

Jake shook his head again. Tretheway shrugged.

“It doesn't seem like much by itself, but I'm convinced it was well-planned. There's the element of boldness about it. Chance-taking. Illegal entry. I'll bet they all went in. A dark one first. That's trespass. But if they'd been caught it would've been laughed off. A joke. No harm done. Especially after a New Year's Eve party. But they weren't caught. They got away with it.”

“Why a holiday?” Jake asked.

“Arbitrary. A good choice, really. But basically a red herring. A vehicle. A better question would be, why
not
a holiday? Gave them something to plan around. And don't forget, the first four, or even five, could've been laughed off as pranks. And at the same time, it was a perfect cover-up for their real purpose.”

“Which was?”

“As old as time.” Tretheway held his hand up. “But let's be as logical as they are. Don't rush things.”

Tretheway downed the last of his beer bottle. He went to the ice-box. “You ready, Jake?”

Jake took a two-handed pull from his own bottle and choked. He coughed and sputtered. “Wrong way,” he whispered hoarsely. He held his hand up and shook his head.

Tretheway popped another bottle and came back to the blackboard.

“Now you have a group who've pulled off their first experiment successfully. What do they do now?” Tretheway didn't wait for, or expect, an answer. “Valentine's Day. A little riskier. A little more elaborate. The chicken's not important, but the arrow through the heart is. That's the ceremony. A symbol of love. And the name of the recipient? Valentini. Perfect. And remember what she said? A delivery man handed it to her. She couldn't describe him but everyone knows her eyesight is terrible. She said there was a van parked at the curb. I'll bet the rest of them were in it. And if they'd been caught, which they weren't, it was just a prank again. A little more serious, but not criminal.”

“Wait a minute,” Jake interrupted. Beer always gave him confidence. “You mean Mrs Valentini was that close to the murderer?”

“It's my guess he handed her the package.”

“He?”

“That's right.”

“Not a woman?”

“I don't think a woman would send a valentine to another woman. An improper ceremony. Not traditional.”

Jake thought for a moment. “And how come he picks politicians? Another red herring?”

“No. That was all part of his plan. And in March,” Tretheway continued without further explanation, “the boldness escalated again.” He pointed to the third square. “St. Patrick's Day. Emmett O'Dell. Poodles. The logistics were more complicated. Getting the green dye there. Sneaking around the back yard at night. The ceremony of dunking the dogs. A lot more risk. Good practice for greater things. But still no real harm. And a good tie-in. I mean, have you heard of a more Irish name than O'Dell?”

Jake nodded. “And they got away again.”

“Exactly. And the same deal in April.” Tretheway deciphered his scrawlings in the next square. “April Fool's. Fire. Mayor Trutt. And another great tie-in. The Mayor used to be a fireman. Everyone knew he was afraid of fire. And more than one person calls him a fool.” Tretheway put his beer bottle down and wiped his
wet palms on his sweatshirt. “The hanging jester was a nice piece of ceremony. And the choice of time was interesting. Just before dawn. I'm convinced that was to accommodate the
FY Expositor
photographer. That's nerve. Bold.” Tretheway pointed his night stick at Jake. “There'd be less risk at, say, midnight. Or two in the morning.”

“You're right,” Jake said.

“May twenty-fourth. Queen's birthday. Firecrackers. Mac.” Tretheway smacked the palm of his free hand with the night stick-several times.

“Don't smear the signatures,” Jake said.

“Eh?”

Jake pointed at the night stick.

“Oh.” Tretheway took the baton out of his hand and examined it carefully. “It doesn't fit.”

“What?” Jake said.

“I've said it before. The twenty-fourth of May doesn't fit the pattern. There wasn't that much risk. No particular boldness required. No ceremony. How could he be sure Mac would light the fire? And what's the tie-in with the Queen's birthday?” Tretheway smacked hs palm again. “No. It didn't come off.”

“Do you know why?” Jake asked.

“I have an idea,” Tretheway said.

Jake waited. Tretheway turned to the blackboard again. “But they sure as hell made up for it.” He smacked the next month with his stick. “June. Father's Day. Father Cosentino. They graduate into murder. Big time. Ceremony bolder than ever. Strangled with a typical Father's Day gift. Fits the pattern perfectly. This time, they had to get away with it. And they did.”

Jake waited for Tretheway to settle down before he asked a question. “Does religion enter into it? I mean, with Father Cosentino being a priest?”

“No. I don't think so.” Tretheway exchanged his night stick for a piece of chalk. “Now, let's write down what we know for sure. And things we were supposed to see.” He translated aloud as he scribbled on the blank right hand half of the blackboard. “Killer strikes on holidays. Victims—politicians. Specifically FY City Council. Careful planning. Imaginative. Bold.”

He looked at Jake. “Think of anything else?”

Jake shook his head. Tretheway drew a double line under his notations.

“And now the things we're not supposed to see. The mistakes.” He bent down to the board again. “Male,” Tretheway said as he wrote. “That much we learned, or surmised from St. Valentine's Day.” He wrote again. “And more than one. That was confirmed by Dr Nooner on Father's Day.” He straightened up. “Now in July, he started to get tricky.” Tretheway poked his ear thoughtfully with the piece of chalk. “The holidays so far had been pretty legitimate. Regular. Run of the mill. Predictable holidays. And I still say Dominion Day, July first, was the next logical choice.”

“Then why …”

“Maybe just for that reason. Too obvious. Maybe he knew that we knew. Everyone was ready for it. Prepared. There's a fine line between boldness and bravado. So when he didn't strike on Dominion Day, we thought that was the end of it. Remember Zulp's theory that all events climaxed with Cosentino's murder? Sounded reasonable. Then he surprised us on July fifteenth.” Tretheway shook his head. “St. Swithin's Day. Who the hell ever heard of St.Swithin'sDay?”

“Addie did,” Jake said.

“I know that now,” Tretheway snapped. “And it had all the usual tie-ins. Miss Tommerup was the closest to a Viking on City Council. The Rain Saint. The rain barrel. Hell, it even rained that day. Probably during the murder. The ceremony.”

Jake shuddered.

“But there was one thing we weren't supposed to see,” Tretheway went on. “The mistake.”

“What's that?”

Tretheway turned back to his list. “Maltese Cross,” he said as he wrote. “Remember? Pressed into Ingird Tommerup's leg.”

Jake winced as he nodded.

“By itself, not too significant. But put them all together …”

Tretheway trailed off. He finished his second Molson. Jake drained his first. Tretheway took a beer from the ice-box and brought Jake another without asking.

“Civic Holiday next,” Tretheway said. “Caught us off guard again. A regular holiday this time. Remember Zulp spreading the word about St. Bartholomew's Day? Poor little Henry Plain. Not an elected official, but very important to the running of city government.
The head civic employee. There's your obvious neat tie-in. Smothered in paper. An inspiration. How often had you heard Henry say that?”

“His favourite saying,” Jake said.

“Bold. Daring. Well-planned but not perfect.”

“What was their mistake?” Jake asked.

“Pointed heads.” Tretheway scribbled on the blackboard. “We weren't supposed to see. A mistake. Small, but a mistake.”

“What's it mean?”

“Wait'll we get them all together.” Tretheway picked up the night stick in his free hand. He tapped the blackboard. “That was August. Now September. Everybody breathed easier after Labour Day. An unusual holiday. But perfect casting. Lucifer skewered with a flaming sword. Dramatic. Just like the legend. Obvious. The daisies spread around. The ceremony more elaborate, but again climaxing with murder. Everything out in the open for all to see.”

“What weren't we supposed to see?”

“Hear,” Tretheway corrected. “And this time, we didn't find out till Morgan told us.”

“Told us what?”

“The organ music. Remember? God bless Morgan for recognizing Wagner.”

“How does that fit in?”

“In a minute.” Tretheway chalked the composer's name in at the bottom of the list.

“Don't you think Morgan killed Taz?” Jake asked.

Tretheway shook his head. “He stumbled into it.”

“But…” Jake began.

“Patience, Jake.” Tretheway poked his night stick at October. “Hallowe'en. The perfect night for a murder. Dark and spooky. They were in costume. Perfect cover if anybody saw them. Ammerman did, up close. He was too old and they knew it. They ran him. Threatened him. And scared him to death. The boldness was there again. But this time, they had dumb luck on their side.”

“You mean in the woods?”

“Yes. The sassafras leaves puts them at the Point. If we'd had the luck, old Ammerman might still be with us.”

“I know,” Jake said. “And what about that spearhead we found? Does that figure at all?”

“Yes,” Tretheway said. “Definitely. A bonus. But it's not a spearhead.”

“What is it?”

“The top part of a pickelhaube,” Tretheway said.

“Pickle what?”

Without any further explanation, Tretheway legibly printed the word PICKELHAUBE on the blackboard. He put the chalk down along with the night stick. Taking one of his giant cigars from the humidor, he twirled it between his lips, then deliberately lit the business end. Clouds of smoke surrounded his head.

“The eighteenth of November.” Tretheway blew the smoke away. “That's the key date, Jake. That's the one that tightens the weave. Binds the cheese. Straightens the horizon, so to speak.”

“Nothing to do with Gilbert and Sullivan?” Jake chuckled.

“No.” Tretheway smiled and shook his head. “Nor with the underworld.”

“Then what was it?”

“On November the eighteenth, 1931, Karl Von Clausewitz died.” Tretheway blew several smoke rings in the air. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Jake looked blank.

“Dammit, Jake.” Tretheway prompted. “You're the college man. Didn't you major in history?”

“Wait a minute.” Jake's blankness disappeared. “German writer.”

“Prussian,” Tretheway corrected.

“That's right. Ah … military writer. Wrote on the science, or art, of war. Certainly. He actually fought against Napoleon.
On War
was the name of his best known work. Tremendous strategist. Very influential. Even today he's studied for military tactics.”

“That's the one,” Tretheway said. “He was big on total war. War on citizens, territory or property. Anything goes.”

“But why Clausewitz?” Jake asked.

Tretheway thought for a moment. “Everybody has an idol. Shakespeare, Roosevelt, Churchill, Pasteur.”

“Syl Apps, Lawson Little,” Jake interrupted.

Tretheway frowned and went on. “Suppose for some reason, our man's idol was Clausewitz. Maybe he discovered him when he was young. Maybe he just fell into an open slot in the murderer's
philosophy. But, anyway, suppose Clausewitz became his patron saint or leader. There are books available about him in every library in Canada. It's hard to find a writer on warfare in the last hundred years who hasn't quoted—or misquoted—Clausewitz somewhere in his work. And these quotes—mind you most of them are out of context—are very interesting.”

“Oh?”

“Listen to what he says about being nervy. ‘Boldness is the stamp of a hero.' He says more, but that shows his position.”

“Obviously, he thought boldness was a good thing,” Jake said.

“Undoubtedly,” Tretheway said. “And he doesn't mind killing people. ‘Let us not hear of generals who conquer without bloodshed.' How did you like that?”

“Does our killer consider himself a general?” Jake said.

“Yes. Or, at least a leader. There are all sorts of other quotes, but listen to this one. His most famous. I think it tells us something about the murderer.” Tretheway cleared is throat. “ ‘War is a mere continuance of political policy by another means.' “

“You mean…” Jake started.

“I mean that our man is a politician first. A killer second. The murders were merely an extension of a political belief.”

“What political belief?”

“German.”

“But …”

“Check the list.” Tretheway threw his cigar in the fireplace and retrieved his chalk and night stick. He banged the blackboard. “We have a leader, or general if you prefer, and a group of followers. Extremely loyal followers. ‘There is nothing in war that is of greater importance than obedience.' There's one I forgot.”

Tretheway drew a line through the word “Maltese” and scribbled something else over it. “Change Maltese to Iron Cross. Same shape. A German wartime decoration for bravery. Next!”

He smacked the board for emphasis.

“The music Morgan heard. Wagner. German composer. Clausewitz's favourite.”

Tretheway pushed his hand into his pocket and brought out the pointed metal object found on the floor of the garden hut. The flickering light from the fireplace danced on the metal spike as Tretheway held it at arm's length. “A pickelhaube is a Prussian steel helmet. The very symbol of Prussian and German armed
might for years. You remember. The Kaiser wore one. They couldn't make a move about the First World War without one. And this is the spike from the top of a pickelhaube. A pointed head.”