Good Year For Murder (24 page)

“It was originally the banner of Napoleon's Italian Legion,” O. Pitts was saying. “The 1796 campaign.”

“My, my,” Mrs Valentini replied.

“He designed it.”

“Who?”

“Napoleon. The Italian flag.”

“Oh.”

“That's why it looks so much like the French flag.”

“I see.” Mrs Valentini looked puzzled.

Jake noticed the purse by itself on a small low table in full view of the two conversationalists. He was racking his brains for ways to divert their attention when Emmett O'Dell came to his rescue. The Irish Alderman belted unannounced into the chorus of “Mrs Murphy's Chowder”, easily drowning out Paul Whiteman. Every eye in the room went to him, including Mrs Valentini's and O. Pitts'. Before Mrs O'Dell could quiet down her husband, Jake stuffed the bulky red, white and green evening bag up his cashmere sweater. He left unnoticed, he thought, and made for the bar feeling reasonably pleased with the first part of his mission.

“Why did you steal Mrs Valentini's purse?” Wan Ho asked.

“You saw?” Jake said.

Wan Ho nodded professionally.

“Did anybody else see?” Jake asked.

“I don't think so. But why?”

“I was ordered to,” Jake explained. “I have to take it down to the cellar to the Inspector. He wants you to take my place at the door.”

“What's going on?”

“You now know as much as I do.”

Jake pushed his way back toward the inner hall. He had to pass between Emmett O'Dell, now seated, and Mrs O'Dell, who was consoling him. “Wait till after ‘Auld Lang Syne',” Jake heard her say.

When Jake arrived at Tretheway's side, the purse had already
slipped halfway out of his sweater. Tretheway grabbed it just before it fell to the floor. He opened it roughly and, without compunction, dumped the contents onto a low bench beside The Machine. A set of keys, three floral scented handkerchiefs, a letter, two dark lipsticks, newspaper clippings about the Atlantic sea war, a pencil stub, two eight-ounce unlabelled full bottles, one eight ounce unlabelled empty bottle, paper clips and, naturally, some smelling salts, were among the unsuspicious objects.

“There it is,” Tretheway announced.

Jake picked up the empty bottle. “This?” He unscrewed the top and sniffed. “Smells like turnips.”

“No.” Tretheway picked up the smaller bottle. “This one.”

“Smelling salts?” Jake asked.

“Anyone that faints that much has to have smelling salts.” Tretheway took the top off. A heady aroma filled the air. “Ammonia,” he said.

“What?”

“An alkali.”

Tretheway squatted down beside The Machine. Jake squatted also. Tretheway pointed. “You see that cork?”

Jake nodded.

“Take it out. Very carefully. Under no circumstances make a sudden move.”

“Should I ask why?”

“No.”

Jake steadied himself and did as he was told. When the cork came out, a faint sweet smell mingled with the ammonia already in the air.

“Good boy.” Tretheway touched the jar of Mrs Valentini's smelling salts to the open neck of the vial. He tipped it slowly until the ammonia ran down the inside of the vial and mixed with the colourless liquid. Some of the camphor lumps fell into the solution. There was a sudden bubbling reaction.

“It's boiling,” Jake said.

“Exothermic reaction,” Tretheway said.

“What?”

“Didn't you learn that at FYU?” '

“I took history.”

The two watched while the liquid settled. It appeared unchanged. “Good,” Tretheway said.

“What did we just do?” Jake asked.

“Decomposed an ester. Put the cover back the way it was.”

Jake reached out for the tarp.

“Gently,” Tretheway said.

“We still have to be careful?”

“Let's say extra safe.”

“But I thought we just …”

“I'm a policeman. Not a goddam chemist.”

When the cover was safely in place, Tretheway walked away. Jake replaced Mrs Valentini's belongings in her purse and followed. He stopped just in time to avoid a collision when Tretheway halted abruptly at the foot of the cellar stairs. Tretheway turned around. “What's the time?”

Jake checked his wrist. “Eleven-thirty.”

“And how long does The Machine take to smash a bottle?”

“Ten minutes.”

“That gives us twenty minutes.” Tretheway searched fruitlessly in his new pockets for a cigar. “Let's go look for someone with a tooth mark on his hand. Presumably his right hand.”

“Right,” Jake said.

“And get rid of that purse.”

When Jake successfully sneaked the purse back onto the table he had taken it from, it gave him a chance to check the hands of Mrs Valentini and O. Pitts. They were clean. While Jake chose simply to look, Tretheway's method was to shake hands. But he too found nothing. From the limp fishy handshake of Controller MacCulla to the surprisingly strong grip of Mayor Trutt, Tretheway found no cuts, bruises or tooth marks.

They met back at the bar. One of Wan Ho's men handed them each a beer. Wan Ho was still guarding the cellar door.

“Nothing?” Tretheway asked Jake.

Jake shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

Jake nodded.

“You checked everybody?” Jake nodded again.

Tretheway took a long pull of Molson Blue. He surveyed the dance floor. Gum's Scouts were still efficiently serving drinks and sandwiches.

“The Scouts,” Tretheway said.

Jake swallowed fast. “Eh?”

“Did you check the Scouts?”

Jake followed Tretheway's gaze. “They wouldn't punch one of their own.”

“Did you check Mac's Scouts?”

“No.” Jake looked around the room. “I can't see them.”

“I can't see Mac, either.” Tretheway pushed his way across the room with Jake in his wake. They nodded and smiled their way past the guests until they reached Addie.

“Everything all right?” she asked them in a tone that begged for a happy, even if untrue, answer.

“Have you seen Mac?” Tretheway ignored her question.

“Why, yes.” Addie pointed. “He went into the kitchen a few minutes ago.”

Tretheway made for the kitchen.

“Everything's fine, Addie.” Jake patted her arm and felt the soft texture of his gift. “Don't you worry.”

Addie smiled an answer.

When Jake pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen, he found Tretheway standing in the centre of the empty room.

“Where is he?” Jake asked.

“Has to be outside.” Tretheway went to the back door. He stepped out onto the porch. Jake followed. Tretheway didn't notice the cold.

“Maybe we should get our coats on.” Jake shivered.

“No time.”

“But it's still snowing.”

“Good.” Tretheway pointed to a set of fresh footprints leading away from the porch. “There's our man.”

Once off the shovelled porch they became part of the winter night. The wind howled about their bare heads, at times stinging their cheeks and eyes with snowflakes. They followed the trail, crouching like common burglars, with Jake trying to place his street shoes into the larger holes in the snow made by Tretheway's boots. As they rounded the corner of the old house, a large black flying object hit Tretheway square in the chest. He fell back on Jake with the black thing on top of both of them. Tretheway swung wildly. He felt a sudden swoosh of hot breath on his face as his fist sunk into the soft belly of Fred the Labrador. The dog yelped. She jumped off Tretheway's chest.

“Damdog!” Tretheway scrambled to his feet and pulled Jake up. “Why'd he do that?”

“It's the snow.”

“Eh?”

“She goes funny when it's fresh. Didn't mean anything. Just playful. Here, Fred.” The dog, wheezing sheepishly, came to Jake. “Good girl.” He rubbed her stomach.

“What the hell are you petting him for?”

“She thinks she did something bad.”

“He did!”

Jake didn't answer.

“Keep him quiet.” Tretheway started on the trail again.

It led them along the back of the house. They could hear enough of the party sounds through the thick walls of the sunroom to know that Addie had tuned in Guy Lombardo and Times Square. Tretheway stopped at the forsythia hedge, now weighed down with snow, which separated this part of the garden from the driveway.

“The garage.” Tretheway spread some of the branches apart with his bare hands and peered through. “I think it goes to the garage.”

“Can you see anything?” Jake tried to see through the hedge.

“We'll have to get closer. I can't… wait a minute.”

“What?”

“Someone's there.”

“Where?” Jake whispered.

Tretheway pointed.

They watched through the falling flakes while a shadowy figure left the black square of the open garage door and flitted from bush to evergreen in its progress down the driveway. As the figure left the protection of a large elm tree, the capricious wind swirled the snow away from their line of sight. For a short but clear second, they saw their quarry silhouetted against a snowbank before it disappeared around the side of the house.

“You see that?” Tretheway asked.

“Yes.” Jake nodded excitedly. “Looked like some sort of uniform. And a funny hat.”

“Not a hat. A pickelhaube.”

“What?”

“A broken pickelhaube.”

A clanging sound of metal against metal interrupted their discussion. For the second time since he had left the house, Jake felt a chill.

“Let's go.” Tretheway stepped out from behind the forsythia and bulldozed his way through a drift with, Jake thought, nowhere near enough caution. And Jake could think of no good reason not to follow. Halfway down, Tretheway stopped. “Look.” He pointed at the ground. Other footprints joined the ones they were following to create a confusing pattern.

“Where'd they go?” Jake asked.

Tretheway looked up and down the empty driveway.

“Up the wall?” Jake suggested.

Tretheway shook his head.

“Did they double back?”

“We'd've seen them.”

“Around the front?”

“Didn't have time.”

“They can't just disappear.”

In a three foot section of jog, a square iron door faced the street for the convenience of coal delivery. Tretheway pointed. “The coal chute!” He lifted the heavy cast-iron door and propped it open. The opening and beyond was black. Nothing could be seen. The two of them squatted down and listened.

Sounds overlapped. They heard the wind in the distance; they heard the spinning wheels of a nearby car stuck in the snow; they heard the muffled sounds of Guy Lombardo; they heard Fred panting; but most distinctly of all, they heard someone shouting in a language they didn't understand.

“Give me your revolver,” Tretheway said to Jake.

“I don't have it.”

“Where is it?”

“At the office.”

“Damn!”

“What about yours?”

“We'll have to go in without them.”

“Don't you think we should tell someone? Like Wan Ho? Or his men? I'll bet they've got guns.”

Tretheway ignored Jake's questions. “I'll go first.” He stood up and made another quick decision. “Feet first.”

With Jake helping, Tretheway climbed into the opening as quietly
as possible. It was adequate for most of his body. His feet, legs and lower parts slid smoothly down the metallic chute with no problem. Then, with his arms pinned to his sides and only his head and shoulders protruding from the hole in the wall, what Jake knew was bound to happen, happened.

“I can't go any further,” Tretheway said.

“Eh?”

“Push!”

Jake pushed as hard as he could.

“It's no good,” Tretheway said. “Pull me out. I'll try head first.”

Jake exerted himself in the other direction. “Harder!”

He pulled harder and still Tretheway didn't budge. Jake straightened up, breathing heavily. Fred licked Tretheway's face.

“Do something!”

Jake leaned over close to Tretheway's head, which now appeared upside down to him. “This might hurt a little, but it's our only chance.”

“Hurry up!”

Jake ran back across the driveway and up a large snow bank. He turned and faced Tretheway. Rocking back and forth on his feet like a decathlon champion at the start of a high jump run, Jake readied himself for the attempt. The back door opened.

“Albert! Are you out there?” Addie shouted. “It's almost midnight. Jake!”

Jake took off down the snow bank and across the driveway. He leaped high in the air just before he got to Tretheway. His jump was perfectly timed. With his legs straight out ahead of him, knees locked, he landed with his full hundred and forty pounds astride Tretheway's head, one foot on each shoulder. The force was enough to pop Tretheway loose. He disappeared down the chute.

Jake lay in the snow and listened. Tretheway's bellow echoed from the depths of the cellar. Whether it was caused by pain, fear, rage, or was simply a battle cry, Jake could only guess. He scrambled to his knees and poked his head into the opening. Black dust stung his eyes and offended his nostrils. He heard the sounds of coal shifting noisily with lumps hitting the wooden sides of the bin. A poker clanged on the concrete floor. Someone cursed
in German. Then, except for the party noises upstairs, there was silence.

“You okay?” Jake shouted down the chute.

“Come down,” Tretheway answered.

“I'll take the stairs.”

“Now!”

Jake shook his head and thought about the teaching job he had passed up to join the force. He pulled his jacket tightly around him to protect his new sweater. Closing his eyes, he pushed off with his legs and slid head first into the coal bin. His alarmingly fast slide down the chute, worn smooth with years of coal delivery, stopped abruptly when his head hit the shock-absorbing mound of Tretheway's stomach.