Good Year For Murder (4 page)

The Council twisted awkwardly around in their seats to face the Chief. Chief Zulp handed his notes to one of the Deputies sitting beside him. From his front row seat in the gallery, he stretched to his full height of almost six feet, clasped his working-
class hands behind his back and, rising up and down on the balls of his feet while staring at the ceiling (an attention-getting trick passed on to him by his evangelist father) waited for his audience to become quiet. It did. In a deep, gravelly voice (also passed on from his father) Zulp launched into an eye-glazing discourse on the Cosentino murder.

Chief Zulp was an old line policeman, twenty years Tretheway's senior in age and service. He had learned the rudiments of peacekeeping at a time when it was acceptable practice to put marbles in the fingers of your uniform gloves for flicking street urchins over the head. The Chief had a strong, athletic build. He had actually enjoyed a short career as a second string right wing for the Fort York Tagger Football Club. And although slightly overweight, he was in reasonable physical shape for a man his age. His head was too large for his body, and his ears and nose were too large for his head. The deep furrows and lines that crisscrossed his face gave him an interesting, weathered appearance. Most new men were fascinated by the movements of his nose and jowls when he spoke. Even Tretheway found himself staring at the loose, wrinkled folds of skin rippling around Zulp's neck when he groped for the proper word or phrase. Chief Zulp enunciated concisely, but expressed himself mostly in short, ungrammatical bursts of information.

“So we're after a religious fanatic. My opinion. Strong. Very muscular. A lone strangler.” Zulp rose up and down on the balls of his feet again. “Questions?”

“Sir!” Tretheway stood up.

“What is it, Tretheway?” Zulp snapped. He hadn't expected a question from one of his own men.

“On Sunday, at the scene of the murder, Dr Nooner, the police medical…”

“I know who he is, Tretheway.”

“He suggested that there were at least three, maybe four assailants …”

“Nonsense!”

“Sir?”

The Doctor had, years ago, in his abrasive bedside manner, quickly and correctly diagnosed one of Zulp's heart attacks as gas. “He's no investigator,” Zulp said. “Not trained.”

“He mentioned bruises on the arms of the deceased.”

“Could've come from anything. A fall, maybe. Or something.”

“But Dr Nooner said …”

“Tretheway.” Zulp smiled and spoke slowly as though to a child who couldn't grasp his multiplication tables. “If you cut your finger. Or break a bone. Or get scarlet fever. Then by all means, listen to the Doctor. Sensible. But remember. He's no policeman. But we are.” He pointed at Tretheway. “Inspector.” He pointed at his own chest. “Chief.”

Tretheway sat down.

“More questions?”

Gertrude Valentini raised her hand.

“Mrs Valentini?” Zulp said.

“What are you going to do about us? About our protection.” Although Alderman Valentini was perversely proud that she had been the first victim, she still shivered when she thought of the unknown and now murderous hands that had packaged her unusual St. Valentine's Day gift. “He could strike at any time.”

“Alderman Valentini.” Zulp smiled. “Glad you asked.”

He nudged one of his Deputies who dove into a bulging briefcase and handed him a sealed envelope with the official Fort York coat of arms embossed in the corner.

“Thank you.” Zulp made a small ceremony of opening the envelope. He pulled out a sheaf of letterheads—with the official crest again, this time accompanied by the heading “From the Office of Chief Constable”—and waved them reassuringly to the throng. “The Master Plan.”

The Master Plan was simply a list of the Fort York Aldermen, Controllers and Mayor. Beside each was the name and rank of the two policemen who would guard each politician day and night. That was all there was to it. The junior Aldermen were assigned Constables. Senior Aldermen were guarded by Sergeants (ward four naturally had a Matron) while Controllers had Inspectors and their assistants watching over them. The Mayor, of course, was protected by the two Deputy Chiefs, except for official functions, parties, celebrations, etc., when Chief Zulp himself took over. Henry Plain had given Zulp a minor problem. Although Henry Plain was the unqualified ruler of the civil servants, he stood at the bottom of the political pecking system and, therefore, was an unlikely but possible victim. Zulp finally decided to allocate him two crossing guards from nine to five.

After a brief explanation of the plan, Zulp jumped right into the mechanics.

“Now. I'll call names. Aldermen first. Ward one. They'll stand up. The four policemen assigned to that ward will descend to the Council floor. Take up positions. Behind their respective charges.” He turned and faced the rows of navy blue uniforms behind. “You've got your orders.”

This explained the mysterious notes given to the policemen before the meeting. In the case of Tretheway and Jake, it contained one word: “MacCulla”.

“Familiarize yourself with your man. Or woman. Make sure they know who you are. Introduce yourself. Shake hands if necessary.” Zulp turned back to the meeting. “I'll continue through the Aldermen. Wards one to four. Then the Controllers. The Mayor.” He thumbed through his pages for the proper sheet. “Now. Everybody ready?” Zulp, expecting no answer, paused only briefly. “Ward one. Alderman Lucifer Taz. And Alderman Morgan Morgan.”

The two Aldermen rose. At least, Alderman Morgan rose. Lucifer Taz unfolded from his seat.

Taz was tall, very thin and appeared to be made up mostly of joints. His straight, black hair, plastered wetly against his forehead, and his equally black moustache accentuated the whiteness of his complexion. A scarlet boutonniere blazed tastefully against the drabness of his dark grey lapel. People often said that Taz looked like the perfect Funeral Director (which he was). Compassionate, discreet and knowledgeable in the ways of embalming and bereavement, he had made a deserved success of the undertaking business, in spite of his drinking.

As a politician, he was conscientious, dedicated, at times naïve, but always industrious. He put in more hours than necessary for his constituents. Taz had the best attendance record on Council. When he spoke at a meeting, his choice of words and syntax reflected a university education. His voice was higher than the average woman's.

Taz lived alone above the funeral home where, after work, he wore heavy red flannel or plaid shirts and stuffed his denim overalls into scuffed, hi-cut boots. In the outdoors (he took several church-sponsored camping trips a year) he wore a Hudson's Bay coat with a bonhomme togue and carried a rifle or paddle. He
loved outdoor sports with a passion but could never summon the proper control to coordinate his ungainly length. Lucifer Taz was an enthusiastic, but incompetent, skier, snowshoer, hunter, and canoeist.

Alderman Morgan also drank. He had been born in India to Colonel and Lady Archibald Humphrey, who had given him the Christian name of Morgan, his mother's maiden name.

When young Morgan Humphrey was five years old, his father took part and was killed in a military action now remembered only by dusty English historians: The storming of Kabul, 1879. Morgan's mother went home to England and, never one to indulge in self-pity, remarried within six months. Her second husband was a close cousin with, unfortunately, the surname of Morgan. After many bitter discussions between the Morgans and the Humphreys, the new couple legally adopted the child, thus officially changing his last name to theirs.

Morgan Morgan, although now a Canadian and Fort York Alderman, still looked like a son of Colonel Archibald Humphrey. Morgan stood as though he were on parade, wore his clothes like uniforms and sported a military-style grey moustache. His language was surprisingly foul, but his cultured accent could only have come from years spent in a public (private) school.

The bond between Morgan Morgan and Lucifer Taz was alcohol. Whether together or alone, they drank gin and tomato juice in the morning, wine with their lunch, cocktails and brandy at dinnertime and finished each day with beer. Their attitudes towards drink differed. Where Taz gulped his like medicine with a scowl and shudder, Morgan, who outdrank Taz two to one, sipped his like fine wine, as though he were tasting it anew with each drink. The two were seldom completely sober. And the two policemen who joined the affable Morgan and Taz were specially chosen abstainers.

They mumbled introductions and then stood at ease in the small space behind the Aldermen's chairs. Taz and Morgan sat down.

“Good. Well done. Yes.” Chief Zulp continued with the Master Plan. “Ward two. Alderman Emmett O'Dell. And Alderman F. McKnight Wakeley; Captain, stroke, Major-General.”

The ward two Aldermen stood up. Wakeley saluted while O'Dell, the bigger of the two, smiled indulgently at the crowd
who, he thought, had yet to live through anything like what he had lived through with his two bright green poodles.

Emmett O'Dell was a big man, slightly overweight, with a strong chin, sparkling eyes, large, wet teeth and shamefully curly little boy hair. He spoke in a lilting Irish brogue that called up visions of clay pipes, leprechauns, green fields and shamrocks. When he delivered a speech in Council, his voice was a formidable weapon.

Alderman O'Dell had been brought up in an atmosphere of green beer and maudlin Irish songs. He had been subjected to discussions, magic lantern slides, anecdotes and family histories that praised the Emerald Isle. But he had never been to Ireland. His ward, which contained Corktown, didn't know this.

The Alderman's present wife kept his secret. In fact, the two regularly exchanged presents on March seventeenth. This year, she had given him a too-tight green sleeveless sweater covered with small white harps.

Alderman F. McKnight Wakeley held his salute until the two policemen for ward two mounted the dais. He had this thing about saluting, or really about anything military.

Wakeley had joined the Royal Fort York Light Infantry (Reserve) in 1919 as an officer and worked his way up to Captain. He had also volunteered for the thankless position of titular head of a local high school cadet corps that was affiliated with the RFYLI. This gave him the official privilege of holding the rank of Major-General (Cadet). Although his reserve unit met only once a week, spent an annual ten days at summer camp and received a small stipend (usually free street car tickets) it still gave him the right to wear the King's uniform. This he did often. His favourite walk was from the City Hall to the armouries and back, returning salutes.

Alderman F. McKnight Wakeley was a past president of the Fort York District Officers' Institute (no women allowed), a social club for the military where battles were courageously re-fought over glasses of Pimms' Cups' #2, and brave stories of VC winners were re-told against the background of clicking billiard balls. He drank only socially, watched his diet and did calisthenics every morning to keep fit—which he was. His picture appeared
in the foreground of a recruiting poster for the RFYLI. He was saluting.

“Ward three,” Zulp continued.

Tretheway nudged Jake. The Tretheway boardinghouse was in ward three.

“Alderman Harold Ammerman, and Alderman Bartholomew Gum.”

At the age of seventy-four, Harold Ammerman was the oldest member of City Council. He still had most of his wits about him, but forgot more appointments now and repeated himself more often than he had when he was younger. When interrupting, he had the habit of starting sentences with the annoying phrase, “If I might interject here”.

Alderman Ammerman took his job seriously. As head of the Ward Three Recreational Committee, he worked long hours for the Children's Garden Program. On any clement Saturday morning, Ammerman could be seen gardening alongside groups of small children. He enjoyed an understanding and rapport with them that only the very old can share with the very young. Ammerman was ingenuous, easy going, quick to laugh and generous.

Alderman Bartholomew Gum shared some of Ammerman's attractive traits. He, too, was forthright, laughed loudly (if vacantly at times) and generally gave the impression of contentment with his lot.

Gum, forty-four years old, had lived in the same west-end house all his life and had supported his parents for the last fifteen years. What companions he had had in early life had married, moved away or just outgrown him. Bartholomew's best friend, after his mother, was his bicycle—a black one.

As a young Cub Scout, then Scout and now Scout Leader, Gum was familiar with every stone and tree in his nearby, beloved Coote's Paradise. He knew which trails led to the marsh or to the University, which ones doubled back on themselves or dead-ended and which ones led to the secret places where young, adventurous public school boys smoked their first dried hollyhocks.

Unlike Ammerman, Gum had a small, serious mouth, a button nose and fair, all but invisible, eyebrows and eyelashes. His thick hair was naturally curly and unnaturally jet black. And his weak,
colourless eyes had peered through rimless spectacles since he was in the third grade.

Whenever Gum and Ammerman spent any time together, they laughed and talked jovially but seldom exchanged ideas or clearly understood each other.

Their bodyguards added to the congestion.

“Ward four,” Zulp persisted. His voice softened condescendingly. “Alderman Gertrude Valentini. Alderman Ingird Tommer-up.”

The two women Aldermen perked up but remained seated. It was unusual, even in wartime, to have two ladies elected in a heavy-industry ward. But there were reasons.

Alderman Gertrude Valentini, a widow now for the last ten years, was a Canadian girl who, in a wild romantic youthful episode had fallen in love with and married a Sicilian. The late Mr Valentini had left her, among other things, a surname worth at least a thousand votes in the predominantly Italian ward six.