Murder at the Movies (4 page)

“What?”

“The son of a bitch is four feet tall.”

The police sent a car.

Three burly policemen, aided by two SPCA employees hastily called in for the occasion, eventually cornered the disoriented bird in one of the small backyards. The amazed captors watched while the creature spread its wings, almost ten feet across, and attempted an awkward escape. It half flew into a fence and a tree, then rammed a storage shed in the next yard. Even though it was stunned, it took all of them to hold the bird's wings down and slip a small sack over the upper part of its body. A convenient but puzzling length of stout rope already tied to the bird's left ankle was used to bind its legs together. The SPCA pair carried the subdued bird to the waiting ambulance for the trip back to the shelter, an end to the night's entertainment. An early phone call to the police from Dundurn Castle the next day explained the whole thing, almost.

In 1832, Allan Napier McNab purchased property in Fort York's north-west end with a breathtaking view of Wellington Square Bay. Immediately the young lawyer began construction of a regency-style mansion that was to be, in his words, “the finest home west of Montreal.” McNab named it Dundurn after his
ancestral seat in Scotland. Impressed with its grandeur, the locals dubbed it a castle. The misnomer stuck.

Dundurn Castle contained about fifty rooms. They included an imposing entrance hall with a magnificent hanging walnut staircase, an elegant drawing room, a library, several sitting rooms, a smoking room and a formal grand dining room with French doors leading onto terraces and gardens. It also boasted a schoolroom for McNab's daughters.

Sir Allan McNab, knighted for his actions in the 1873 Rebellion, went on to great political success. He became in turn the leader of the Tory-Conservatives, Speaker of the Assembly and, from 1845 to 1856, the Prime Minister of Canada. During this period several additions were made to Dundurn; a family burial plot, stables, two elaborate gazebos, a small octagonal building to house cockfights and, of course, the customary aviary.

Such an estate demanded a lavish lifestyle, which in the end proved too expensive even for Sir Allan. At his death, Dundurn was heavily mortgaged. The furnishings were sold at auction and for two years it stood vacant. Subsequent residents also found it too costly to maintain. In 1900 the City of Fort York purchased the whole property and renamed it Dundurn Museum. It became a storehouse for artifacts and old furniture donated by well-meaning citizens. The locals still called it Dundurn Castle.

When the Museum staff reported for work that Monday morning, they discovered the damage. A heavy wire screen covering the outside section of the aviary had been cut and rolled back, providing easy access to the open skies for all the birds. This included their prize ornithologic exhibit, the California Condor.

As a possible compensation for being scared out of their wits the night before by an intimidating vulture, the people who lived in the neighbourhood of Dundurn awoke to a birdwatcher's bonanza. Grey and white cockatiels, tropical love birds, pheasant peacocks, South American cardinals, Peking robins and Zebra finches flitted as birds of a feather through trees and bushes or came to rest on porch railings and bird baths. During the next couple of days, some were humanely trapped by the SPCA or local birders and brought back, while a few, unused to freedom, returned on their own. Others fell prey to cats, hawks, freezing weather or simply flew to the horizon. By week's end, most of the birds, including the star condor, were safely back inside the repaired aviary.

The police classified it as a malicious prank and spent minimum time on the investigation. Citizens in the area and those who read about it in the
FY Expositor
tut-tutted over another case of senseless vandalism and went on to other things. Not so Tretheway.

“I don't like this Dundurn Castle thing either,” Tretheway said.

“Either?” Wan Ho asked. “There's another one?”

“The stolen horse last month.” Tretheway nodded at Jake. “Jake can explain.”

“Well…” Jake looked at his boss.

“Go ahead.” Tretheway prepared himself for a brief embarrassment. “Tell him the whole story. Including the bowler.”

As Sergeant of Detectives, Wan Ho had scanned the stolen horse report. He had not, however, heard about Tretheway's and Jake's part.

Wan Ho played euchre regularly at the Tretheways'. From time to time he joined Tretheway and Jake on movie nights, particularly if a Charlie Chan was on the bill. He and Jake were familiar with all the Honolulu detective's many aphorisms.

Charles Wan Ho had been born in Canada to Chinese parents. His oriental features, refuting ancient Far Eastern legends, usually reflected his emotions; in his own words, not inscrutable. Wan Ho had barely made the minimum height and weight requirements for the police force, but more than made up for this by moving and thinking more quickly than his occidental colleagues. He had risen rapidly throughout the ranks to the impasse of sergeant. In Tretheway's opinion, the FYPD was lucky to have him as a detective.

It was the end of the week. Tretheway had asked Wan Ho to the house ostensibly for some Saturday night euchre, but in truth he was worried about the condor episode. It bothered him for the same reason the stolen horse bothered him; no explanation to scratch the itch of his curiosity. He wanted to talk. The three were sipping hot tea in Addie's kitchen before the card game started. Tretheway sat by while Jake brought Wan Ho
up to date on the bowler saga. He suffered their suppressed mirth in silence.

“How come
your
hat?” Wan Ho asked finally.

“Dumb luck on his part,” Tretheway said. “He must've somehow come across the hat after he'd seen
Flying Deuces
. Fit right in with the movie. Triggered a plan in his mind. A good starter.” He blew on his tea. “In any case he, or for that matter she, was in the theatre. And for the sake of argument, let's assume our very own West End. Let's see.” Tretheway looked at Jake. “We saw
Flying Deuces on
Monday.” Jake nodded. “That means whoever found the hat probably saw the movie on Monday also.”

“It ran for three days,” Wan Ho reminded him.

“The hat could've been stuck under a seat for a night or two,” Jake said.

Tretheway reconsidered. “You're right.” He drained his tea cup. It was twice the size of anyone else's. “So let's say this joker took my hat and saw
Flying Deuces
on the Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday.”

Jake and Wan Ho nodded in agreement.

“But we still don't know why,” Jake said.

“No,” Tretheway said. “But I'm going to find out.”

Neither Jake nor Wan Ho envied the bowler thief.

“But back to this condor thing,” Tretheway said.

“You think it's related to the stolen horse?” Wan Ho asked.

“I don't know that either,” Tretheway said. “Just a feeling. It seems more than random violence. With no purpose. For one thing, whoever did it had to bring heavy wire cutters.”

“You keep saying condor,” Jake said. “Why? What about all the other birds?”

“The rope,” Tretheway explained. “The rope on the condor's leg. As though someone tried to hobble the bird beforehand.”

“Like the SPCA men eventually did,” Jake remembered.

“With the help of three or four uniforms, don't forget,” Wan Ho said.

“Which suggests why our vandal was unsuccessful,” Tretheway said.

“He worked by himself?” Jake asked.

Tretheway nodded. “Or herself.”

Jake and Wan Ho took a moment to digest this food for thought.

Tretheway spoke to Wan Ho. “Now we need your help.”

“Mine?” Wan Ho said. “In what way?”

“You have access to all the reports and information received in the detective division.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That's right.”

“If I want to see them, I have to make an official point of it. You know Zulp.”

Wan Ho and Jake both grinned at Tretheway's reference to their leader Horace Zulp, an old-line policeman from a time when long service meant more than competence, who had simply outlasted his competition to become Chief Constable. His career was framed with uncrossable boundaries. Beat constables walk the beat. Detectives investigate. Cadets do what they're told. And traffic police handle traffic.

“You want to know about stop signs or crosswalks?” Jake said. “We're your man.”

Tretheway smiled briefly and got back to business. “What I want to know is if anything unusual happened around that time. Mid-February. Think about it.”

Wan Ho stared into his cup as if he were reading the tea leaves for a long, quiet fifteen seconds before answering. “Nothing springs to mind.”

“Something you can't explain,” Tretheway prodded.

Wan Ho went quiet again. “Nothing important.”

“But there was something?”

“I don't see how it could relate.”

“Try me.”

“A prowler.” Wan Ho took a notebook from his inside pocket. He leafed through it and stopped. “Last Wednesday. The fifteenth. A prowler was reported. Again on Thursday and Friday. Three separate complaints. Three consecutive nights.”

“The same one?” Tretheway asked.

“We don't know. Never caught him.”

“What'd he look like?” Tretheway asked.

“Man or woman?” Jake asked.

“A shadowy figure lurking in the bushes,” Wan Ho read.

“But still just a prowler,” Tretheway said.

“Except for the complainants' name.” Wan Ho checked his note book again. “Dabb. D-A-B-B. Last name of Dabb.”

“Which one?” Tretheway asked.

“All of them.”

“Eh?”

“They all had the same name.”

“Were they related?” Tretheway asked.

Wan Ho shook his head. “Nope. They didn't even know each other. All from different parts of the city.”

Tretheway leaned against the protesting back of his chair. He folded his arms across his chest as far as they would go. “Doesn't that stretch the laws of coincidence?”