Murder at the Movies (9 page)

“Or
The Drum
,” Wan Ho said. “Another great movie.”

“There's two more Shirley Temples,” Jake said.

“How many bloody movies did she make?” Tretheway asked.

“What are they?” Wan Ho asked.

“
Wee Willie Winkie
. About the British army in India. And
Susannah of the Mounties
. Both have red coats.”

“Weren't they black-and-white movies?” Wan Ho asked Jake.

“So use your imagination.”

“Let's get on with it,” Tretheway said. “What about the cocked hat?'

“
Kidnapped
,” Wan Ho said immediately.

“
Drums Along the Mohawk
,” Jake said.

“This is a pretty big field,” Tretheway said. “Could be anything from
Mutiny on the Bounty
to
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
.”

“Or even
Gulliver's Travels
,” Jake said.

“That's a cartoon,” Wan Ho said.

“Full length.” Jake defended his choice. “And he wore a cocked hat.”

“Include it,” Tretheway said to Jake.

“What's left?” Wan Ho asked.

“The flag,” Tretheway remembered. “The French tricolour.”

“
Beau Geste
,” Jake said. “Has to be the one.”

“Why not
Suez
?” Wan Ho asked.

“Or
Algiers
. Or
Garden of Allah
,” Tretheway said. “Even the old
Count of Monte Cristo
.”

“They all have a French theme,” Wan Ho said.

“You're right,” Jake admitted. “And don't forget Stan and Ollie joined the French Foreign Legion in
Flying Deuces
.”

“I don't think our Fan'll use a movie more than once,” Tretheway said.

“Either do I,” Wan Ho agreed.

“So let's move on,” Tretheway said. “The crown. A replica crown of George III.”

“In
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
,” Wan Ho said, “the bad guys were after the British crown jewels.”

“Good choice,” Tretheway said.

“
The Tower of London
,” Jake said. “Basil Rathbone played Richard III. That sure suggests a crown.”

“So does
The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex
,” Wan Ho said.

“There was a king in
Robin Hood
,” Jake said.

“Richard the Lion-Heart,” Tretheway remembered.

“What about a title with the word ‘king' in it?” Wan Ho suggested.

“Eh?”

“You mean like
King of Chinatown
?” Jake asked.

“Why not?” Wan Ho said. “Or
King of Gamblers
.”

“
King of the Underworld
.”

“
King of the Turf
.”

“I think not.” Tretheway stopped their game.” Don't write those down,” he said to Jake.

“We must be close to the end,” Wan Ho said.

“Just one left,” Tretheway said. “Really two. But I've lumped them together. There's a good chance they'd be seen together in the same movie. I've left them purposely until now.”

“Oh?” Jake looked at Wan Ho.

“They're special?” Wan Ho asked.

“Just a feeling.” Tretheway didn't explain further. “Dress uniform frock coat, General, Union Army 1864. And an 1853 cavalry sword with scabbard.”

“There was a great cavalry charge at the end of
Stagecoach
,” Jake said.

“Good one,” Tretheway said.

“
Dodge City
maybe,” Wan Ho said. “Or
Geronimo
.”

“
Union Pacific
,” Jake added.

“Put them all down,” Tretheway said.

“How about the daddy of all charges?” Wan Ho said. “
The Charge of the Light Brigade
.”

“That would only work for the sword,” Tretheway said.

“And it's old,” Jake said.

“Just a couple of years,” Wan Ho said.

“If you want old,” Jake said, “how about
Birth of a Nation
?”

“Too old,” Tretheway said. “I'd rather go the other way.”

Jake and Wan Ho looked puzzled.

Tretheway explained. “I talked to Freeman Thake. He told me they get advance notice of coming
attractions with a synopsis that he or his employees could read, if they're interested. Only a couple of days ahead. Unless there's a special event.”

Jake and Wan Ho still looked puzzled.

“There's a biggy coming up for the West End. Late July,” Tretheway went on. “I've heard about it. And I'm sure you have. Lots of publicity. Even in Fort York. And the American Civil War plays a big part.”

“Oh.” Wan Ho came to life. “The Margaret Mitchell book.”

Jake snapped his fingers. “
Gone With the Wind
.”

“Right,” Tretheway said. “A natural for the uniform and sword.”

“And General Sherman?” Wan Ho asked.

Tretheway shrugged.

Jake wrote down
Gone With the Wind
.

“How many does that give us?” Tretheway asked.

Jake flipped through the pages of his notebook. “I make it just over forty movies.”

“That many?” Wan Ho asked.

“And that's not counting the ones we haven't seen yet,” Jake said.

“Plus twelve stolen items,” Tretheway summed up.

“Surely the Fan isn't planning on using them all?” Jake asked.

“Just one or two, I'd say. But he probably took others in hopes of finding a relevant movie,” Tretheway surmised. “And a couple more just to throw us off the track.”

“Like which ones?” Jake asked.

“Maybe the cocked hat,” Wan Ho suggested.

“Maybe.” Tretheway shook his head. “But don't
forget what he did with the bowler.” He shifted in the jumbo wicker armchair, jamming his hands as far as they would go into his warm armpits.

After a few minutes of thoughtful, discouraging silence, Wan Ho spoke.

“I take it there's nothing we can do right now?”

“Just enjoy the evening.”

The temperature had dropped with the sun. An owl hooted frigidly in the darkness. The intermittent night breeze steadied.

“Invigorating,” Tretheway said. His breath hung, a frosty veil, in front of his face.

“Albert.” Addie opened the back door. “Come on in. You'll catch your death out there. I've made some hot chocolate.”

Jake and Wan Ho lost no time in accepting Addie's invitation. Tretheway followed, grumbling.

T
he second significant event happened a few days later, April 26, a Wednesday. But Tretheway didn't hear about it until Friday.

Addie slid the doors of the parlour open. “It's for you, Albert.” She was up later than usual preparing food for a boarder's Saturday graduation party. “It's Charles Wan Ho,” she announced before retiring to the kitchen.

Jake looked up from his Hornblower novel. “It's late for him,” he said to Tretheway.

Tretheway pushed himself out of the soft chair. Cigar ashes flew. Wayne King music oozed from the radio. “What's the time?” he asked.

“About twenty after eleven,” Jake said.

“He must be working.” Tretheway went to the hall phone. Jake followed.

“This may or may not be important.” Wan Ho's voice crackled through the phone with no preamble.

“Go ahead.” Tretheway bent over and held the receiver upright between his own and Jake's ears.

“Speak up. Jake's listening.”

“I'm at Central. A report just crossed my desk. A large, freshly dug hole was discovered by a Mr and Mrs Coombes in their backyard. Southwest area. 175 Chedoke Avenue. The street runs north and south to the Fort York mountain. It backs onto a creek, then the Fort York municipal golf course. Also called Chedoke.”

Jake nodded. “I know the course,” he whispered to Tretheway.

“The report's dated Thursday morning. Yesterday,” Wan Ho continued. “That means the hole was dug sometime Wednesday night.”

“You called me close to midnight to tell me about a hole in someone's backyard?” Tretheway questioned.

“There's more,” Wan Ho said. “I talked to the investigating officer. He said it was an oblong hole about seven by four feet. And six feet deep. Very neat. The earth piled tidily close by. Sod stacked carefully to one side. He said it looked like a grave.”

“Oh?” Tretheway's interest rose.

“Remember the movie
Gunga Din
?” Wan Ho said.

“Very well,” Tretheway answered. Jake felt a slight shiver travel across his back.

“Didn't the
Thugees
dig graves for their victims?” Wan Ho asked.

“They did,” Jake said. “Ahead of time.”

“Even so,” Tretheway argued, “it's still just a hole in the ground. Unless you have any other …”

“I do,” Wan Ho interrupted. “At the end of the movie, Gunga Din warned the whole damned British
army, saving them from certain annihilation, by playing a bugle. It so happens that Mr Coombes, or really Bugle-Major Coombes, is the leader of the Royal FY Light Infantry Bugle Band. He's probably the city's best known bugler.” Wan Ho paused to let his information sink in. “Would you like to call on the Coombses tomorrow?”

“No,” Tretheway said.

Jake looked surprised.

“But…” Wan Ho started.

“Tonight,” Tretheway said.

“Eh?”

“We'll meet you there,” Tretheway ordered.

Sometime during Tretheway's late night, three-way phone conversation, Bugle-Major Reginald F. Coombes's studded military boots clicked down the metal steps of the FY Street Railway car stopped at the bottom of his street.

As anyone who took the trouble to find out knew, the RFYLI Bugle Band (Reserve) practised every Tuesday and paraded with the regiment every Friday. Both evenings ended convivially. The band's Mess came alive with WWI reminiscences, bawdy military songs and Niagara-On-The-Lake Camp legends mellowed by past tellings, all washed down with countless jugs of nut brown ale.

Acknowledging the friendly clanging bell of the departing streetcar with a casual salute, Bugle-Major Coombes marched smartly, if unsteadily, up Chedoke Avenue toward his home. Despite a wind-whipped misty drizzle, a tight little smile appeared on his
weatherbeaten face as he swaggered rhythymically in front of his imaginary band. Long ago pictures of his wartime service, enhanced by memory and alcohol, materialized before his eyes as the shrill, exciting sounds of the band filled his head. Bugles blared “The Old Contemptibles” in pure, bitten-off notes. Drumsticks crashed smartly on thinly stretched drumheads in perfect staccato accompaniment.

As he raised a make-believe baton and right-wheeled into his gravel driveway, a dark turbaned figure, swathed in loincloth, left the cover of a spirea bush and, from behind, looped a thin deadly garrote around his neck. The last words Bugle-Major Coombes heard were, “Kill for the love of Kali.”

“Won't this thing go any faster?” Tretheway said.

“It's not warmed up yet,” Jake answered.

Tretheway twisted in his seat as much as he could toward Jake. “It didn't start up too well either.”

“It's wet,” Jake alibied. “Starts beautifully if you give it a chance.”

Tretheway grunted.

The wipers swept hypnotically across the windshield as the '33 Pontiac's cold engine protested Jake's rough handling. He pushed the heavy vehicle over the glistening roads at speeds on the edge of safety. When they turned up the incline of Chedoke Avenue, another car fell in behind them. A flash of headlights reflected from the Pontiac's rear-view mirror.

“Must be Wan Ho,” Jake said.

Tretheway grunted again.

Jake parked his customary foot-and-a-half from the curb in front of number 175. Wan Ho pulled in behind. The front verandah light shone through the mist. Other lights lit up the ground floor of the house.