Murder on the Thirteenth (14 page)

“And we scared W away,” Jake said.

“To fight another day.”

“Which would be Mary Dearlove,” Jake frowned.

“Don't forget the rabbit.”

“That's part of it?”

“Very much so.” Tretheway scrawled “Rabbit's Foot, Feb. 13” on the manila pad. “W indoctrinated an assistant that night. A necessary helper. W needed an Ygor, a hunchback, a junior partner in sorcery. Preferably someone fiercely loyal, physically strong who W could easily dominate mentally.”

“Luke?”

“Yes. W formed a bond with the impressionable Luke by having him take part in a midnight ritual. More incantations, I'm sure. And magic rabbit lore. There's no need going into whether the rabbit was dead or alive when they cut off its leg.”

Jake winced.

“This incident is important because it led directly to the next one.”

“Now Mary Dearlove.”

Tretheway nodded.

“Was it murder then?”

“Yes.”

Tretheway wrote, “Mar. 13, Mary Dearlove” on the pad under “Rabbit's Foot”. He connected the two with an arrow.

“Mary Dearlove somehow connected the rabbit episode to Luke and—although she didn't know it at the time—W. Maybe she saw Luke with it. Maybe he bragged about it. Mary could be very charming when she was after a story.”

Jake nodded.

“A meeting was arranged. Time and place, of course, chosen by W. Midnight. Roof Garden.” Tretheway pointed the pencil at Jake. “You were there.”

“At exactly twelve o'clock.” Jake remembered the chimes.

“Not really,” Tretheway contradicted. “I checked with
City Hall. The janitor. Janitors know everything. That day and night the big clock was five to seven minutes fast.”

Jake thought for a moment. “Which would give W and Luke time to get downstairs for the balloons.”

Tretheway nodded. “Remember Addie said no one we knew was missing at twelve?”

“That's right. But how…”

“Let me reconstruct.” Tretheway drained his beer. “W and Luke took the other elevator up to the twelfth floor. Luke at the controls. They turned the lights out when they left and closed the door. Don't forget, Luke wasn't the brightest but he knew the ins and outs of the hotel. They went up to the Roof Garden. Easy enough for Luke to get a key. Mary came up in the first elevator, remember, and joined them on the roof. Luke locked the door again. Then we arrive. Go through our fire escape bit. Hear the scream.”

“That was Mary Dearlove then?”

“I'd say so. Even though no one else heard it. But it was windy. Late at night. There must've been a confrontation of sorts. A scuffle. Then over she went.”

“Gawd,” Jake said. “Clutching the rabbit's foot.”

“Yes. That was an oversight on W's part. But I imagine, in the excitement of the moment, smearing that stuff on her.”

“Remember what Frank the barber told us? About what Luke said when they found Mary?”

“Ah…yes. Something about too many.” Jake thought for a moment. “That's it. “There's one too many'.”

“That's the easy one. Too many gargoyles. That's how he spotted her. But he said something else.”

“Can't recall.”

“‘She didn't do it'.”

“Eh?”

“That's what he said.”

“What's it mean? She didn't do what?”

“She didn't fly.”

Jake stared at his boss without answering.

“Witches need a magical energy to fly. It comes from an ointment smeared thickly over their bodies. It usually contains potent herbs used in witchcraft. Monkshood, henbane, mandrake, hemlock. All mixed in a base of fat. Lard.”

“The lard they found on Mary Dearlove?”

“Was not from the restaurant exhaust,” Tretheway finished. “I'm also assuming it was regular lard. Not the traditional witches-of-old ointment. Do you know what their base was?”

Jake had a piece of cheese halfway to his mouth. He stopped.

“Fat from the bodies of boiled, unbaptized children.”

Jake put the cheese back.

“Whether W believed it, or whether W did it to impress Luke, because he sure believed it, I don't know. Doesn't matter. Just another pushaway detail. Didn't change anything. They still threw her over. Then scampered back to the door. Unlocked it. Went down the stairs, locking the door behind them, to the waiting elevator, back to the ballroom in time to catch the balloons.”

“By that time we were on the roof,” Jake said.

“That's right,” Tretheway said. “How's your beer?”

“I'm okay.”

Tretheway took only one from the ice box. He came back to the easel and flipped the page over the back. “Know what's next?” he asked Jake.

“Squire Middleton.”

“Not so fast.” Tretheway wrote “Apr 13” on the clean sheet.

“Nothing happened then.”

“Think about it.”

“Surely you don't mean the five lawn bowls the cow swallowed?”

“No, no.” Tretheway smiled. He wrote “The Great Barber Shop Robbery”.

“That's part of it?” Jake asked.

“Witches use hair and fingernails from an intended victim to transmit a spell to that person.”

“Then why don't we make a list…”

“Really, Jake. Jonathan (Jake) Small, Inspector Tretheway, Geoffrey Beezul, Zoë Plunkitt,” Tretheway recited from memory. “Hell. Our whole office had its hair cut that day. And Frank thinks Garth Dingle and Gum were there too.”

“You mean, one of those persons is the intended victim?”

“Yes.”

“Well, for starters, you can rule out you and me.”

“Why?”

“Surely you're not suggesting that you or I…”

“Jake.” Tretheway held his hand up once more. “Keep an open mind.”

Jake looked disturbed.

“Now W did this alone,” Tretheway continued. “An early break-in. But W should've taken the money too. And maybe a couple of bay rum bottles. To make it look like an ordinary robbery. W made a mistake.”

Tretheway turned back to the easel and wrote “Squire Middleton May 12.” “The Squire,” he said.

“Don't you mean the thirteenth?” Jake asked.

“I think not.” Tretheway didn't explain further. “This was the most interesting murder to look into. I mean, professionally. It was the toughest to figure out. But once you did, it was the easiest. So simple.”

“Oh?”

“Number one, the Squire wasn't murdered. Number two, his death hasn't a damn thing to do with W. Or our investigation.”

Jake's eyes widened.

“Let me explain.”

Jake leaned back.

“Squire Middleton was last seen alive shortly before eleven. The procedure is, at eleven o'clock, the conductor checks his car inside, turns off the lights, takes his bag, goes outside, shuts the door by hand, then goes around to the back, and using the rope, pulls the trolley off the live wire above the car and guides it under a hood on the roof. He lets the rope go and the pulley on the back of the car automatically takes up the slack. Simple. Takes five minutes. Then he goes home. The next day, the morning man reverses the procedure.”

“I've seen them do it,” Jake agreed.

“The Squire followed the regular routine. But when he pulled the trolley down, it jammed. So he let the rope go and climbed up the permanent ladder on the car's side to the roof. He put his bag down and examined the trolley. At the roof joint. Guess what he found?”

Jake shook his head.

“Two dead owls. At least two. Wedged under the trolley.”

“Is that possible?” Jake asked.

“The boys at the car barn say so. Over the years they've found pigeons, rocks, even squirrels, jammed under the trolley. These were the first owls. That's why The Squire saved them. He dug them out, laid them down and pushed the trolley under the hood from his position on the roof. This was awkward. Took a little muscle. And you know, he wasn't in the best of shape.”

Jake nodded.

“So there he was, finally, standing on the roof, puffing and panting, a dead owl in each hand, when he simply had a heart attack and died.”

“Just like that,” Jake said.

“Just like that.”

“On the roof,” Jake said.

Tretheway nodded. “Until the next day when the morning
man put the trolley back on the wire. No reason for him to go on the roof. He drove away. First sharp curve they hit at McKittrick bridge…”

“Where they found the bag.”

Tretheway nodded. “The Squire's bag flew off. Second sharp curve?”

“King and James?” Jake guessed.

“Where the Squire flew off. Still dark. Very few people around. He lay there, in the shape of a pentacle squeezing the life out of two owls according to our innovative reports, until discovered. The street car long gone.”

Tretheway put the pencil down and lit a cigar.

“I'll be damned,” Jake said.

“Hm?” Tretheway puffed.

“It seems so simple the way you explain it. Even obvious.”

“Have another beer.” Tretheway went to the ice box again. He brought two quarts out with one hand.

“And W didn't lift a finger.”

“No connection at all.”

“I'll be damned.”

“So now we can push it aside. It's not part of the picture.” Tretheway laid his cigar across a squashed metal ash tray made from a WW1 artillery shell and picked up the pencil. “But I can't say the same for June.”

He scribbled, “T. Warbucks, Jun 13, RFYYC.”

“That was W,” Jake said.

“‘The venom'd plants wherewith she kills.

“Eh?”

“Something I read.” Tretheway shook himself. “W. Yes. Definitely. I'm convinced W grew the Deadly Nightshade and made the poison from the black berries. Mixed it generously in one of Beezul's famous Banger milk bottles and marked it with a piece of string. Easy enough to do without getting caught if you were careful and knew the routine.”

“But why Warbucks?”

“Mistake.”

“Eh?”

Remember how Warbucks rushed into the locker after the race? Shouting for a Banger? He'd been dragged through the bay. Just a little on edge. Grabbed the closest bottle. W must've had a fit. Warbucks wasn't supposed to drink it. But after he downed the first half of the bottle, W had to just sit back and watch.”

“Who was supposed to drink it?”

“Beezul.”

“What?”

“Geoffrey Beezul.”

Tretheway turned back to the easel. He exposed a fresh sheet and wrote, “Jul 13, Aug 13, Nothing.” “Nothing happened in July or August because Beezul was up in Muskoka. You know how inaccessible his place is. And W doesn't have a timetable. W is in no hurry.”

“How can you be sure?” Jake asked.

“Jake, I can't be. Nothing's sure. But he did get a haircut that day.”

“We all did.”

“Beezul was the only one to have a manicure as well.” Tretheway held his hand in front of Jake, fingers outstretched. “Remember fingernails? Small point but they all add up. And he was certainly accessible at the Yacht Club. He was one of the few people who actually liked those foul-tasting Bangers. All W had to do was hand it to him.”

“It's starting to sound plausible,” Jake said. “But why Beezul?”

“I don't know.” Tretheway pencilled the numbers “1692” on the pad. “But I'm sure it has something to do with the number we found on Hickory Island.”

“You mean something happened in the year 1692?”

“I think so.”

“What?”

“You tell me.”

“Hm?”

“Research it.”

“But how…”

“Jake. You're the Honours History grad. I'm sure you can handle it.”

Jake looked embarrassed.

“Sept 13” Tretheway wrote on the pad, “P. Sprong. Fire.” He turned to Jake. “This was pure W. With Luke now back on his feet filling his role as loyal evil assistant. It wasn't a mistake. W meant to kill Patricia Sprong.”

“Why her?” Jake asked. “Why not go straight for Beezul?”

“W's saving him.”

“For October.”

“Yes. Now W has a timetable.”

“The thirteenth.”

“No, I don't think anything will happen on the thirteenth. But let's get back to your question. Why Patricia?” Tretheway lowered his voice.

“Let's climb into the brain of W. Let's look out at the world through those wide, misty translucent eyes and observe shadowy sisterhood. ‘I am a witch,' W says, ‘I can cast spells. I can fly backwards on my steed.”

Jake shivered. Tretheway's voice returned to normal.

“How can W best serve Lucifer? Old Nick? The Prince of Darkness?” He wagged his pencil at Jake. “Kill Satan's enemies. Who better in W's warped mind than an active hardworking Captain in the Salvation Army? The original devil fighters. Remember her song? “I hate him and he hates me'?”

Jake nodded.

“Besides,” Tretheway said half facetiously, “gives W something to do in September.”

“Because, as you say, October is already planned.”

“That's right.”

“The big one.”

“The finale.”

“But…”

“Let's clean up the Sprong thing.” Tretheway underlined the word ‘Fire'. “Everybody knew Patricia took evening walks in Cootes'. W knows Cootes'. W, with Luke's help, grabbed her, probably tied her up, drugged her and waited in the woods for the witching hour. It was late and the weather was on their side. No one around. They carried her up the pile—difficult but not impossible—tied her to the stake, lit the fire and melted back into the woods.”

“Gawd, that's cold-blooded!”

“Not for a witch.”

“But how about Luke?”

“He seems to be falling more and more under W's spell. The loyal, unquestioning sidekick syndrome. He's no Rhodes Scholar, and don't forget, I'm sure they're both using some form of narcotic.”