Murder on the Thirteenth (16 page)

“I hope so.”

“What could go wrong?”

Jake shrugged.

“Certainly not your car.”

Jake didn't answer.

At quarter after ten, Beezul announced he was going home. Tretheway didn't protest.

“Be careful, Geoffrey,” Addie warned. “It's still foggy.”

“Stick to the main streets,” Tretheway suggested.

“Don't worry.” Beezul put his coat on. “Straight to Main Street, then right on Dundurn. And just about follow it home.”

Tretheway and Jake exchanged smiles.

The minute Beezul went out the door, Tretheway and Jake grabbed their coats from the front closet. Jake ran down the hall and out the back door.

“Where's he going?” Addie asked.

“To start the car,” Tretheway said.

“At this hour?”

“It's not late, Addie,” Wan Ho said.

“Something funny's going on.”

“Addie,” Tretheway explained, “We're just looking after Beezul. Wan Ho will stay here till we get back. There's nothing funny going on.”

“Then why did Jake borrow a nickel from me?”

Tretheway shook his head and went out the front door.

They followed as close as they dared behind Beezul's sedan. If anything, the fog was thicker. Jake had the wipers on and the inadequate defroster set at full. The leather seats were cold to the touch.

“Great night for Hallowe'en.” Jake peered through a small area of clear windshield.

“Not the best.” Tretheway's cigar didn't help the visibility problem.

Jake turned carefully onto Main Street well behind Beezul. There were no other cars in sight.

“Good of him to give us directions,” Jake commented.

“That was a break,” Tretheway said.

“Is this close enough?”

“Just about right”.

It took them about ten minutes to reach the Dundurn intersection where Beezul said he would turn right. Beezul swerved suddenly and turned left.

“Hey!” Jake shouted. Beezul sped up. “He's turned the wrong way.”

“Damn!” Tretheway cursed.

Jake jerked the Pontiac left in pursuit. The straight eight engine had little trouble in reaching their spot again, a discreet distance behind the sedan.

“What's going on?” Jake asked.

“I don't know,” Tretheway said, “but I don't like it.”

A huge tractor trailer came toward them out of the fog. The blazing lights of the rig almost blinded them as it rumbled by.

Jake squinted through the windshield, now mostly clear. “Did you see that?” he said.

“What?”

“No! It couldn't be!”

“Couldn't be what?”

“Another head. A passenger. When those truck lights went by. I thought I saw someone else in Beezul's car.”

“Impossible.” Now Tretheway did his best to lean forward and peer through the windshield. “Wait for another car.”

“Here comes one.”

The two strained their eyes into the fog. Beezul was clearly illuminated against the oncoming headlights. The car passed by quickly.

“See anything,” Jake asked.

“No.”

“Must've been my imagination.”

“I hope so,” Tretheway said, “although it would explain Beezul's behaviour.”

“You mean someone…”

“C'mon,” Tretheway said. “We're falling behind.”

They followed Beezul along the four-lane thoroughfare that led out of Fort York. Once past the city limits, fewer homes appeared, most with no lights. And only an occasional car passed them going in the opposite direction. The road became two tortuous hilly lanes.

“Where are we?” Tretheway asked.

“King's Highway Two. Heading east.”

“This isn't working out. Something has to happen before twelve.”

“He's gone!” Jake shouted.

“What?” Tretheway leaned dangerously close to the windshield.

“He must've turned off.”

“Slow down.”

Jake hit the brakes at the concealed intersection. Tretheway saw tail lights out of his side window.

“There he is!” Tretheway shouted. “Turn right.”

Jake reacted immediately but the long-nosed Pontiac roadster was never considered nimble. He made a much wider
turn than anticipated, crossed a corner of someone's front lawn and splashed through a gigantic puddle on the left side of the road. A wall of water hit the windshield. Enough came through the convertible top joint to put out Tretheway's cigar. The car sputtered to a stop.

“Why did you stop?” Tretheway shouted.

“I didn't stop. The car stopped.”

Jake pushed the starter button. The starting engine whined but the motor stubbornly refused to turn over.

“Make it go!” Tretheway shouted.

“It's flooded.”

“So much for your tune-up.”

Jake didn't wait to explain. He jumped out of the driver's seat into the ankle-deep water. Splashing his way to the rumble seat for dry rags, then back to the front of the car, he wrenched open one side of the engine cover and frantically tried to dry the hot, perspiring engine and wires. Tretheway watched helplessly as the red lights of Beezul's car grew fainter.

“He's going!” Tretheway shouted.

Jake fastened the engine cover and jumped back in the car. He floored the accelerator and turned the key.

“He's gone,” Tretheway shouted.

Jake closed his eyes and took a few precious seconds to pray silently to whichever patron saint guided the fortunes of first-class constables. He pressed the starter button. A muffled explosion blew the exhaust system, but the car lurched into life.

“What was that?” Tretheway said.

“Backfire.”

“What's the noise?”

“Blew the muffler.” Jake smiled at his boss. “But it's going.”

Tretheway shook his head. “Let's go.”

They bored noisily into the fog in the direction Beezul's
tail lights had gone. There were no decisions to be made because there was only one road—until the intersection.

“What now?” Jake idled the rumbling engine.

“What's ahead?” Tretheway asked.

“Dead end.”

“And right?”

“Back to Fort York.”

Tretheway pointed left and looked a question.

“Spotty residential, small farms. Golf Club. Then the Village of Wellington Square. And eventually, Toronto.”

“That's it.”

“Toronto?”

“No. The Golf Club.”

“My Golf Club?”

“Think about it.” Tretheway struck the fingers of his substantial left hand one at a time to list his points. “Has to be nearby. Time is pressing. Eighteen holes all neatly numbered. Right?”

“What's that mean?”

Tretheway ignored Jake's question. “Private. No one around. And I'll bet there's water on the course. A small pond maybe.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Let's go.” Tretheway pointed left.

Because of the fog, heavier by the bay, it took them fifteen minutes to reach the WSGCC; normally it would've taken five. They pulled into the empty parking lot. Jake switched off the full-throated engine. Tretheway rolled down his window and listened. Moisture from the trees dripped onto the fabric of Jake's car. Every few moments the sonorous bleat of a fog horn swept across the distant wartime shipping lanes. Night lights from the nearby pro shop were barely discernible; the clubhouse across the road appeared only as a dim shadow.

“Great night for a murder,” Jake said.

“What's the time?” Tretheway asked.

“Eleven-thirty.”

Tretheway opened the door.

“Where are you going?” Jake asked.

“We can't sneak up on anyone in this tractor.”

Jake ignored his boss's remark. “I've been thinking. Why couldn't we borrow Garth's cart?”

“What?”

“Garth Dingle has a golf cart. Made it himself. For driving around the course.”

“Is it quiet?”

“Electric.”

“Where is it?”

“At his house.” Jake anticipated the next question. “This time of year, he lives on the course.”

“Let's get it.” Tretheway slammed the door.

The car broke the night's silence again as Jake maneuvered the Pontiac across the parking lot to where the service road started. They followed the narrow dirt track around the perimeter of the golf course to the Pro's summer home. Garth stood on the verandah.

“I came out to see the four-engined bomber,” he said as soon as Jake shut off the engine.

“Muffler blew,” Jake said.

“We need your car,” Tretheway said without preamble.

“Now?” Garth smiled. “You taking up golf, Inspector?”

Tretheway explained what was going on as much as he could, as quickly as he could, with Jake filling in the odd detail.

Garth understood the urgency.

“The cart's plugged in around back.”

They went around the house at a fast walk.

“I hope there's enough juice.” Garth pulled the cart's plug from the wall and coiled up the wire.

“What do you mean?” Tretheway asked.

“I usually charge the batteries overnight.”

“Can we all fit in?” Jake asked.

Garth checked himself before he automatically answered yes. He eyed Tretheway who was towering over the cart: big uncovered head, huge shoulders supporting the tentlike rubber slicker hanging only inches above his king-size boots.

“Jake,” Garth said. “You have to walk.”

“I should have known,” Jake said to himself.

Garth turned the key as Tretheway climbed into the passenger side. The two big men fitted snugly into the ample bench seat. Tretheway lurched backwards as Garth floored the go pedal and the cart—without enough warning, Tretheway thought—sped down the driveway. Garth jammed on the brakes. Jake almost ran into them.

“What's the matter? Tretheway asked.

“Where are we going?” Garth asked.

“Isn't it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

Tretheway twisted around as much as he could. “Jake?”

Jake looked blank.

“Think numbers. One, three, thirteen.”

“Ah,” Jake said. “The thirteenth hole.”

“That's this way then,” Garth said.

The cart took off left, surprisingly fast, with Jake padding after. Garth drove the golf cart as though he enjoyed it. He steered over long rough and cut fairway with equal ease, between sand traps, up and down the slight hillocks that protected the bunkers and occasionally bumped over tree roots or a small ditch. Tretheway hung on to the dashboard with one hand. The other shone his flashlight ineffectually into the chill fog. Garth's electric machine whined almost silently while the fat oversized tires, punching down on the soft wet undergrowth, made no more noise than a light breeze.

“We should slow down before we get there,” Tretheway suggested in spasmodic jerks that matched the action of the bouncing vehicle.

Garth pushed the brake pedal down. The cart skewed to a stop. “We're here.”

“Eh?”

“The thirteenth. We're right beside the green.” Garth pointed toward the flag.

Tretheway grunted himself out of the cart. His eyes swept from the green back towards the tee as far as the fog would allow.

“Where is it?” he said.

“Where's what?”

“The water. The pond.”

“There isn't any.”

“Damn!”

They both turned at the sound of Jake's approaching footsteps. With the breath he had left, all he could do was wave.

“You're sure this is the thirteenth?” Tretheway said.

Jake nodded.

“Certainly,” Garth said.

Tretheway spun around and stepped toward the flagstick. Garth bit his tongue as he watched the deep depressions the big policeman's heels made in the soft green. Tretheway lifted the limp wet flag away from the stick. He shook it a few times, then stretched it out.

“Then what the hell's this?”

Garth and Jake crossed the green carefully until they were close enough to make out the numbers one and eight: eighteen.

“I don't understand,” Garth said.

“Me neither,” Jake said.

“Is there water on the eighteenth?”

“Yes, there is,” Garth said.

“A big holding pond,” Jake said.

“The bugger's switched flags.”

Tretheway turned and ran for the cart. Garth and Jake looked at each other, then chased after Tretheway. Jake jumped back this time and no one objected. The cart leaped forward. They retraced their path past Garth's house, creating their own miniature tunnel in the fog. Tretheway hung on with both hands and Jake hugged the bag racks as Garth twisted and turned the cart, following short cuts known only to him. He sped across the parking lot and stopped at the main road.

“Why are we stopping?” Tretheway asked.

“The highway.” Garth looked left and right. “We have to go along a bit. The eighteenth's on the other side.” He pointed the flashlight in Tretheway's lap. “You're the headlight.”

Tretheway let go of the dash and picked up the light. Garth pushed the go pedal to the floor and turned onto the highway, while Tretheway waved the flashlight in front of him. Jake looked nervously behind. He wondered how he could explain an accident to Addie or anyone: two FY policeman and a golf pro, close to midnight, in an unlicensed vehicle on the King's Highway in a heavy fog. Fortunately, no cars came from either direction. They turned off a few hundred yards down the road.

“Almost there,” Garth said.

The cart was humming up the next rise when it gave out.

“That's it,” Garth said.

“What's the matter?”

“Out of juice.” Garth put his finger to his lips, “But the pond's just over the hill,” he whispered.

They left the cart quietly and climbed up the last incline. Jake rubbed the circulation back into his hands and arms. He noticed that Garth was carrying the golf club.