Authors: Eric Wight

The Last Hand (18 page)

BOOK: The Last Hand

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“They found the silver boots and the blond wig. They were in a garbage can by a coffee shop on Church Street. I know the place.”

“Where are they now?”

“Right now some street person has them, an old bag lady. The girls know her. They're afraid that mebbe there's a body lying around in another garbage can. Mebbe cut up.”

“Why the hell didn't they tell you before?”

“They said they tried to tell the guys on the Vice Squad who arrested them, but they just got laughed at. They were planning to tell me the next time I went down.”

“What's with the Vice Squad?”

“They probably thought the girls had made up the story to get off the charge.”

“Hold on.” Salter ran to the closing elevator and disappeared. He returned ten minutes later with the three prostitutes. “We'll use my car, Smitty. It's in the lot.”

The women were apprehensive, excited, and pleased to see Smith again. “Should we trust that prick?” one of them said, pointing to Salter.

“Did your case get put forward?” Smith asked.

“Christ, no. He got it
scrubbed
. What's goin' on?”

“We need your help.”

“Doing what? Bit early for the other, isn't it?” The three women laughed.

Smith said, “If you get the car, sir, we'll meet you out on College Street.”

“There she is,” one of the women said. “There; there.” She dug a hard finger into Smith's shoulder. “Stop. Stop. Pull over. Let us out.”

They surged across the sidewalk towards the small hill of garbage bags surrounding an old woman sitting with her back against a tree.

“Nellie,” the spokeswoman said. “It's me, Connie. This is a policeman. Him, too. Don't be frightened. We brought them. They won't hurt you. They want to know where you got the boots and the wig. You still got 'em?” She turned to Salter. “They're in one of her bags.”

“Fuck off,” Nellie said. “Won't go. Fuck off.”

“Nellie,” Connie said gently. “You don't have to go anywhere. We just want to know where you found the boots. Here!” She pounced on a bag, drew it away from the pile around the old woman and showed Salter the contents. “Where did you find them, Nellie?”

Salter stood back. Connie would do better than he at this stage.

“They're mine,” Nellie said. “He left them. They're mine.” She grabbed the bag and pushed it close to her outstretched legs.

Salter said, to Connie, “I need them.”

“Here, Nellie, I'll buy them,” Connie said. “Here.” She opened her wallet and took out two twenty-dollar bills and wrapped Mary's hand around them, simultaneously taking back the bag and handing it to Smith, who just as swiftly stowed it in the car.

“You'll be compensated,” Smith said.

“By your guys? Don't be an asshole,” Connie said without rancor.
“Now, Nellie. Upsadaisy. Show us where you found them.”

Nellie struggled to her feet, then, taking a bag of garbage with her for company, led them across the street to an alley by a bread-and-milk store. “He put them in there.”

The second time it registered. “He?” Salter asked. “A man?”

“He put them in there. I watched him. Then I took them. Fucking mine now. He threw them away.”

“Old man? Young man? Bum? Black? White? Chinese? What kind of man? What did he look like?”

“He put them in there, then went in a car. I took them after. Fucking mine.”

Salter turned to the three women. “Is Nellie always around?”

“I think she goes to a shelter at night when the cold weather comes.”

“You talk to her?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. Poor old cow. That's where I'll wind up. I bring her a doughnut sometimes.”

“Is she usually out of it?”

“Not all the time. You want this fucker's description, don't you? So do we. I'll keep after her, let you know if she comes out with anything else.”

“Where will we find you if we need you again?”

“Right here when the sun goes down.” And then, as he turned away, she said, “It's him, isn't it? The guy who was looking for her after the murder, the guy we told him about.” She pointed to Smith. “Got to her first, didn't he?” She looked frightened and bitter. “You fucking assholes,” she added and turned away to where the other two women were waiting to lead her away.

On the way back, Smith said, “What do you think? There's been no report of body parts turning up lately. They're hard to hide. Is this the same guy the squad reported at the beginning, going up and down Jarvis looking for Miss Silver Boots? What do you think? How's your hunch now?”

“I don't know, Smitty. I don't know. Make sure the Vice Squad are still keeping their eyes open for him. In the meantime, until they find him, I'm going to do what I was planning to do before your girlfriends appeared. Until a body turns up, that is.”

“I'll keep my eyes open.”

B
ack in the office, Smith posted the alert for all patrols to look out for body parts, then started once more to look through the appointment book they had taken from Lucas's desk.

“It's very disconcerting for someone from the old country to come across places that are named after other places in Europe, especially the U.K., places that are nothing at all like the places they are named after,” he said after a few minutes. “I expect you get used to it, but I'm not yet. Paris, Ontario, for instance. I'll bet it's nothing like the place where I lost my virginity to a dark-haired cocotte named Fifi.”

“You did what?”

“I was speaking in fun. Actually I was in Paris, France, once, for a weekend, but that was just to watch a football match. I never had to do with cocottes, called Fifi or anything else, but three of us did walk round the Place Pigalle and got offered a group rate for a blow job by a large black woman covered in tribal markings. I'll bet Paris, Ontario, has nothing like that.”

“There's no Picadilly Circus in London, Ontario, either.”

“Aye. It's disconcerting. Windsor, Kingston, Brighton, Hamilton, they're all here, looking nothing like they should. Places here should have Canadian namesâToronto, Ottawa, Pickerel Riverâ
those
are the names I expected to find, and place names ending in Rapids, and Falls, and River and Lake. Not Peterborough or Cambridge. I suppose there's an Oxford, too?

“What started you on this? What are you going on about?”

“Lucas's appointment book. Now that we've met some of the people he knew, I was going through to see if any of the names in it would mean anything, and I came across this appointment a few days before he died, in Bath. Now, I know the real Bath a bit; I went there once on a school outing. Our choir was going round England singing in the cathedrals, including Wells Cathedral in Somerset, as it was then, and we had an excursion to Bath. So now I look up the one here and it's near Kingston, for God's sake, and there's no mineral waters mentioned. Why would they call it Bath?”

“The first settler got homesick. Give me that book. Where is this reference?”

“There. Bath. The whole day. Now, how long to drive there, do you suppose?”

“Three hours. There and back would be a day. Well, well, well, well, well. Look at what else is here. He had planned to go fishing that day, and the next. Then he puts a line through that and writes in,”Bath,” instead. Shall I tell you what's at Bath? Bath, Ontario?”

“Let me guess. The Jane Austen Curling Rink?”

“Probably. But there's also a prison. A minimum-security prison. You know, for nondangerous white-collar criminals, scam merchants, crooked managers of pension fundsâpeople like that.

“Aye. Swindlers. We have them in Glasgow.”

“So who is visiting Bath? Lucas? Why?”

“Strange, is it not? I understand he didn't deal with criminals.”

“Not that we know so far. You'd better take a run down there. See what was happening that day.”

“How d'ye mean?”

“Lucas visited Bath. We could check with his sister, make sure he didn't have an old aunt retired near there, but it looks to me as if he might have been visiting someone in the prison. This appointment book doesn't name any names, but you could look in the visitor's book for that day. See if a name jumps out. So, go and find out who Lucas was visiting, then talk to the prisoner and find out what the visit was about.”

“If you don't mind my saying so, sir, this looks like something you ought to be doing yourself.”

“I've got a full day, Smith, and I don't like prisons. And as I told you yesterday, I'm following a hunch. You are covering my ass, following prescribed procedure. This one should be all right. It's a nice drive down to Bath, once you get off Highway Four-oh-one. You'll enjoy it. Hang on a minute.” He looked through his notebok and dialed a number. “Dr. Baretski? Staff Inspector Salter. Is anyone in the office there? I have a request. Could you close the door? No, I don't need a prescription. What? Then I'm the exception. I'm calling about Jerry Lucas. I've come across an entry in his diary for a fishing trip that was cancelled. Four days before he was killed. There's no name in his book. Yes. Good. You remember who he was going with? Thanks. He didn't tell you why? No, okay. By the way, does that stuff
work?
Uh-huh. If I do, I'll call you.” He put down the phone and turned to Smith. “Where were we? Bath. Yes. I think I know what you are going to find. The reason for you going in person is to surprise him, catch him unawares.”

“I couldn't do that on the telephone?”

“The visitor's book for the period is probably in a vault now. Or the signature is illegible except to the keen eye of someone who has seen it a lot lately, like you. If you try to sort it out by phone you'll have someone saying, âNo, sorry. No one of that name here,' because it's a lot easier to say that than to really look. So you have to go and do it yourself, or watch the attendant do it.”

“And if I find Lucas's name, and the name of the person he visited?”

“Request permission to speak to him, if possible, without telling him who you are, and ask him what his connection with Lucas is.”

“I feel a bit over my head.”

“I'll tell you what he'll say. That Lucas came down on account of one of his clients. Off you go. Oh, yes, one last thing. If you can't find any record of Lucas's visit, tell them who he went to see and ask if you can talk to him.”

“And you know who that is, of course.”

“Harry Cane. Tell him that his name is in Lucas's appointment book, and we'd like to know why. And one last thing. Ask the guard to verify that Cane was locked up nice and tight the evening Lucas was murdered. By the way, did we hear from Costa Rica yet?”

“Yes, sir. I left a note for you. On your desk. There. Flora Lucas was there all right when she says she was, with a friend, mostly in the hospital.”

“Who was the friend?”

“A male. That's all they know.”

“Nothing to do with us, then. Interesting, though.”

S
alter judged that Calvin Gregson intended to waltz him around the block as long as he could, so he next called at the attorney general's office. There he explained his need. “There was a matter of confidentiality involved then,” he said. “but now I'm looking for a killer, and one of the lines of inquiry has led to Harry Cane's trial. In preparation for that trial, our Fraud Squad sent over their file on the investigation, and it was never returned. I need it now.”

“Your own file?”

“It was a while ago. Some of the contents need to be looked at again. We want to get a complete list of everyone involved.”

“But if it's confidential â¦ ?”

“Look,
we
made up the goddamn file;
you
made it confidential. It's still our file, if you've finished with it. I could request it officially, but that would just draw attention to what I'm doing, wouldn't it?”

“You think one of the people involved is the â¦”

“No, for Chrissake. I'm doing a cross-check. One of these people may be able to help me is what I'm saying. Do you know why the list is confidential?”

“I wasn't here then. Look, it all sounds fine as you put it, but for all I know there is some procedure I ought to be following â¦”

“To cover your ass?”

“I should have something in writing.”

“From me?”

“From my principal.”

“Then go and get it.” Salter looked at his watch. “Please. Now.”

The official disappeared and returned in ten minutes. “The minister's deputy is in conference at the moment. Can you come back in an hour?”

“That should give you enough time to dig a hole out there and bury it.” Salter pointed out the window.

“I'm trying to cooperate.”

“I think you are, young fella, in which case all I can say is now you know what it will be like for the next forty years, knowing that everybody thinks that
you
are the problem. I'll be back at eleven.”

When he returned, the assistant was waiting for him. “I'm afraid you're out of luck,” he said. “Here, come and see.” He opened the little gate that kept visitors from getting to him, and pointed to a desk with a large red folder on it.

Salter sat down and found what he wanted as soon as he opened the file, a large buff envelope with a single sheet of paper stapled to the outside: a list of contents. Item 14 was designated as the list of names of those not pressing charges. The envelope was empty.

“It isn't there,” the official said.

“Somebody in this office signed for it. Whose is this signature?”

“Angela Boychuck, a secretary. She's gone now.”

“What was she like, careless and sloppy, or reliable and efficient?”

A small, neatly dressed man in his forties who was leaning against the door, apparently daydreaming (but, in fact, Salter realized later, placed there to monitor the conversation), said, “She could make mistakes, like everyone else. The human factor.”

From across the room a small, fierce-looking woman whose face was as red as if she were sitting in a one-person tropical zone shouted, “She was the best secretary this department ever had. So DON'T, BLAME, HER!”

The official and his boss ignored her. “So there you are,” the boss said. “No help for it, I'm afraid.”

“I'll go up the line,” Salter said, “It has to be somewhere.” He wanted desperately to ask the brick-faced woman to keep an eye on them for him until he returned, but guessed that would provoke a reaction from the official's boss that would hold him up for days, if not for good. “If it should turn up, let me know, would you?” As the
boss walked away, the portcullis closed, Salter gave the official his card.

“Of course,” the official said. “I'll keep my eyes open.”

On his way back to the office Salter crossed the corridor to speak to Larson. Before he could say anything, Larson said, “I was just calling you. I was asking the guys here who you were and someone said you were handling the case of the lawyer who got stabbed. Salter, right? Sorry, Staff Inspector Salter. It jogged my memory. That was one of the names in the case you were just asking me about. Lucas.”

“Jesus Christ. Thanks.”

When Smith returned, late in the afternoon, he offered some confirmation of Salter's guess. “It turned out to be straightforward. We found Lucas in the book, visiting Harry Cane, as you deducedâI nearly said âguessed.' What a nice bloke Cane is! He claims he is innocent, by the way.”

“Of what? He pleaded guilty.”

“He said that was an agreement, to save embarrassment to people like Lucas, because his lawyer told him to throw himself on the mercy of the court. Do they say that here, too? Anyway, that's what they told him to do, and he did. He thinks one reason they advised him to do that was because he'd run out of money to pay them. They already had it all. But he's not bitter about them, or about anyone else. Extraordinary bloke. He said if he'd had six more weeks he would have recouped everything with enough to pay everyone back.”

“What does he say he
did
do?”

“Just borrowed a little from the clients' fund, wrote a couple of temporary checks that he would easily have covered a few weeks later, but some accountant who was related to one of the people came after him and that was that. Apparently it's illegal for a broker to borrow his clients' money without asking them. But he wasn't stealing, he said, he wasn't going to take the money and run. While he was talking I was inclined to believe him. And he's still planning, shaking his head over the opportunities he's missing.

“Here is what he said about Lucas's visit.” Smith drew a notebook from his pocket. “I didn't take any notes in the prison, but I
wrote it up as soon as I was outside and could find a cafe. It comes to this: Lucas had two things in mind. First, he wanted to impress upon Cane that it was in his interest to stay quiet about the fact that Lucas's poker-playing friends were among those he had conned; second, he made an offer to Cane to help him when he got out. He assumes the offer has expired along with Lucas, by the way, unless Lucas's sister feels she should honor her brother's wishes.”

“Not if Gregson hears about them. You say Cane sounded, acted, like a decent guy?”

“While I was there, talking to him, I had no reservations about him at all.”

“And afterwards?”

“On the drive home I had time to think, away from the sound of his voice, mainly about the difference between borrowing and stealing, and about the hardship of that old lady whose evidence sent him down, and about this business of Lucas promising him a helping hand, which no one else knew about, and about how he will ask Flora to honor her brother's wishes, even if she never heard her brother mention them, and about how he's still full of ideas about getting back on his feet, because he knows now how to make his ship come in.” He paused.

“And you changed your mind?” Salter prompted.

“I think he's the biggest fucking rogue and liar I've ever met.”

“Minimum-security prison too good for him?”

“Well, no. No. I got to thinking about minimum-security prisons on my way home, too, and I came to the conclusion that they are a waste of money. There's no point in incarcerating people like Cane. What we should do is sentence them, sentence Cane, say, not to two years, less a year and a half for good behavior, but to ten years, although not behind bars. Ten years on parole, but they would have FC stamped on their papers, driver's license and so on â¦”

“Standing for what?”

“No, not that. Financial Criminal. So an employer would know before he puts an FC in a position of trust. Any employer who knowingly employs an FC anywhere near his money would have no comeback if the bugger swindled him. But most jobs, from garbageman to university president, don't involve that type of trust, so they could
get work. Finally, I'd add another penalty, which is this. All the money a swindler earns after he's caught, except for a minimum wage, would go into a fund to pay off his victims.”

“The real swindlers would immediately get hold of a forged ID.”

“Aye, that's a point. So you would have to brand them. A discreet little FC, on the arse, so no one could see it except a potential employer who insists on all new employees taking a medical.”

“Why not cut off one hand?”

“We're not Visigoths. This is a civilized country. Maybe a tattoo would do, a little purple FC you could have surgically removed after your sentence was up.”

“What about rehabilitation?”

“Rehabilitation is for the poor misguided fellow who makes a mistake. You can't rehabilitiate the Harry Canes. Just defang them and let them learn what it's like to be poor, like me.”

“What happens if they figure out how to do it again?”

“Add on another ten years.”

“And a third time?”

“Hang the bastard. But we're just fookin' aboot, as they say at home. What do ye think of this Harry Cane now?”

“I think it's his part of the story I'm going after. My turn to talk to Mr. Cane. But first things first.”

BOOK: The Last Hand

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