Getting Away With Murder

TWENTY-FIVE

I invited Chris to join Anna and me for dinner at a place Anna had found near Turner’s Corners. It was an old coaching inn that had also been a gas station and a hamburger joint. Now it had been dolled up as its original self, without exaggerating things the way the Patriot Volunteer did over the river. This was authentic without hype, not a movie designer’s idea of an old inn, but the inn itself with all of its blemishes showing. The best thing about it was a huge fireplace which had a fire going in it, while a few birds and joints turned on spits above twin andirons. It was the sort of place you felt you had come home to as a familiar haunt, even though it was my first visit.

Chris and I kept clear of the case and Anna made light of a brewing crisis in the university’s history department. The focus of the talk turned on Chris, whose recent adventures on the island of his birth held our complete attention. He was a good raconteur. Better than that, he was a good delineator of political and social differences. By the time he had finished, both of his listeners knew more about the present situation on the island and the subtle differences between the professional and other classes in the villages, towns and capital. As for the meal, it was simplicity itself, roasted meat and boiled potatoes served with greens. The dessert was apple pie. It was what the food editor of the Beacon would have called a cliché meal, but all of our faces were rosy with contentment as we gathered our coats, and ran through a fine Scotch mist to the car.

The following morning I called Napier McNabb University in Hamilton to try to catch up with the record of Drina Tatarski, or Tait, as she was calling herself. The voice in the office at the other end took a lot of convincing. I heard a prepared speech about giving out confidential information. I explained my business, the woman on the phone explained the rules. I suggested that she should be the judge of what information was confidential and what was for public consumption. She suggested that I drive to Hamilton to see her in her office. I asked whether the rules were different for people on the spot and didn’t that tend to prejudice inquiries from, say, Halifax or Vancouver. There was a sigh at the other end, a sign either of frustration or capitulation. I pressed my advantage.

“We have her as Alexandrina Tait, not Tatarski, Mr. Cooperman. Tait was her legitimate name. It had been legally changed. She dropped out at the end of her first year. I can’t tell you what her grades were, but they were above average for first year.”

“You mean she could read and write?”

“What a cynic you are, Mr. Cooperman. Miss Tait appears to have been able to do more than that. She was quite accomplished. French Club, Fencing Club, Archery Club.”

“Is there a reason given for her dropping out?”

“There’s a note about sickness at home in Grantham.”

“I see. Is there anyone who knew her? I’m looking for a friend or teacher; someone who can give me a clue to where she might be now.”

“You might talk to Professor Hardy. He does first-year English. I think he might remember her.” She gave me a telephone number and wished me luck. By the end, we were getting on famously.

I had no luck getting in touch with Professor Hardy. He wasn’t at the number so I left a message on his machine. I began to feel the urge to drive to Hamilton to spy out the land for myself, but there was work to do on other fronts. Professor Hardy could wait.

Julie. I decided to focus on Julie. Together with her brother, Julie had the most to gain by her father’s death. She also had a ready market for any money she came into: Mode Magazine. I called her mother. Julie hadn’t been seen. I tailed Wise’s secret number and got Victoria, who said she hadn’t seen Julie since the morning of the shooting. I finished the dregs of cold coffee in a styrofoam cup and was sitting back in my chair wondering where to look next, when the phone rang. It was Julie.

“You’re lucky I’m a dutiful daughter, Mr. Cooperman. I just called my mother. She told me she’d spoken to you a minute ago. What can I do for you?” She sounded a trifle breathless, but it was part of her manner to appear to be in a rush. I shouldn’t imagine that she had just raced up three flights of stairs to place the call. I told her that I needed to see her. She mentioned The Snug at the Beaumont Hotel, which was still one of the few places in town where it was not chic to order draught beer, and the only place for miles around where free peanuts were supplied to every table. She gave me a couple of hours to get ready for the meeting, so busy was her schedule. I accounted myself lucky that she didn’t want to meet at the top of the CN Tower in Toronto. I spent some of the time back at the library and some of it on the phone with Duncan Harvey, the architect and crusader for the quiet repose of an innocent Mary Tatarski.

“Sure I remember our talk, Benny. How is your case going?”

“I’m still digging in, Duncan. There’s a lot that’s been hidden.”

“Ah, you begin to see what McStu and I had to go through.”

“Mary didn’t ever confess to anything, did she? Anything at all?”

“No. She admitted that she and her mother had had words on the night of the crime and that relations between them were not happy. But that’s all. Margaret, the older sister, didn’t get on that well with her mother either. That’s why she was planning to move out. Her ‘motive’ was at least as good as her sister’s. The first story Mary told to Sergeant Neustadt was the one she stuck to: early to bed with sleeping pills after an argument, and didn’t hear anything until she was wakened by her sister after the body had been discovered and the police had been sent for.”

“Was there any serious attempt at suicide?”

“That was all Neustadt. She took an ordinary dose and was on her feet before the police arrived. If you need an example of ‘facts’ made out of whole cloth, that’s a dilly.”

“She never changed any detail in her story?”

“Not as far as I could read in the transcripts of the pretrial and the trial. Her statement to Neustadt was almost word for word what she said on the witness stand. I talked to the matron at the jail, Mrs. Strippe, and she saw her from the first night they brought her in right up to the moment she said goodbye. She said that her story never changed. McStu talked to all of the warders, and, apart from little human stories, there was nothing new. Unless she unburdened herself to the hangman, she went through the trap with her secret untold.”

“Did you or McStu talk to him?”

“When the book was being researched, Mr. McCarthy was in the old country, somewhere in the Aran Islands. We tried, but we couldn’t reach him. I heard that he had come back to Ontario and was living in a house in Grimsby. I doubt if he would have anything to add to her story. They say he works fast. You can’t say a lot in thirty or forty seconds, can you?”

“Is that how long it takes?”

“So I’ve read, Benny. There are no speeches, you know. The sheriff doesn’t read the death warrant. Nothing like that. Strictly business. Why I remember reading in the famous Palmer case-”

I interrupted Duncan’s extensive store of gallows lore by telling him that my other line was flashing. I have often wished I had a second line, but the excuse of having to answer the imaginary one works almost as well.

At the appointed hour, I was waiting in The Snug for Julie Long. I hoped that she’d come alone. I didn’t think I could cope with the entourage again. And if it ever came time for me to buy a round, I’d be wiped out. Dave Rogers hadn’t said a word about expenses.

The waiter brought me one of those Campari things and I sipped it for about twenty minutes, when the waiter returned with a note:

Benny,

Will you please come up to Room 614 when you get this right away. I’m in a lot of trouble.

Julie

I paid for my drink, pocketed the rest of the peanuts against the unknown situation in Room 614 and walked through the darkened lounge to the door connected to the hotel lobby. I pushed the button and waited for the elevator.

The ride up to the sixth floor was in itself uneventful, but it reminded me that there was such a thing as an “elevator feeling.” I can’t describe it, but it happens all the time. Room 614 was on the side of the narrow corridor facing and looking down on St. Andrew Street. Julie opened the door. It was a big room, placed a few floors above the rooms set aside for salesmen showing their lines. The place was a mess with clothes strewn everywhere. I couldn’t help thinking that the pantyhose on the chair and the three or four blouses on the bed and hanging on doorknobs was a glimpse into an untidy mind. Then I remembered my own room and swallowed the thought.

“Oh Benny, I’m so glad you could come!” She carefully closed, bolted and chained the door. She was wearing a sheer something-or-other covered by another semi-see-through wrap. They were both the colour of milky coffee. She may have sounded distraught, but her make-up was intact, which is always a good sign. I moved a few peanuts to my mouth, while she turned to clear a space for me to sit down. In the end, I shared a love-seat with an intimate garment, which she hadn’t thought enough of to move out of sight. Across the room near the bathroom door was a room-service trolley with the remains of a meal on it. I was thinking that “at least her appetite is healthy,” when it hit me that she might have been planning on me for dessert.

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” I said, by way of opening. She couldn’t pounce on me after that.

“He’s to blame for this!” she said. “Daddy, Daddy. It’s always been Daddy!”

“Why don’t you tell me the whole story from the beginning?”

“Would you like a drink? I can get anything you want from the bar.” I accepted a Coke and watched her pour Scotch into a glass and smother it with soda. “There’s a whole basket of fruit if you want something to eat, Benny. Cashews the size of kittens.”

“No thanks, Julie. What you can do is tell me what this is all about. Is it your father’s death?”

“It’s Didier!” she said. “He’s gone off! Just like that. He checked out of his hotel and left no forwarding number. I can’t believe it! Could he have been kidnapped?”

“Anything is possible. When did you see him last? And have you talked with his regular cronies? What about that model, Morna McGuire? He’s not likely to go very far from her, is he?”

“Didier and Morna? What are you talking about? Morna’s got a boyfriend in Hollywood. The actor Byron Aslin, you know? You didn’t think …? No, it’s been Didier and me. And now I can’t find him!”

“Where does he edit this magazine of his?”

“Why in Paris! What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, how much work can he do on the banks of the Welland Canal? He had to go back to work eventually, hadn’t he?”

“But why not tell me? Why just … just … vanish?”

“You said that your father was behind this. How?”

“He didn’t like Didier. He never liked any of my friends. He jinxed it. He always does!”

“Did,” I corrected, not meaning to hurt, but not wanting to shut out the real world either from this room with its imitation French furniture and luxurious cashews, which I had found and had been working my way through.

Julie, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned towards me. “Benny, I need to find him.” She was crying now, and the make-up around her eyes was being put to the test. Her outer wrap had fallen open and it left a good deal of Julie on display through the diaphanous other thing. Usually, I’m a pushover for a cheap thrill, but there was something about Julie that made me feel detached and reserved. The hand of the stage manager was all but tangible. She was faintly comic and consequently what was bothering her was comic as well. She was an attractive woman; I had to give her that, but it wasn’t working on me. It was a note too high for me to hear, or, maybe, too low. Anyway, what I’m saying is that all these see-through layers, the tears and the pleading voice had the emotional appeal of a block of orange Cheddar. Anna would have been proud of me. But this didn’t have anything to do with my feelings for Anna. I was totally committed to Anna, but I recognized that my maleness was not totally under my control. I remembered Pia Morley and Helen Blackwood from a few years ago. And I mustn’t forget the beautiful Cath Bracken. No, Julie was never in their class.

“Tell me about your last meeting with your father,” I said.

“What has that got to do with anything?” She seemed shocked at the change of subject.

“I need to know. How did you get to the house?”

“Didier,” she said.

“A red Le Baron with one headlight broken?”

“I did that near Stowe. We were driving back from skiing in Vermont. He was awfully nice about it.”

“So, he waited for you in the car?”

“I think so. I guess he could have followed me. The back door was open.”

“What happened next?”

“I talked to Daddy and then I left. That’s all.”

“Not so fast. You came in the door. Who did you see?”

“I remember now. I could smell baking in the kitchen, so I went in to talk to Victoria, who had been making pies. Her husband, that Mickey, was there, but he went out as soon as he had tugged the old forelock. Mickey is always very deferential. Victoria and I don’t have a lot to say to one another. I don’t think she approves of me. She’s very judgmental, I think, although she hardly opens her mouth.”

“Did you see your brother?”

“My half-brother, you mean. No.”

“Okay, go on. You went from the kitchen into the big office to see your father?”

“That’s right. Then we talked. He gave me a lecture, not one of his better ones, and then he gave me some money to take away the bad taste and I left the same way I came in.”

“See anyone on your way out?”

“No, just Victoria. But Didier wasn’t in the car. I had to wait for a few minutes.”

“How long? This could be important.”

“It wasn’t more than five minutes. Maybe longer. I had my fur coat, so I wasn’t cold. The car was open, and I just sat and waited.”

“What did Didier say when he came back?”

“Nothing. He was in a mood.”

“How convenient,”

“You have no right to say that! You take a cheap, cynical view of artistic people, Benny. Didier’s an exceptionally talented artist. How could you appreciate him?”

“How much money did your father give you?”

“Thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“That would take away quite a lot of bad taste. Did he give you cash?”

“No, it was a cheque. He never keeps large amounts of cash in the house. He didn’t used to anyway.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Is that any of your business?”

“I’m no gossip, Julie. I’m just vacuuming as much information as I can in the hope that some of it might tell me something I don’t already know. I think I can make a good guess about the cheque. You endorsed it and gave it to your friend. Right?”

“What if I did?”

“Well, Julie, you might have given him his airfare back to Paris. Ever think of it that way?”