Getting Away With Murder

TWENTY-SIX

I was sitting in my office trying to sort the files that had taken the bullet meant for me. They were in shreds, partly because of the bullet, that had run around inside the filing drawer and partly because of the forensic man’s efforts at finding the bullet amid the confetti they both had created. It was the morning of the following day, St. Patrick’s Day, and I was feeling virtuous about having extricated myself from Julie’s hotel room with my dignity intact. She hadn’t seriously intended to seduce me; it was just a reflex. When she calmed down we took a walk to the end of St. Andrew Street and back again. I suggested to her that she might invest some of her inheritance in putting some life back into the closed-up stores on both sides of the street. It got her mind off Didier for a few minutes, which was what I was trying to do.

My housekeeping was cut short by a phone call from a Professor Hardy in Hamilton. “Who?” I asked, and he repeated his name: “Lee Hardy, of Napier McNabb University.”

“Oh!” I said, suddenly remembering that line of inquiry. “Yes, Professor. Thanks for calling back. I’m trying to track down one of your former first-year English students from a few years ago: Alexandrina Tait. Ring any bells?”

“The bells have been ringing, Mr. Cooperman. You see, I had an earlier call from Mrs. Wood at the college, who told me about your inquiry.”

“A thorough and responsible woman, Mrs. Wood. I remember our conversation well.”

“About Drina, though, even with the off-stage prompting, I can’t come up with much. She was a disturbed young woman-we aren’t allowed to say ‘girl’ any more, Mr. Cooperman; the thought police are at our backs. The new political correctness is the old prudery, if you ask me. But you were asking about Drina, weren’t you? I said ‘disturbed.’ ‘Preoccupied’ might be another word. I don’t mean busy with undergraduate things-from what I remember, Drina was almost a loner. There was something, well, something that makes it easy for me to remember her, while other faces have all drifted out to sea. I guess ‘memorable’ is the word I’ve been searching for. Memorable. And there was an oddness about her, a slate in her machinery somewhere, although she was bright enough.”

“What became of her?”

“Ah, that’s the big question. She wrote to me from New York that she had met and married a businessman of some sort, a man who dealt in trader bonds, whatever they are. That, and a few postcards from Connecticut, represent the latest news I have of her.”

“Did you know her apart from your classes with her, Professor?”

“Ah, well, she was part of a group that used to come and drink beer and listen to Bach at my house.”

“Is there anything else you can remember?”

“She had a great capacity for concentration when she wanted to focus on a project. She would work things out very methodically. Oh, another thing: she knew everything there was to know about cars and engines of all sorts. She fixed an MG sports car for me that a garage rejected! She was quite a remarkable g-young woman.”

I thanked Professor Hardy and jotted down the gist of what he had said.

Over lunch at the Di, which had been decorated with green flags and balloons in honour of the great Irish saint, I talked with Ned Evans about his plans to restage the old chestnut, Disraeli. He had once done it with my brother, Sam, playing the prime minister and I think he still got us confused. He drew attention to our table when he acted out the scene where Disraeli threatens the governor of the Bank of England. At the climax of the scene, Ned yelled “I will smash the bank!” at the top of his voice. I tried to pretend I was a set of initials carved into the wood of our booth.

From the pay-phone outside, I called Pete Staziak. “What can I do for you today, Benny? Have you found another case to work on? Or are you still waiting for handouts from me about Wise? I know you have to make a living.”

“Pete; when you went over the room-”

“What room?”

“Where Wise was shot, Pete. This is serious. What did you find on the floor besides the body and the gun?”

“Nothing that wasn’t supposed to be there. Dust mites, paperclips, Wise’s hair, about three cents in change. Canadian. And some traces of flour from Victoria when she used the phone to call us.”

“Is that all?”

“Sure. Except for the blood. I forgot the blood.”

“Is there some way I can meet you later at the Wise place? Can you fix it up? I’d like to talk to all of your suspects, if you can round them up.”

“Benny have you departed from your sanity? Are you still with us or are you playing Ellery Queen again?”

“I’m serious, Pete. I think I can prove who killed Abe Wise and how it happened. And I think I know who killed Ed Neustadt and Shaw too. Can’t you ask your suspects and witnesses to assist you at the house? You often get them to come into your office.”

“Why don’t you whisper the name to me over the phone?” he asked in a doubting voice that tried to sound humorous. I whispered the name over the phone.

“Holy shit!” Pete said. “And you can prove it?”

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” I said in imitation of a storybook I once read to Sam’s kids in Toronto.

“Where will you be this evening?” he asked.

“I’ll be at home waiting for your call.”

“I’ll call, I’ll call!” he said. And he repeated the name.