There was an Old Woman (16 page)

“You'd have to measure it in seconds, Pete. He wasn't gone a full minute.”

“But he could have gone through Ramsden's papers if he knew where to look?”

“How the hell should I know? He didn't have a file folder stuffed down his shirt, if that's what you want me to say. He didn't dispose of anything while he was with me. I didn't smell burned paper, and he wasn't out of my sight until your people separated us for questioning. Check his pockets. Check his briefcase.”

It was at this point that Chris Savas returned to the room. I'd met Chris about ten years ago. He was a hard man, but a good cop. He demonstrated both of these characteristics as soon as the door was closed.

“Where does it say in here …” he was waving a copy of the statement I'd just signed, “that you and the deceased exchanged angry words followed by blows in the Kingsway Hall last Tuesday night?”

“Was it last Tuesday? I've got such a lousy sense of time.”

“Tell me, Benny. I want to hear it all.” He perched his butt on the edge of Pete's dull grey metal desk and crossed his big arms. He was still wearing a short-sleeved shirt. I wondered whether he'd be as slow changing out
of his winter wear in the spring. “Benny, what happened up there?”

I went through the whole thing, beginning with the run-in with Ramsden on the evening in question and ending with Pete Staziak's elbows in my ribs at police headquarters after Kogan's nude demonstration. I wanted to get in the part about Pete, because it told Savas that Pete already knew about all this and I hadn't been being stingy with the facts. I didn't tell him about Kogan's getting me to look in on the inquest or my suspicions about Lizzy Oldridge's property.

“So where does the bad blood between you and Ramsden come from?” Savas wanted to know. He pulled on his earlobe and readjusted his purchase on the corner of the desk.

“He took a dislike to my surname when I told it to him. He made an oblique reference to ‘me and my kind.'” Savas and Staziak exchanged a look.

“That's at least consistent with what we know about him,” Savas said. This was his way of saying he was sorry on behalf of Niagara Regional Police for what had occurred. Chris never gives information away without a reason. This was partly because of his police training and partly because he comes from a long line of taciturn Cypriot farmers, who know when to talk and when to listen. “And then what?”

“He tried to throw me downstairs. When I turned around, he fell over backwards and started yelling that he
couldn't move his legs. But he got up fast enough when everybody ran down to see Kogan's buff.”

“You didn't throw a punch?”

“No. Neither did he. You think I killed him, Chris, because he tried to eject me, or because I didn't like his racist suggestions?” Just to bug him, I held my wrists together waiting for him to reach for his handcuffs.

Our meeting went on for a few more minutes. Pete and Chris wanted to know all I knew about Ramsden and I demonstrated that I wasn't a good source for anything they didn't know about already. When they finally let me go, I headed directly to the seafood place in the market and ordered a trout the way my father likes it, cooked in butter and served without adornment. The place was full of shoppers meeting for lunch. Overheard talk was about shopping; packages stacked on the banquettes furnished more proof of the season. This wasn't the usual late-lunching business crowd of the weekdays, the people without two-o'clock appointments. There were no prospectuses on the tables. By the time I paid my check, the place had nearly emptied. Already the waiters were spreading the coloured tablecloths for the dinner trade.

When I got back to my office, I checked with my service. There were three calls: Stan Mendlesham from Newby's office, Detective-Sergeant Chris Savas and, to my surprise, Orv Wishart. I called Mendlesham first. It must have been a home number he left, because the voice of a three- or four-year-old answered and asked what I
wanted and why. I was in mid-reply, when the phone was wrenched away from the child.

“Is that you, Benny?” I told him it was. He went on to tell me that Newby had taken to his bed and wouldn't be able to see me for a day or two.

“Then I'll deal with you, Stan. That's the way it was set up in the first place.”

“Julian now wants to handle you himself, Benny. You've hit the big time!” Stan laughed, then spoke to the youngster with his hand over the phone for a moment. “Great kid!” he said back to me again. “He can do jigsaw puzzles with two hundred pieces and he's just turned four! Can you beat it?”

“Terrific!” I said. “When's he joining the firm?”

“He has to get through school yet, Benny, but I'm telling you …”

Stan went on about his son for some minutes. The important part of the message was to give Newby a day to recover. I wanted to ask Stan about how Newby had keys to Ramsden's house, but I kept my mouth shut. Maybe I could smoke that information out of Pete Staziak.

Next I phoned Chris, but he was out, so I left word that I wasn't ignoring him. Then I tried Wishart.

“Oh, hello there!” he said when I'd identified myself. He made small talk for a minute—something about the challenge and responsibility of the media—and then he said he'd like to see me. I let him suggest a place and time. When he'd hung up, I wrote “The Snug, Beaumont Hotel, 6:00
P.M
.” in my book. I was wondering what it
could all be about. I thought of the figure I'd seen lurking under the archway in the Kingsway Hall. My speculations were interrupted by the telephone. This was getting to sound like a busy office.

“Cooperman?” It was Savas.

“You got him, Chris. What can I do for you? You hiring outside consultants?”

“You can tell me what your voice is doing on Ramsden's answering machine for a start. Why the hell do you starve us for information, Benny? You ration it, you forget to mention it, and I'm supposed to roll over and wag my tail! What the hell was going on between you? What business is Liz Oldridge to you?”

“Just business, Chris. I was looking into her death, that's all.”

“The inquest didn't name any names, Benny. Ramsden walked away from that.”

“And we all know how far he got: three days. That's a pile short of a home run.”

“Benny, I'm only going to say this once: I don't want you fucking up my investigation! You hear me? Ramsden's mine and I don't want to see you anywhere near him. You still listening?”

“I hear, Chris. But when have I ever—?”

“Don't even ask! First I find out that you two were scuffling at the Bede Bunch meeting, then I discover you're trying to get back in his good books. I know you can give me a good reason, but I want to hear it without any creative flourishes, if you know what I mean?”

“Chris, it's like asking a reporter for his sources. I've got to think about it. I've got a client-investigator relationship to preserve. I'm not trying to make waves, Chris, I just want to get to shore.”

“Two days, Benny! I'll give you two days to get your shit in order, then I want you to give me the facts. That's forty-eight hours from now and then we talk! You got that? Because if I don't have a murderer in the cells downstairs by then, I'm coming calling on you!” I could hear him sucking on his teeth over the phone. It was serious sucking. I could tell.

“Easy, Chris! Take it easy! I want to find out who did it as much as you do. If I knew anything that was in my power to pass on to you, I would. But I don't and I can't.”

“I've lost my sense of humour where you're concerned, Benny. I don't want any sheep-dip from you when we talk. You hear? Be seeing you in two days!” He hung up loudly, hoping, no doubt, that my ear was still close to the receiver.

I replaced the phone slowly, thinking of the unworthy object I was sticking my neck out for. Kogan hadn't even formally retained me to do anything. I was acting on my own, spurred on by a passive-aggressive layabout who capered under the moon in the buff. I needed my head examined.

I could also see that Kogan had a good motive for killing Ramsden. Hadn't Ramsden just caused the death of Liz Oldridge? What could be clearer than that? Who was closest to Liz in her last days? Kogan. Who would resent
her death most? Kogan. Who cared enough to demonstrate in the nude? Kogan. Both Ramsden and Temperley had played a part in Liz's death. Both had kept her away from her money. Who would at the very least shed no tears at their demise? Kogan. I could see Savas coming around to this view if a better prospect didn't materialize. Without money to hire a good lawyer, I could see Kogan's future plans put into the hands of the Minister of Corrections indefinitely.

So, what was I doing? I was trying to stop it. And in order to do this with a mind unclouded by feelings other than those that are right and fitting to exist between a PI and his client, I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and removed an assortment of coat-hangers I'd accumulated there. With them in hand, I went into the bathroom and began fixing the running toilet myself.

EIGHTEEN

The Snug in the rear of the Beaumont Hotel was a small-town imitation of an Irish pub. The décor tried its best to make you believe that you were sitting in a hideaway long after closing time. This impression was not sustained by all the local faces in the room. They were all people I went to school with—well, some of them were. They were too Canadian, too caught up in the here and now to help the image The Snug was trying to create. On my way to my seat I heard phrases like “… What's the bottom line on that?” and “… I didn't want to take delivery of the goddamned pork bellies, I wanted to unload them!”

I was about five minutes early for my appointment. That was easy for me since the hotel was just a short hike up St. Andrew Street from the office. I returned the greetings of a few familiar faces, who made no attempt to join me, nor did they invite me to join them. It was that kind of place. It was an intimate extension of everybody's office. The rules were “keep to yourself and mind your own business.” Orv Wishart must have come in the back way. I'd been watching the front door.

“Hello, there, Benny,” he said. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late. There's always a string of people waiting for me when I'm trying to get away. I should try using the fire escape.”

“How is your mother-in-law, Mrs. Ravenswood?”

Wishart looked solemn. I couldn't tell whether my question had been taken as an impertinence or whether he was sincerely worried about the old lady. “She's at home. I've got a nurse staying with her for a few days. She hasn't been all that well, you know.” I didn't know, but I now knew how her drinking was to be treated. I'd been given the official line. How like a news director: everything had its pigeon-hole.

I sat back and watched the waiter avoiding eye contact with his customers on this side of the room. When he could ignore us no longer, he came to the table, where Wishart ordered Campari and Perrier and I a rye and ginger. I couldn't make Wishart look me in the eye. His hands were actively making patterns on the arm of his chair. He continued to make small talk until the drinks came, then he downed half of his pink concoction that looked like cream soda in one gulp. Finally, the moment arrived. He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned close to the table.

“You remember the other night?” he asked, his eyes still dancing all over the room, like a glitter dome that had lost all but two of its mirrors. I nodded agreement but said nothing. “I saw you there behind the piano,” he continued. “I guess you wondered why I was there?”

“Sure. I didn't think you were one of the regulars.”

“Ha! That bunch? Catch me!” He took the rest of his drink in one swallow. This time the waiter replaced it before I even looked up. “What would it cost me for you to forget you saw me, Ben?”

“Are you talking seriously? I want to get this straight.”

“What's it going to cost?”

“You know that Ramsden's dead? That I was there when Newby found him?”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I'm not a bribe-taking man, Orv.”

“Then you haven't told the police that you saw me?”

“I see all sorts of people; I just answered their questions. If they ask me if I saw Orv Wishart lurking around the Kingsway Hall last Tuesday, I'd have to tell them the truth.”

“And I can't name a price that would make you forget?”

“It doesn't work that way. I've been told to stay out of the way of the cops in general and away from this investigation in particular. So I'm not volunteering information I'm not asked for.”

“You don't think I killed him, do you?”

“It entered my mind. I don't know what I think. Nobody's hired me to think about it. You weren't his only enemy.”

“That's for goddamned sure!” I'd guessed right and tried not to let it show on my face. “Maybe you'll come and work for me, Ben?”

“Not likely, Orv. Not after your introductory offer. I'd never be able to keep my right and left hands straight in my head if I did. I try to keep things simple. Why did you want to see Ramsden? Why didn't you leave a message on his machine like the rest of us?” Again I was guessing. Maybe there are some lurkers in the shadows who leave messages on tape, but I was betting that Wishart wasn't one of them.

“It was business. Just business,” he said.

“I see. Look, Mr. Wishart, I appreciate your friendly offer, but I can't make it work that way. Okay? If you want to talk, that's another matter; I still have most of my drink in front of me. If you don't want to talk, that's okay too.”

“Ben, Ramsden collected things, things belonging to other people, things they would just as soon forget about. Thurleigh kept on reminding them that he still had these things handy, hidden in a safe place. He had something that rightly belongs to me. That night, I wanted to see him about getting it back.”