in a body-rub parlour. From what I saw of Dunkley, something like that would bother him, all right. But Summers, I gather, would have been one to make a joke of it, once he got over his embarrassment. He wasn’t shy about suggesting they all go to a girlie show in Montreal, but Dunkley was.’
‘You mean all these middle-aged professors get away from their wives and they act . . .’
‘Just like everyone else. Especially at that age.’
She accepted the tease. ‘Charlie, would you go to a show like that, if you were on holiday away from me?’
‘No, dear. Only on business.’
But she was concerned now. ‘From what you’ve told me, half these people are having affairs their wives don’t know about.’
‘Just one, dear: Pollock. And I don’t know if he’s married.’
‘Of course he is.’
Now they were off on a familiar misery, entitled, ‘Why Do Married Men Play Around?’ with the inevitable sub-theme, ‘Do You?’ Fortunately Salter was saved by the arrival of Angus around the corner of the house carrying a cricket bat. One of the traditions of Annie’s family was that the men went to Upper Canada College, and she had used her trust fund, set up by her grandmother, to keep the tradition going for Seth and Angus. It would have been piggish to object, but their fancy ways made him uncomfortable, and he kept a firm, ironic distance from the goings-on of the quality his sons mixed with, and occasionally brought home.
‘Did you win?’ he asked now. ‘How many bounders did you hit?’
‘Boundaries, Dad. None. I was stumped first ball.’
‘That sounds bad, son.’
‘It is. It means I was out before I even hit one.’
Salter tutted. ‘Did you pitch today?’ he asked wide-eyed.
‘Bowl,’ Angus said. ‘Bowl, bowl, bowl, bowl. NO$$$.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Annie. I’ll get you some supper,’ another word she preserved in the face of Upper Canada’s ‘dinner’.
‘Angus won’t want any supper,’ Salter said. ‘He’ll have had tea. In the pavilion. Won’t you, son?’
The other two ignored him, and his wife moved into the house while his son took her chair, indicating a desire for a chat with his father. This was rare enough for Salter to stop his fooling and take an interest. Angus came to the point immediately.
‘Dad, the Civics teacher wants parents to come and give us a talk on what they do. I said I’d ask you.’
Salter was thrown into confusion. While the subject of his career did not crop up much around the house, he had the impression that the boys, once over their ‘cops and robbers’ phase, were slightly ashamed of him, especially among their moneyed friends. Now here was Angus suggesting he display himself in public. His first instinct was an immediate and derisive refusal, but he was slightly touched, so he played for time.
‘Who have you had so far, son?’ he asked.
‘Pillsbury’s father, who’s a stockbroker, a chartered accountant, two lawyers, and a big deal surgeon who transplants hearts or something.’
Salter returned to his first instinct. ‘No, thanks, son. Too glamorous for me. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get my sergeant to come over. He used to go round the schools in Safety Week, teaching them to “Stop, Look, and Listen”. The kids loved it.’
Angus got up. ‘I know. I heard him. I’ll tell Mr Secord “no”, then.’
‘That’s right. Tell him all my work is highly confidential.’
Annie returned from getting Angus his supper. 7 suggested that,’ she said. ‘He asked me and I said I thought you might. Why don’t you?’
‘Because I’d feel a horse’s arse, that’s why,’ Salter said noisily, and picked up his notebook to cut off the discussion. ‘Now tell me, where have I heard of Pollock?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps, like everyone else, you’ve heard of him as a famous artist.’ Annie was hostile, po-faced.
Never mind. She’d get over it. ‘Right, thanks. What does uxorious mean? U, X . . .’
‘I know the word. It means dotingly fond of one’s wife. Why?’
‘Guy called himself that today. Now tell me this . . .’
But Annie had left.
Late that night, in bed, she asked him, ‘Charlie, have you had any other women lately?’
He grabbed her in a mock-brutal gesture. ‘I haven’t had any women lately.’
She took his hand away. ‘I’m not surprised if that’s how you go about it.’ She sat up and took off her nightdress. ‘Try a little tenderness,’ she said.
Afterwards she asked, ‘Well, have you?’
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What? Oh, for Christ’s sake, go to sleep.’
On Wednesday morning Salter phoned Montreal. He found O’Brien in the office. ‘Hello, Onree. Charlie Salter here. I’ve done the rounds and it looks to me as if the guy we’re looking for is in Montreal. Apparently Summers was celebrating something and throwing his money about. He was drunk, too, even before he got into the whisky. I think someone followed him back to the hotel and clobbered him for his money. Then they panicked.’
‘You have interviewed all the people he was with?’
‘Yes. An unlikely lot. One possibility, but my guess is still a whore and a pimp.’
‘Did he spend the night, what do you call it, pub-crawling?’
‘More or less. But they only went to three places. Here they are: Maison Victor Hugo, The Iron Horse, and Les Jardins du Paradis. How’s my accent?’
‘Bad, Charlie, but I know these places. OK. I’ll put a couple of men on it. You think any of them is the most likely?’
‘Les Jardins du Paradis. They were in there between nine and ten, and my guess is that the killer was, too.’
‘OK. You have seen everybody?’
‘No, no. The funeral is this afternoon. I’ll go to that. And I want to go down to this squash club where he spent so much time. Then there’s the wife, who I’ll see tomorrow. Oh yes, I found out who Jane is—you remember the note in his box? She’s an old pal of his, apparently, so I don’t expect to find anything there.’
‘What about those phone numbers on the little sheet of paper in his wallet?’
‘Not yet. I’ll do that today. But I still think you will be looking for the villain in Montreal.’
‘OK, Charlie.. This is taking up a lot of your time.’
‘Time’s
