A Charlie Salter Omnibus. Eric Wright
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Salter waited. ‘And that’s it?’ he asked, finally.
‘That’s all. He got up quiet as a lamb and put on that dressing-gown, and that was that.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Salter said, after another long pause. ‘Jesus H. Christ.’
The interlude over, Salter went back to brooding about Summers. What was his responsibility to O’Brien? To ask questions, watch the whites of their eyes, and see if anyone was lying. So who was? At a guess, he thought, everyone except Usher. But what about? Begin with Carrier. It was possible that Carrier was being his natural gerbil-like self, but he certainly acted like a man with a secret. But a killer? Unlikely. Marika Tils? Even more unlikely, and yet she had seemed to be evading him at the end.
Dunkley was still the obvious choice. Hard to tell if he was lying, because everything he said sounded like rehearsed dogma. He was a man of principle, or a self-righteous prick, depending on how you reacted to him, but did that make him suspicious? Would he lie, much less kill, on principle?
Which left Jane Homer, the Dean of Women. There was also someone with a story she wasn’t telling, but what? Did Summers try to rape her, after all these years? Hardly. If she knew anything that would help him she would surely have said so. They were old friends, she and Summers.
What about Summers? He was drunk, he had seen a girlie show, he was in his dressing-gown, there was lipstick on the glass, and he had had a lucky day. Any famous detective would have solved it in five minutes, but all Salter could come up with was the classic ‘whore-and-pimp’ solution. In the meantime he could think of a number of things he ought to do before he went back to cleaning up Yonge Street. Like having a look at the scene of the crime. And seeing Molly Tripp again.
Back in the office, Gatenby picked up their messages. ‘They’ve all been calling,’ he said as if he were reading a children’s story to a four-year-old. ‘Chiefie, DeeCee, the copper from froggieland. There’s no mail, though.’
Wonderful. Not a single silly assignment, or request, for three days. Was it really passing? The Chief was, in fact, the Superintendent’s secretary, asking if a written copy of the report on the Montreal case would be forthcoming; the message from the Deputy was to ask if he needed any help. Deduction. He was on the case the Deputy was interested in. A pity he was getting nowhere, even if he was having fun. He phoned O’Brien.
‘I have talked to everyone in the area, Charlie. They remember him in the bars, but that’s all. I think I’ve talked to every known character who was in Les Jardins du Paradis when Summers was there, but I can’t smell anything.’
‘The hotel staff remember anything?’
‘I question them every day, just for practice, and to see if they start remembering. Nothing. Why don’t you come down and try it yourself?’
‘It’s your turf, Onree,’ Salter said, but thinking, Why don’t I?
‘My what?’ O’Brien asked.
‘Your turf. Your manor,’ Salter explained.
‘Ah yes. Mon fief.’
‘I guess so. Onree, I’ve had a thought. Maybe I will come down. Not to help you out, but just to get a feel of what happened on Friday night. When are you free?’
‘Monday would be good.’
‘Perfect. I’ll come down on the afternoon train.’
‘I’ll meet you, Charlie. Look for me.’
At 3.30 Salter left for the squash club.
Salter was aware of the new concern for health which had filled the streets of Toronto with men and women trotting about in shorts, and had created an industry devoted to selling fitness. One of the products of this concern was the huge growth of racquet sports, especially squash. Annie had suggested to him more than once that it was a sport that might answer his own need for exercise. Salter watched his growing belly, and listened to himself puff up the stairs, and toyed with the idea, but his overwhelming concern not to look, sound, or feel a fool under any circumstances had kept him from enquiring further. Now he had an official reason to look inside one of the new clubs and he was looking forward to satisfying his personal curiosity.
The Simcoe Squash Club is on the edge of Toronto’s downtown shopping district, which is also Toronto’s business district. The location makes it ideal for the man or woman who wants a game on his way to or from work, and it is at its busiest in the early morning, the late afternoon, and at lunch-time. It is housed in a converted warehouse, and Salter found it easily, at a few minutes before four, by following the trickle of men with athletic bags who were converging on the large brick building.
A girl seated at the desk inside the door was checking off members as they arrived, confirming bookings in a ledger and taking money. Salter did not introduce himself officially, saying merely, ‘I’m meeting Mr Bailey here. He’s a member.’
She nodded, and picked up the phone at the same time. ‘If you follow those guys—Hi, Joe, that was a real wingding last night—down the stairs—Just a minute, “Hello, Simcoe Squash Club”—hang on, Mary Lou, I’ve gotta talk to you—Gerry! How are you?—through into the lounge—hang on a second—no, sir, all booked at four-forty—don’t go away, Mary Lou—you could get a cup of coffee and—WAIT, Mary Lou—OK? He’ll see you when he comes in. OK?—now listen, Mary Lou, you know what happened last night?—’
Salter picked out the bits of this that were his and followed the crowd into a large area full of tables and chairs. The crowd disappeared, one by one, through a door in the far corner, and Salter found himself a seat and looked around. Half a dozen pairs of members dressed in shorts and looking more or less exhausted and sweaty were drinking beer. Most of them were in their twenties, but one pair was white-haired and ten years older than Salter. One wall of the lounge was made of glass and formed the back wall of a pair of courts. A game was in progress on one of the courts, and Salter tried to follow it. The players leapt and ran, hitting the ball alternately, sometimes seven or eight times, before one of the players missed. Salter couldn’t follow the ball and instead concentrated on the players, marvelling at the way they ran round each other, never crashing into each other, rarely touching. As he watched, one of them dived to retrieve a ball low against the wall and smashed his racquet in two. It looked like an expensive game. Would he be able to play it? Salter had been a mediocre though enthusiastic athlete in his youth, reduced in the last few years to golf, and not much of that. He had left behind all team sports, he hated the idea of jogging, and his attention span for formal calisthenics was about a minute. In fact, apart from golf, he hardly exercised at all, which is to say for about nine months of the year. He felt the need. This game looked as though it might provide the answer—half an hour of competitive frenzy leading to renewed fitness or a heart attack.
‘Are you a member, sir?’
The young athlete standing beside him in squash gear was obviously an official of some sort.
Salter decided on a touch of rudeness. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m the club pro, sir. In the afternoons I’m also the manager. Can I help you?’
‘I’m waiting for Mr Bailey.’
‘Oh