arrangements to be made for the tidying up of Yonge Street for a visit by the Mayor of Amsterdam (I’ll put a tart in an armchair in all the shop windows, he thought; that’ll make his worship feel at home); report requested on the value of police horses in suburban plaza patrols; an inspection of gunshops to make sure they weren’t selling machine-guns to minors; a committee to be formed to investigate complaints about the police cafeteria; a request for information from the Montreal police. A typical pile of rubbish.
For Salter had been put out to pasture. In one year he had gone from being a power in the internal structure of the Force to the status of a non-person, simply because he had backed the wrong man for Deputy Chief too enthusiastically and without regard for the consequences. Too young to retire, as his mentor had done, he was too old to shift careers. His future had been with the Force; now he had no future.
Salter looked at the last item. ‘What’s this, Frank? What information do they want in Montreal?’
‘Who can say, sir?’ Gatenby said. ‘Who—can—say?’ he repeated, pronouncing each word slowly as if at the conclusion of an intense metaphysical speculation that had occupied him all morning. ‘They phoned before you came in. I’d only just arrived myself. A man was found dead in Montreal last weekend. One of ours. I mean a Toronto man, not one of our boys. There’s a sergeant coming in on the Rapido after lunch, so Chiefie is putting him on to you.’ ‘Chiefie’ in Gatenby baby talk was the Superintendent. The Deputy Chief of Police was called ‘Deecee’. ‘There’s a lot going on today, sir, and I suppose they couldn’t spare anyone else.’ The sergeant smiled like a host of a children’s TV show.
‘When’s he coming?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘All right. Tell “Chiefie” I’ll do it. You never know. It might be a real job.’
‘Chiefie’s up with the Commission, sir. I think he just thought you would.’
Salter always went out to lunch. He didn’t enjoy the food or the horseplay in the canteen, which was probably, he thought, why he had been put on the committee to investigate complaints. On this day he walked through to Yonge Street to a store that sold out-of-town newspapers, bought the latest edition of the Montreal Gazette and took it into a coffee shop that specialized in corned beef sandwiches. He found what he wanted on page three, a small item to the effect that one David Summers, of Toronto, had been found with his skull fractured in a Montreal hotel room. Police were investigating. Nice, old-fashioned murder. Sex, money or what? Why did the Montreal boys need help already? He paid for his food and worked his way back across a number of parking lots to his office.
Gatenby met him at the door. ‘He’s here,’ he whispered, pointing elaborately over his shoulder into the office. Salter, resisting the temptation to put his finger in his mouth and roll his eyes in wonder, contented himself with walking past the sergeant into his office and holding out his hand. Gatenby trotted behind. ‘This is Inspector Salter, Sergeant,’ he said from under Salter’s elbow. ‘Cup of tea, anyone? Coffee? No? I’ll leave you alone, then, to have your chat.’
When the door closed, both men sat down.
‘Someone got clobbered, I hear,’ Salter offered. ‘How can we help?’
‘My name is O’Brien, Inspector. Henri O’Brien.’
‘Sorry. Yes. Charlie Salter.’
O’Brien took some papers out of a large envelope he was carrying. ‘What we would like is some help with the questioning.’ He was a small, trim man, a few years younger than Salter, with close-cropped hair and a weatherbeaten look like a lumberjack or a sailor. He handed Salter one set of papers and kept a similar set for himself.
‘Let’s go over it first, Sergeant. I know nothing about it. Start at the top.’
O’Brien started to read in slightly accented English. ‘David Arthur Summers. Age 47. Married. One daughter. Professor at Douglas College. Found dead in the Plaza del Oro Hotel on Saturday, May 18, at 11 a.m. by the maid. Cause of death—fractured skull, probably caused by a whisky bottle found on the floor. Victim naked except for a dressing-gown. Room contained the clothes he had been wearing in a pile on the floor, his suitcase, still unpacked, the whisky bottle, nearly empty, two glasses, one with lipstick. No sign of a struggle. Time of death, about twelve hours previously.’
Salter wasn’t listening. He was watching O’Brien read from a typescript in French arid translate it simultaneously into English. Was there anyone here who could do that, he wondered? His own copy was in English.
O’Brien stopped.reading, and there was a long pause.
‘All right,’ Salter said. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘His wife came to Montreal for the identification,’ O’Brien said. ‘She told us Summers was in town for an academic conference. It began on Friday and was to last until Wednesday. She said Summers and his colleagues went to this conference every year at this time, when the term was over. It is held in a different place each year so they get to see the country. A little ‘oliday before they go off for the big ‘oliday in the summer.’
The two detectives, who each got five weeks’ paid leave a year, smiled at each other.
O’Brien continued. ‘I have a statement from her here. She was not a great deal of help. She didn’t know any reason why anyone should kill her husband. We couldn’t question her too hard, of course, because she was very upset. We’d like you to talk to her again, also.’
‘All right. He picked up a whore who rolled him, right? The badger game. What’s that in French?’
‘The badger game, Inspector. But his wallet was still in his jacket, with over a hundred dollars in cash.’
‘They got disturbed,’ Salter offered.
‘We know most of the hookers in the city, except the teenagers. We are checking. We don’t know any killers among them.’
‘Someone he knew, then. Some woman. An affair de cur.’
‘What?’
‘You know. An affair of the heart. Sounds, silly in English. The lipstick looks pretty obvious.’
‘The blows were heavy. The doctor said it was someone quite strong.’
‘They all study martial arts these days, Sergeant. My wife can lift her end of a railway tie.’
‘Yes? But do English professors get into fights with their lovers?’
‘What difference does it make what he teaches?’
‘I meant English-Canadian professors, Inspector. Though, as a matter of fact, he did teach English.’
‘I see.’ Salter paused. O’Brien had introduced East/West relations into the discussion. You Anglos are a mystery to us Québécois. ‘I guess professors are the same everywhere, Sergeant. Give them three drinks and they smash each other’s heads in.’ Screw you, froggie, he thought.
‘Yes. Sorry. But your sergeant said something about he had heard we had a “crime de passion” we needed help with. He said he thought that was allowed in Quebec. I thought he was making jokes. Maybe you and he together.’
‘Frank
