Next morning, fearing that Susan might call and forgive me, I left my apartment at seven-thirty and went directly to the store. I didn’t want Susan and Jennifer mad at me, and I knew I was going to be out of the store for hours later in the day, so I did my penance in advance. I got right down to some paperwork that I normally put off as long as possible — opening the mail which had arrived late the day before, filing, and writing up the daily cheque deposit. We do a large volume of institutional business and a big part of our cash flow comes in the mail in the form of cheques. Most retailers dread the mail as it brings more bills than money. In our case it was different. On a typical day we received about as much in the way of cheques as we did of bills. It helped keep income and outgo in balance.
Jennifer was coming in just as I was leaving.
“Leaving so soon?”
“I have detecting chores to attend to, I’m afraid.”
“Not again,” she said, but she was smiling. Good old Jennifer.
“I’ve done the paperwork and I’ll be back at about noon — I hope,” I threw back over my shoulder as I left the store.
“Go get those bad guys!” Jennifer called after me.
I was tired of having to scrounge for paper to take notes on. This time I took the precaution of bringing a pad and pen along in one of those dull red legal-size file folders, the kind that close with an attached covered elastic band. I hoped it made me look more official.
When I got to Hilliard’s building, Gaston was already there. There was a patrol car parked in front of the building, and my friend was in the lobby, deep in conversation with the concierge, Grant, and the uniformed cops. They were just finished talking when I walked in. Grant went back into his office, and Gaston told the cops that he would call them when he needed them to come back. They went back out to their car and drove off.
“I’m not late, am I?” I asked.
“Not at all. I came a bit early to enlist the aid of the concierge. He’s going to play doorman and keep track of the comings and goings of our, what shall I call them? Invitées? Guests? Let’s go up to the apartment and I’ll fill you in,”
“Great,” I said following him into the elevator.
Even though I knew what to expect I was still taken aback by the blackness of the foyer, now decorated with yellow barrage-de-police banners. Gaston removed them and used the key that M. Grant had given him to enter the apartment.
As we waited for our interviewees I told Gaston what I had heard the previous night at the Yen King.
“Vraiment,” he said consigning my news to the garbage heap of unreason. “Two people talking nonsense on a subject about which they know nothing.” I wished I had not said anything about the conversation I had overheard. Not that his dismissive attitude changed my mind; Allan and Arlene were my top two candidates for murder. Who better than a jealous boyfriend or a rejected mistress?
“My plan is this,” Gaston explained. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Smith if anything seems out of place and if she has or had any knowledge of any visitors Professor Hilliard may have had while she worked here. I want to know if she saw any of the women he is rumoured to have invited up here. I’m hoping that she will be able to help us in that regard. I also intend for Ms. Ford to arrive without either of them knowing that the other is coming to see their reactions. If one of them gives any suggestion that she recognizes the other we’ll know that Ms. Ford is lying and I’ll be able to pressure her into telling us the truth.”
I complimented Gaston on his plan. It seemed to me like pretty straightforward detective work — keep the element of surprise on your side and don’t tip your hand. Where I learned all this I don’t know. Books, maybe. And even though it was obvious it seemed like a solid idea that might well force a confession out of Arlene Ford.
“I also want to see if Mrs. Smith can give us any clue as to the whereabouts of Professor Hilliard’s computer,” Gaston added as an afterthought.
Just before nine-thirty the buzzer sounded and we heard the elevator start up. Apparently Gaston had arranged with Grant to give us a signal when Betty Smith arrived. Gaston went to the door to let her in and I stood far back in the room so as not to give the impression that we were going to attack her. She stopped at the threshold, not sure what to do. Part of her wanted to march right into the apartment as she was probably used to doing but another part of her wanted to respect police protocol but she wasn’t exactly sure what that was.
Gaston, ever the gallant, immediately put her at her ease. “Mrs. Smith?” he inquired politely. “How do you do? I’m Gaston Lemieux of the Montreal police and this is my colleague, Mr. Wiseman. Please come in.” He gently took her elbow and escorted her into the apartment. “Won’t you sit down?”
Betty Smith was a short woman of an age somewhere between fifty and sixty-five. She had short hair which was once brown but was now mostly grey. She was one of those women who look chubby even though they are actually quite slim, but are top-heavy with a very large bosom and a short waist. She had an energetic down-to-earth look about her and she was scrubbed clean and wore almost no make-up. She sat in one of the chairs and looked suspiciously at the torn bag and empty cardboard coffee cups on the coffee table.
“I only have a few questions at the moment but I may have more later. First, would you mind walking through the apartment with us to see if anything is missing or not in its usual place?”
“Not at all,” she said standing up and heading for the study. We followed her from the study to the dining room and kitchen to the bathroom and the bedroom. She moved quickly and spent only the amount of time she needed to give each room a complete once-over. In the kitchen and bathroom she opened and closed cupboards and the medicine chests to satisfy herself that everything was as it should be. Back in the living room and seated she stated, “Everything’s been moved.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gaston.
“Nothing is exactly where I left it and there are bits of white powder everywhere.”
“That must be because I had a team up here dusting for fingerprints. But are you saying that things are generally as you left them when you were last here?”
“Yes. Things are close to where they should be. But really, can’t you people be a little more careful about how you handle things?”
It is very unlikely that a police investigation will ever satisfy the demands of a professional cleaning woman. Gaston ignored the rebuke and moved on to his next question.
“Did you notice where he left his laptop computer?”
“He always took it with him, to his office. The only times I ever saw it was during the summer when he didn’t go to the university every day.”
“Did you know the professor for a long time?”
“Yes, I guess I did. I started working for him just over ten years ago. Before he moved here. He had another place. And when he bought this one I followed along.”
“Did you see him much?”
“No. Well, at first I did. But we developed a routine and I was able to do my job without too much interference from him.”
“What exactly were your duties?”
“Well, housekeeping, really. I cleaned and tidied but he made a point of not allowing me to move anything. So I kept things as he left them. I did some laundry, the sheets and towels and things he didn’t send out. And I cooked. I prepared three meals and I left them in the freezer. He bought prepared foods or ate out the rest of the time.”
“How did he pay you if you hardly saw him?”
“He left a cheque.”
“And how often would you say that you saw him in a month?”
“About once.”
“Once a month?” Gaston couldn’t believe how tightly organized the good professor was.
“That’s right.”
“Do you know if he entertained at all?”
“Entertained? I don’t think so. I know that he had people over, mostly women from what I could tell, but, I don’t think he went in much for entertaining.”
Gaston perked up like a hunting dog at the whiff of a prey. “Mostly women? Did you ever see any of his guests?”
“Not hardly. But women leave things behind. Makeup and things like that. I stored it all in the second medicine chest in the bathroom if I found any. And other things. Perfume. I could tell by the scent if a woman had been here. I could tell when he got a new girlfriend. The smell of the place changed,” she said with a smile.
“When was the last time you noticed such a change?”
“Boy, that’s a tough one. It’s been the same scent for quite a while, but … I’ve got to think.” She closed her eyes and sat back in her chair and was obviously lost in thought. Her head nodded slightly and her lips pushed in and out as she tried to recall the various scents of the perfumes that passed through Professor Hilliard’s home. I thought that we were lucky that smells are stored in long-term memory otherwise Mrs. Smith would never be able to answer the question.
Finally she sat upright and opened her eyes. “A couple of years ago,” she said. “There was a definite change. I started to notice a really nice scent. I didn’t know what it was called but it sure smelled nice. I wanted to buy it but I could never find it at the places I shopped. Then whoever she was left a bottle of it in the bathroom. Jade it was called. No idea where she got it but I’d sure love a bottle of it.”
“Jade?”
“Yes, the cologne. It’s probably expensive and hard to get.”
“I see,” said Gaston. “Jade. And what is there about this perfume that makes it so different from its predecessors?”
“Not perfume; cologne. Well, one of the things that is different is that there was someone wearing cologne at all. Before that it was all soaps and lotion but nothing fancy and certainly no perfume or cologne. Do you see what I mean? For the first time in a long time there was some one here who treated herself to some of the finer things.”
“So, before the arrival of the Jade lady the visitors, so far as you could tell, were less luxurious in their tastes.” Gaston summarized.
“Exactly. Now may I ask you a question?” Mrs. Smith inquired of Gaston.
“Certainly, madam. What is it?”
“Has any one seen to funeral arrangements for the poor professor?”
This was the first time any one had expressed any practical concern for the deceased. Jane Miller-More was unquestionably sad at Hilliard’s passing but her grief seemed more self-centred than altruistic. Arlene Ford seemed to be more angry at the professor than sad. Neither Sarah nor Allan seemed particularly upset at the death of Professor Hilliard; in fact Allan seemed almost pleased that Hilliard was out of the way. Mrs. Smith who only saw Professor Hilliard once a month had a personal interest in the man.
“It’s thoughtful of you to ask. But we’ve had the body at the morgue for the last few days so that we could do an autopsy. These things take time.”
“Yes, but sooner or later a family member will want to arrange for a proper burial won’t they?”
“I suppose. But so far we haven’t been able to locate any family.”
“He wasn’t from here. I think he was American originally, from Ohio or one of those places.”
“We’ll make some efforts to find his family after we finish the autopsy. If you hear from them please have them get in touch with me.” He handed Mrs. Smith one of his cards.
The buzzer from the lobby sounded again and I checked my watch. Ten o’clock exactly. “We have another guest coming,” Gaston explained. “Please tell me if you recognize her.”
We waited for the knock at the door and Gaston answered it. “Please come in, Ms. Ford. Thank you for being so punctual.” He stood back to allow Arlene to enter and we heard the tap of her high heels as she walked into the room.
Arlene stopped short when she noticed Betty Smith sitting in the chair with the window’s light behind her.
“You know my colleague, Mr. Wiseman. Permit me to present Professor Hilliard’s housekeeper, Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith, this is Ms. Ford from the University. She worked for Professor Hilliard. I don’t think you’ve met.” Gaston was standing behind Arlene and she couldn’t see him.
“No. I haven’t but there is something very familiar about you,” Betty said, getting to her feet. We were quiet as we watched Betty Smith extend her hand to Arlene Ford.
“I know!” Betty said suddenly. “You’re Jade!”
Arlene Ford froze. But only for a second. She dropped Betty Smith’s hand as if it were suddenly aflame and turned quickly. I think she was in the “flight” part of fight-or-flight but Gaston stood between her and the door. She froze again and I could see her facial muscles tighten with fear and anger. She whipped her head around and saw me standing in the alcove archway. It was clear to her that neither flight nor fight was a possibility. She turned her tight, frightened face back to Gaston and I noticed that large tears formed in the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. For the first time I believed that her tears were sincere and that she had something to cry about.
“There, there, dear,” Mrs. Smith said and put a maternal arm around Arlene’s shoulder.
Gaston caught Betty’s eye and indicated with a tiny gesture and a step forward that he would take over now. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Smith, you have been extremely helpful. I’ll get in touch with you if I need to speak to you again. Will you be able to get home all right? Shall I call for a taxi? Would you like me to have a police car drive you home?”
“Lord, no. It’s a nice day and I’ll take the bus. Thank you.” She dropped her arm from Arlene’s shoulder but not before giving her a comforting squeeze. “Goodbye, now. Please let me know if there are any funeral arrangements, or if you locate the family.”
“I certainly shall, madam. Thank you again.”
And with that Betty Smith walked out of the condo.
We turned our attention to Arlene Ford, who was standing white-faced and as still as death.