Riding back east on the King car, I started reviewing the remaining suspects on my mental list. If Nora had had a lover, and if at the time of her death she’d been in the process of leaving him to return to Herman, then that lover might have been jealous enough to bump her off. I thought Sir Joseph Deane the likeliest candidate for the role of lover, but too fond of Nora to have slipped her poison and also too anxious to be of assistance to my investigation. The same arguments applied to Eric Hutchinson if he had been breaking his marriage vows with the painter. Both men, however, had women in their lives that might have resented Nora.
Effie Britton believed Nora would never have had an affair with a married man without his wife’s leave. I bet there were loveless marriages in which adultery might be freely okayed, even in our sexually orthodox town. But permission might also be granted insincerely or under duress. Or the wife might, having given the green light, find herself more liable to jealousy than she expected. Both Hutchinson and Deane were public figures. An additional motive for the removal of a mistress might be the protection of the great man’s reputation.
I had already entertained the possibility of such a motive in the case of Myrtle Hutchinson. The man in the light-coloured roadster she had claimed to have seen kissing Nora might have been no more than a fiction to divert attention from Eric. Joe Deane lived with three female family members: any one of them might have resented an infidelity on his part or feared the consequences of its exposure. My conversation with Deane’s daughter Phyllis had aroused no suspicions, but had been too brief for me to rule her out. As a medical student, she might be familiar with poisons. Lady Deane I had also spent too little time with to either suspect or clear. She struck me as too indolent to be a criminal. Of the three, Joe’s sister Mary-Maud was the person I thought likeliest to have made away with Nora. She had the most involvement with the kitchen. Judging by her own case, she also tended to blame the other woman for a man’s disloyalty.
It ran against the grain for me to think of women as murderers, but I had to admit that when women did kill, poison was often the method of choice. The administration of noxious substances requires no brawn and sorts well with the art of cookery.
When I got to City Hall I found on my desk three photos of Herman Koch and a message that Ruth Stone had phoned from the Dispatch and wanted a call back. I didn’t waste a second.
“Hi, Ruth. You miss me?”
“Non-stop. Say, I hear Jack Wellington has had a few of his ribs cracked and his nose broken. Did you do that for him?”
“Whoa, Emma! That would be against the detective’s code of conduct.”
“So it’s pure coincidence that yesterday afternoon I gave you his address and the next thing I hear he’s confined to bed with hot and cold running nurses?”
“His injuries were incurred Saturday night. And, while I appreciate the compliment, Ruth, I doubt if I could have inflicted them. I’m not in his class for speed.” My stomach didn’t ache enough to keep me from looking forward to lunch, but was still sufficiently tender to make me glad I wasn’t Jack’s regular sparring partner.
“Too bad. I could write such a good story, having been at the fixed fight and everything. Would it wreck your career if I used your name anyway?”
“Would it hurt yours if you took a jump in the lake?”
“So you saw him yesterday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How did you find him?”
“In bed all right, but scarcely confined.”
“Who do you think messed him up?”
“On the record?”
“Not for attribution.”
“Jack didn’t say, and frankly all that mattered to me was that someone had dealt with him. I couldn’t arrest that someone even if I wanted to. The encounter happened outside my jurisdiction.”
“At Lariviere’s club, I’m guessing.”
“That’s the impression I got.”
“Anything more you can give me?”
“Lots. If you’ll see me, I’ll show you.”
“About Jack’s injuries, Paul. Try to concentrate.”
“Not for attribution then. He said the damage was done with high kicks. Can I take you to an art gallery this weekend?”
“Never thought I’d hear that from you. Kicks, eh? Bare feet?”
“Boots. I’ve become a real fan of paintings in the past week. What about it?”
“Not one of those Oriental styles then. Sounds like savate.”
“French.” I was impressed and didn’t care if it showed. “You know more about fighting than you let on.”
“Girl’s gotta keep up. Any murder investigations underway?”
“I’ll tell you Saturday.”
We agreed to work out details later in the week.
In a celebratory mood, I trotted off for a fish salad sandwich at Uneeda Lunch. Tucking myself into the last seat at the counter, I found myself sitting beside an equally ebullient Harry O’Brian, just back from Elizabeth Street. His sandwich was baked beans with plenty of onions. He smacked his lips, finished it in four bites, and ordered another the same — none of which convinced me that his choice was anything but disgusting.
“Good news, Harry?”
“A couple of things to show for my morning,” the tall man beamed down at me. “First, the car. A cream-coloured roadster was seen parked in front of Nora Britton’s studio at various dates up to October 5. Always during daylight hours. I have the word of four different people — a housewife, a rag-and-bone man, a laundress, and a ten-year-old boy who sells cigarettes he makes from discarded butts. Do you want their names?”
“Not if you have them written down. Anyone see a driver?”
“Only the boy, and he just got a glimpse of the back of a middle-aged male closing the car door and walking into Moretti’s shop. This man had white hair with a centre part, seemed short standing beside the car, and was dressed in a well-cut charcoal grey suit.”
“Not after October 5, Harry? How can they be sure of the date?”
“The laundress’s hands had become so irritated by the bleach she has to use that she was taking a day off work. It was warmer than usual for the season, so she went out on her porch. She was sure of the date, and the temperature squares with my memory. The two of us agreed that the next day, when she was back at work, was even warmer. Anyway, sitting there on her front stoop, she missed seeing the driver, who had already gone inside, but she got an eyeful of the car all right. She remembers exchanging a remark with the cigarette boy about it and his telling her what he’d do with a boat like that. Oh, I forgot to mention, when I spoke to him he told me it was a Chrysler Imperial. After October 5, the laundress hasn’t had another day off till today, so she couldn’t have seen the car even if it had been there.”
I was sure the roadster she and the boy had seen was the Chrysler Imperial I’d driven to Aurora just yesterday, but there was nothing suspicious about any of it. Deane had told me he’d delivered a cheque to Nora on the fifth.
“Any more neighbours left to interview?” I asked Harry, who was now slurping down a second cup of stale coffee made palatable by four lumps of sugar.
“I’ll go back after lunch and see if there’s anyone home now that was out this morning.”
“Stop by my desk first and take one of the photos of Herman. He says the last time he saw Nora alive was October 1. I’d like to know if anyone on the street saw him with her or near her studio since then.”
“Sure thing. But, meanwhile, would you like to hear about October 10?”
I nodded.
“The last day of Nora Britton’s life.”
“Enough of the ‘coming attractions,’ Harry. What have you got?”
“A woman on the street named Rose Mertens. She’s posed for Nora Britton.”
“Ned Cruickshank spoke to her. The man she lives with had a grudge against Nora — so he thought. Is that what this is about?”
“Ixnay — it’s about diet.” The habitual grin left Harry’s face. “You wouldn’t call Rose Mertens blooming with the appearance of good health, but she is full-figured, not wasting away. In motherly style, she used to coax Nora to eat more. Now Rose happened to be out on an errand on Queen Street on the afternoon of Monday the tenth when she bumped into Nora. Nora was on her way to Christ Church, where she intended to paint till morning. The two women didn’t talk long, but Nora mentioned that someone had dropped in the evening before and given her half a dozen chocolate cookies for her midnight lunch. A new style of cookie — had Rose ever had chocolate mixed with chili? Rose hadn’t. Nora said neither had she, but if they were as good as they sounded, she might please Rose by putting on quite a few pounds. Hearing that wasn’t fun I’ll have to say. I couldn’t help thinking how little she must weigh now.”
“Buck up, Harry,” I said with exaggerated gruffness. “It’ll be better for your mental balance if you don’t think of a pile of ashes as she. Who was this cookie-bearing someone?”
“Rose asked — it seemed such a curious combination — but Nora never answered questions about who came to her studio. All she would say was a friend had brought her this dessert. It was supposed to be a Mexican recipe.”
“I’ll bet.”
I couldn’t have answered in a word how this bombshell made me feel about Herman. If he hadn’t killed Nora, I felt sorry for him. Just as it was starting to look as if he were in the clear, this new thundercloud rolls in over his head. On the other hand, it had just become far easier to believe he was a wife-killer. How many people on my list of suspects had convenient access to someone with so arcane a formula for disguising the taste of poison?
I filled Harry O’Brian in on my morning interviews at the former prison chapel.
“Have you considered the possibility that Ernestine Lopez killed Nora herself?” he asked.
“But then why would she tell me about the chocolate-chili mix?”
“Bad conscience perhaps. Last year, one of my first assignments as a detective was to catch an embezzler. The guilty party couldn’t bring himself to confess directly, but deliberately dropped so many hints that Parsons and I were able to book him.”
“The only poison she mentioned was arsenic. Professor Linacre found no trace of that.”
“What I’m suggesting, Paul, is she’s of two minds. One wants to own up; the other wants to escape suspicion.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But on the face of it what she said doesn’t make things look good for Herman. My first thought is that he got the cookie idea from Ernestine and the fish poison idea from a source she knew nothing of.”
“So you still believe Herman’s our murderer?”
“I do, Harry,” I said. “And the hell of it is I don’t want to. We’ve already lost one talented artist this month. I don’t want another one executed. So I’m going to try my damnedest to resolve this case some other way and prove myself wrong.”
“I didn’t know you were so hipped on art.”
“Me neither.”
I asked Harry if, before returning to Elizabeth Street, he could go out to Ernestine’s studio and ask who else in Toronto might know of the chocolate-chili cookie recipe. Whom had she told about it? Was it to be found in any English-language cookbook, newspaper, or magazine? Was it used by any local restaurants or bakeries?
Meanwhile, I returned to the detective office to see what Rudy Crate had to report. He said no one had phoned with further news of the fish poison. On the other hand, he had obtained Sanderson’s authorization for two long distance calls. The first one the operator put through was to Dr. Brinkley’s goat gland clinic in Kansas. The office manager there proved by an accurate description that he well remembered the dapper Mr. Jordan Stillwater, who had shown a thoroughly official-looking Canadian birth certificate during the admission formalities. The second international call yielded the news that Archie Stillwater had also had to show his birth certificate in the United States, in his case to the Sandusky police on being arrested in connection with a bar fight. Under the circumstances, Rudy asked me if I was satisfied that both grandfather and grandson had sound alibis for the period in which Nora Britton received the poisoned treats. I didn’t think he still needed to bother mailing off the two men’s photographs, did I? I said I did — then thought of something else I could ask him to do.
“Say, Rudy, are you Church of England?”
“At one time I suppose I must have been.”
“When you’ve got the photos off, could you drop in on Myrtle Hutchinson, the wife of the rector of Christ Church Grange Park?”
“A bug-eyed Betty more than likely.”
“No, quite a doll and much younger than her husband.”
I referred Rudy to the place in my notes where I’d recorded Myrtle’s claim to have seen Nora Britton with a lover. I’d left her with the task of trying to remember the shade of the boyfriend’s roadster; now I wanted Rudy to find out if she’d made any progress. I also wanted him to form an opinion of her truthfulness and to try to find out if she suspected her husband of adultery.
“Sorry, sport,” said Rudy. “I don’t think that sort of questioning’s in my line at all.”
“You’ll think of a classy way to do it, Rudy. I’ve every confidence in your resourcefulness.”
“Not the right job for me.”
“Okay. We also need someone to pay a call on the Deane household and see if any of the family might have been anywhere near Elizabeth Street on the evening of Sunday, October 9.” I had been saving this as the more complicated job for myself, but was just as happy to let Rudy go. “Nora is reported as saying a friend came by with a gift of cookies.”
“Choo-Choo Mansion on Jarvis Street? I’ve been wondering what the inside looks like.”
“Once you see it, you may want to move in. But if you’ll take advice from one that’s been there, all the tact in the world may not protect you from some resident’s taking offence. Don’t let thin skins keep you from pressing your inquiries home.”
I left Rudy at his desk and phoned the Christ Church rectory. I was told Mrs. Hutchinson was out visiting the shut-ins of the parish, but was expected back by tea time.
Detective Sergeant Parsons at the desk next to mine was marking the birth of an adorable granddaughter by lighting a monstrous weed. The first whiff curdled the air in my nostrils, and the cigar’s dimensions guaranteed no relief any time soon.
I took myself off to the evidence locker to reacquaint myself with Nora’s picture of the soccer players. I couldn’t imagine Nora making love to either Lou Sweet or Carl Moretti as I had seen them. Sweet — the vandal and failed hold-up artist — I thought of as weak, mean, and homely. Moretti, by contrast, stood on his own two feet. One foot, actually. But he seemed to be supporting himself. Fine features and a good head of ginger hair might make him appealing to a woman that could see beyond his missing leg. On the other hand, his extreme graspingness and parsimony were scarcely calculated to attract female attention, and he’d made a very convincing show of having nothing to do with his upstairs neighbour.
One glance at the pastel I’d taken from Moretti’s shop sufficed to show that Nora could see these two men through eyes very different from mine. She had depicted both of them, along with her husband Herman, as princes. I could choose to believe that one or both of the depictions were charitable flattery. Still, I didn’t know if I could rule out the possibility that she had actually felt some magnetism coming from one or the other of the two men — and that she had responded to it.
My next destination was the Department of Public Works and Highways. Lou Sweet, I discovered, did not now and had never owned a car. Carl Moretti owned a 1912 Overland Model 59 Roadster, the colour listed as white. Well, you couldn’t get lighter than that. I just didn’t see how he could have driven it over to the church with one leg. Had he added some ingenious hand control to work the right pedal? Had Nora driven it for him? Neither alternative struck me as very likely. And yet the tightfisted Carl Moretti had spent money year after year keeping his registration up to date.
I dropped in on him on my way to Christ Church Grange Park. As usual, Moretti was sorting through the items in his shop, treasures that never appeared better displayed or organized when he left them to move on to the next bin.
“That car has been sitting on blocks since I enlisted,” he said in answer to my inquiry. As when I’d had to deal with him two days earlier, he sounded aggrieved at having to speak to a fellow member of the human race, but there was a shoulders-squared air of pride about him as well. “I pay rent on a garage just to keep it there, and I pay the registration — you bet. In case you were wondering, it’s not for sale, at any price.”
I made him hang a closed sign on his shop and take me round to see the machine. It was as he’d described it, up on blocks, no tires on the rims, and no hand controls. He clearly kept it polished, though. The roadster’s whiteness gleamed angelically in the dingy shed. When I left Moretti, I took away the impression that this chariot was the monument to his dashing and whole-bodied youth.
My arrival at the Christ Church rectory followed Myrtle Hutchinson’s by no more than a minute. She was still standing in the vestibule, her fall coat unbuttoned, her cloche hat in her hand, when she opened the door to my knock. The sight of me elicited a little hiccup of surprise. She clapped her free hand to the pleated front of her white blouse.
“Are you telepathic, detective? I was just about to phone your office.”
“You remembered the colour of the car you saw.”
“Well, yes.” She gave me a quick smile, recovering her poise. “Come in and shut the door. Eric is sensitive to drafts.”
I came in and shut the door. “What colour was it?”
“Come through to the drawing room, won’t you?”
I came through. The drawing room was for its spacious dimensions sparsely furnished. Fresh upholstery fabric in a variety of floral patterns livened up three battered armchairs and a sofa. A harmonium, a couple of Windsor chairs, and stacking tables — scattered from their nest — filled in as much of the remaining floor area as they were capable of. The walls were decorated at wide intervals with photographs of clergymen and their wives and framed reproductions of well-bred, old-country landscapes.
Myrtle hospitably gestured me into the most comfortable-looking of the armchairs. “I’ll order tea for you if you like. Forgive me if I don’t join you. I’ve had at least a cup at every house I visited this afternoon.”
“None for me either, thanks. And, just for the record, I don’t read minds.”
“Then I’ll need to keep talking about tea. Excuse me a moment.”
Myrtle went to speak to someone in the kitchen. When she returned, she pulled the door to, then sat on the sofa and leaned towards me. “I was just in the home of a young Varsity man, victim of a terrible accident. He dove into a pool where the water was too shallow, broke his neck, and is now without the use of both legs and both arms. His widowed mother is a great believer in the health-giving properties of green tea, and — although I think she realizes quadriplegia is beyond even this beverage’s power to cure — she has grown fond of the flavour and serves guests nothing else.”
“The car was tea green.”
“I believe it was, detective. The colour of weak green tea.”
“The whole outside, or were the fenders — say — a different colour?”
“No, every part of the body. When I looked into my cup, the white porcelain inside appeared just the palest shade of green, and that was the colour of the roadster Nora’s lover was driving. If it had been lettuce green, I’d have been able to tell you right away, but I simply had no word for a shade of green this light. When I tried to remember, I thought the car must have been white or grey, but somehow I knew it wasn’t.”
I was excited, but not jumping over the moon. If Myrtle was talking straight, it wasn’t Joe Deane’s Chrysler she’d seen. On the other hand, I didn’t know anyone with a tea green roadster. I wasn’t betting any company sold cars that colour; possibly it was a custom paint job. Or had Myrtle made this car and its driver up?
“Have you any other clue as to who this lover might be?” I asked.
“Not a one, I’m afraid.”
“The make of car? The man’s height? A glimpse of anything he might have been wearing — a hat, for instance?”
“No hat. Nora was standing on the running board and leaning into the car. Her hands were on the sides of the man’s head, covering his ears, and her head hid the rest of his features. I might have caught a glimpse of the shoulder of his suit jacket — charcoal grey or black.”
“A wisp of hair?”
“Possibly, but I couldn’t tell you what colour.”
“Think it over,” I suggested. “There are fewer choices than for car colours. Do you think he might have belonged to Christ Church?”
“I don’t know, detective.” Myrtle shrugged. “And I refuse to throw around wild guesses that might hurt innocent parties.”
“All right. Have you ever been to Nora Britton’s studio?”
“No. I was at Carl Moretti’s shop once picking out costume jewellery for a pageant. But that was before Nora moved in upstairs.”
“Did you or Mr. Hutchinson visit Nora on the evening of Sunday, October 9?”
Myrtle’s long blonde eyebrows went up in surprise. “No, neither one of us. Normally I wouldn’t presume to answer for Eric, but Sunday evenings you can count on the two of us being fully occupied around the church, with lots of witnesses to tell you where we are.”
“Were you aware of anyone’s having gone to Nora’s studio that evening? Perhaps you overheard the chance remark of a parishioner.”
“No. I presume you think the poison was delivered to Nora that evening.”
“How old is your husband?”
“Seventy-two.”
“How is his health?”
“Good. I think he smokes too much, but he’s more vigorous than most men ten years younger. Why do you ask?”
“Mrs. Hutchinson, the police have questioned plenty of folks since you and I first talked, and you are the only one to report that Nora Britton had a lover.”
“I can’t help that. Do you suspect I was hallucinating?”
“I do not.”
“Then you suspect I’m lying. And why would I do that? Not to gratuitously blacken the reputation of a friend. Oh.”
Myrtle dropped her eyes. Her hands, which had been folded in her lap, now were clenched. When she looked up at me at last, her cheeks were flushed.
“You suspect I was lying to protect Eric. Would you believe me, detective, if I told you I would know if Eric were unfaithful?”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe you would.” I had for this belief not only my estimate of Myrtle’s perceptiveness, but also Effie’s assurance that Nora would never have slept with a married man without his wife’s permission. “Was Mr. Hutchinson Nora Britton’s lover?”
“No, he was not. Will you have to speak to Eric about this?”
“I’ve no plans to at present,” I said.
I was about to thank Myrtle for her time, but decided instead to just sit quietly across from her for the minutes it took her to collect herself. Eventually, she took a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose, then gave me a smile that started small and sad, growing slowly into the full, impersonal rectory smile expected from the priest’s wife as she saw off departing visitors.