The two doors slide open and DS Hook uneasily enters the lift. “Mezzanine floor, please.”
He feels vaguely sheepish about having put the constable to a wall-to-wall creep search of the floor, embarrassed by the satisfaction it gave him to hear Quam’s knees crack on the way down.
“Mezzanine. Certainly, sir.” The lift operator pushes the rheostat handle and the vehicle starts to plummet, and Hook’s stomach is a clenched fist.
“Do not worry, sir, it will soon be over.”
“Quite.” Hook winces: Do these cramped quarters enable the occupant to read the visitor’s thoughts? “By the way, I’m Detective Sergeant Hook.”
“I am pleased to meet you, sir. Sark is my name.”
They shake hands—Hook with his right hand, Sark with his left.
“A quick question, Mr Sark. Did Mr Cunning take deliveries?”
“Deliveries of what, sir?”
“Anything really. Packages, documents, that sort of thing?”
“On daily basis. By courier from Victoria.”
“What about sundries? Books? Magazines? Bottles? Any personal visits? Did he have any visitors? Female, perhaps?”
“Sir, it is central policy of the hotel to protect the privacy of our guests. There are twelve policies, we obey them or—” The lift operator mimes throat slitting with his good hand.
“Then I take it Mr Cunning had dealings to be private about. Oh well, I suppose we all have something to hide.”
“The human being is complicated machine, sir. Like us all, Mr Cunning was man of many parts.”
Having stopped at the mezzanine floor, the lift operator reaches and the cage squeezes open.
“Mr Sark, were the cable to break, what would happen if we jumped up and down? Would it give us a fifty-fifty chance of survival?”
“No, sir. In either case you can spread us on sandwich.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“It is not to worry. A small box going up and down is safest place in the world.”
Hook’s headache is back. He reaches into his side pocket, pops two pilfered aspirin in his mouth and chews them to powder.
In the hotel manager’s outer office he faces a pretty young woman (even without makeup) operating an Underwood typewriter with unsettling speed. Beside the usual wire baskets of foolscap, a cradle telephone stands within reach; behind that is a small Chinese vase containing what look to be forget-me-nots—an emblem for girls whose swains were overseas in the war.
She looks up with a smile that would be pretty if it had any happiness in it; in this case, it is the smile of someone who has been told to smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
As she greets him, her fingers still tap the keys and the type bars strike the platen, creating a distinct rhythm, like a tap dancer gone mad. The presence of a policeman seems to have no effect on her speed whatsoever. DS Hook can only stare at her two-tone fingernails, moving like the legs of tiny burlesque dancers.
“Sir?”
Returning his gaze to its proper position, he displays his warrant card and executes his most cordial smile. With an effort he avoids looking down past the crucifix around her neck just above the frilled bodice of her blouse. This is a good Catholic girl who would not take it as a compliment.
“I’d like a word with Mr Tremblay, miss, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, sir. And who shall I say is calling?”
“I am Detective Sergeant Hook. It’s about the Attorney—”
Before he finishes his sentence she gets up, crosses to the inner door and pokes her head inside. A short exchange follows, impossible to overhear. DS Hook averts his gaze from her derrière, preferring to examine the huge photograph on the wall to the left—a portrait of honourables in top hats and long black coats standing in front of the main entrance, and below it a description of the eminent men attending the Hotel Vancouver’s opening, with a note that the picture was taken in 1916.
Ah, 1916: with Europe a slaughterhouse, the CPR saw fit to build the grandest hotel in the empire.
“Mr Tremblay will see you now.”
To go with the manager’s three-piece tweed suit, his office conveys a sense of solidity and continuity, with club chairs of chocolate leather, a brass banker’s lamp and a desk as heavy as a roadster, topped with a silver-and-leather desk set. With the oak wainscotting it all comes together as a unit—like the interior of a luxury auto—except for the two black candlestick telephones placed side by side like twin long-necked birds about to quack.
“What is it that I can do for you, officer?”
The manager occupies a swivel chair not unlike the Attorney General’s desk chair, seven floors above.
Just to annoy him, DS Hook takes a moment to examine the huge oil painting to his right, across from the arched window—a rectangle filled with vertical blotches of black and green, like a waterfall dispensing dead fish floating in stomach bile and blood pudding.
“Ravishing, is it not, officer? It is a Milne. A very important artist.”
“Don’t know much about art I’m afraid, sir.”
A pause while the manager extracts a Gitanes from a silver case, and DS produces an Ogden’s from his crumpled packet.
On the wall behind the manager’s chair hang photos of eminent men—Charles Lindbergh, Neville Chamberlain, Somerset Maugham, Babe Ruth—each inscribed with a brief statement about having had an enjoyable stay.
“I shan’t keep you long, sir. Any man with two telephones must be a very busy man indeed.”
A barely perceptible flinch: “It is the modern age, officer. The Hotel Vancouver is a modern business.”
“Do you talk in both at once? Do you hold meetings over the telephone?”
“Ha, ha, that is I think a joke?”
“Just curious—something I haven’t seen before.”
“People on the important call do not like to wait.”
“So you do hold meetings—with a receiver on each ear.”
“Is this the reason for your visit, monsieur? To discuss the telephones?”
An uneasy pause. The manager lights his French cigarette with a silver desk lighter; Hook flicks a kitchen match with his thumbnail; smoke blows in two directions, creating a bluish haze above the desk.
“Quite right, sir. To the business at hand, which of course concerns the sudden demise of the Attorney General.”
The manager sighs, shakes his head, sucks his cigarette and blows a melancholy plume from deep within his lungs: “It is all a dreadful business, monsieur, I am sure you will agree this is so. Mr Cunning was a valued guest.”
“As I understand it, a guest who rented his suite at a yearly rate.”
“Of course. A member of the Executive Council cannot do government business always in Victoria. This is normal, yes?”
“Was the Attorney General an acquaintance, sir—or might I say, someone you knew personally?”
“Moi?” The manager marvels at Hook’s stupidity. “Not of me, monsieur. But a friend of the hotel, that is so.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about Mr Cunning’s personal habits? Any regular visitors? Did he entertain frequently?”
“Of course, it is impossible. Our duty is to protect the privacy of our guests.”
“A dead man is no longer a guest, Mr Tremblay.”
“It is, am I to say so, a technicality.”
“Sir, I salute you as a man of principle. Of course, the stand you have taken will drag out the investigation—”
“What is it you mean, drag out?” The manager stubs out his cigarette unnecessarily.
“Issues have come up that must be resolved before we can vacate the suite.”
“What questions are you questioning, please?”
“It is departmental policy not to discuss an open case with the general public.”
The manager produces a report in the afternoon edition of The Beacon: “‘Cause of death to be peritonitis brought on by an inflamed appendix.’ Officer, what is to investigate? I ask this.”
“Mr Tremblay, on viewing the remains, did you yourself see evidence of such an illness? For example, did Mr Cunning puke or shit himself?”
The manager colours slightly. “Sergeant Hook, it is outrageous you are holding the suite empty on your vague suspicion. I will issue a complaint.”
“That is your right, sir. But surely you can’t have booked the suite already—with a year left on the government lease and the bed still warm, so to speak?”
“A hotel is a business, monsieur, not a mortuary.”
“It may also be a crime scene. In fact, I expect we’ll have to seal the room.”
“Seal the room?” Seeing the manager flush with alarm, DS Hook’s headache eases somewhat—or it could be the aspirin.
Death of a Moderationist
Much Uncertainty in Cunning’s Wake
Ed McCurdy
Staff Writer
The Evening Star
Disciples of wet and of dry Bid him a sullen good-bye And who will succeed Mr Cunning to lead The dominion of watered-down rye?
He served as House Speaker and Minister of Labour. Re-elected three times, as Attorney General he presided over the ministry responsible for law and order, not to mention the Liquor Control Board, which trumps the Department of Finance when it comes to the province’s fiscal health. The late Gordon Cunning may well be remembered as the most gifted politician in British Columbia’s history.
A fine speaker with a resonant singing voice (his “Danny Boy” at a funeral drew tears from the deceased), the veteran politician cut a handsome figure in a kilt (He ha’ a brawny set of legs on ’im!), so that his outward Scottishness made up for his upbringing in the southern United States.
At the same time, it must be said that, in fighting for and keeping his seat in the riding of Omineca, Mr Cunning tended to battle his opponents with a pair of sharp elbows, and became a divisive figure in Williams Lake during the last election by conducting an unusually vicious campaign.
Yet such setbacks were but potholes in the road to greater glory.
Throughout the plebiscite he was at the forefront of the moderationist army, which cemented his position as Attorney General, whose domain now included a bureaucratic empire called the Liquor Control Board of BC.
Naturally, Cunning’s moderationist position drew the personal enmity of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union and the People’s Prohibition Association, as well as Presbyterians and Baptists—and continued, despite subsequent efforts to appease, with a set of restrictions that might have been crafted by Nellie McClung.
Meanwhile, the new restrictions on liquor production have infuriated manufacturers, while hoteliers chafe at the new drinking laws and consumers of alcohol complain about high prices and low quality in government stores.
In the end, Mr Cunning’s attempts at reconciliation succeeded in making enemies of just about everyone.
The one group well satisfied with the new regulations are the bootleggers, who have seen no drop in demand, having maintained an overwhelming advantage in price and quality. For the black market, business has never been better.
But who will take up the challenge, with Cunning out of the picture?
Among observers one name stands above all others: Boris Stalker, the newly elected MLA for Vancouver City.
Supporting this opinion, other sources in the Attorney General’s office report a rumour to the effect that Clyde Taggart, a Cunning loyalist (and some say, his Svengali) is about to walk the plank.
One thing certain: Cunning’s death marks the end of an era.
With so many enemies, it seems almost absurd that the Attorney General should die peacefully in the Hotel Vancouver, with a martini glass by his side.