When the front door to the Crombie residence finally opens, Hook is looking down at a tiny, silent Oriental woman in a black blouse and a spotless white apron, who is looking back up at him with frightened eyes.
He does a slight bow and presents his warrant card: “Nei hou. Ngodeih gingchat, ngodei yahplai, ok?”
“Neideih yahplai la.” she replies.
Of necessity, DS Hook switches to English. “I do apologize, miss. When it comes to Chinese I just reached the end of my rope.”
She smiles faintly and dips her head. “I am happy you have made a good start. But I regret my employer is not here.”
“I understand. But perhaps we might come in anyway.”
“You wish to search the house, sir? If so, I am most sorry but Mr Crombie must be consulted.”
“The police will take full responsibility, miss. Mr Crombie has given us his support.”
“But I am responsible, sir.”
Standing behind him, Constable Quam awakens from his slumber. “Shall I get her out of the way?”
“You want to punch her in the stomach, do you?”
“Sir, I object to that.”
“I apologize, Quam, you’re right, it was uncalled for.”
He turns back to the little person in the doorway. “We only wish to see the bathroom, miss. Nothing will be disturbed. You see, we are most concerned about what may have caused Mrs Crombie’s death.”
“Ah, yes. I understand. I too am concerned. Please come in.”
The two policemen follow the maid-of-all-work as she glides down a cross-hall lined with prints of Edinburgh, Loch Lomond and Ben Nevis, as well as the Crombie coat of arms with its gloomy tartan.
Quam is, as usual, two steps behind. “Where did you learn Chinese, sir?”
“From a Communist.”
“A Chinese Communist?”
“He was inscrutable, that’s true.”
“It is upstairs, sir,” she says. “I will leave you now.” With a slight bow, she disappears into what is probably the kitchen, as the two policemen climb the stairs.
“Sir, did we really get Mr Crombie’s permission to enter the premises?”
“I was speaking in general terms, Constable. He has voiced support for law and order. Besides, the Dry Squad do this all the time and he’s all for it.”
Upstairs, they reach a dark, L-shaped hallway with three closed doors (bedrooms no doubt); the bathroom and water closet doors at the far end are slightly ajar, otherwise the hallway would be in pitch darkness. Hook smells floor wax and musty pajamas—the smell of bedridden convalescents and an extended absence of sexual activity.
The bathtub’s feet are made to resemble lion’s paws; the floor is covered with linoleum, patterned to imitate hexagonal porcelain tiles; the sink rests on a pedestal like a column from the Acropolis. A corner cabinet is topped by a vase depicting an animal with enormous antlers, and containing a bouquet of silk flowers that seem near death, even though they’re artificial. Hook approaches the wooden medicine cabinet above the sink, without looking at himself in the mirror.
“Constable, see what’s in that other cabinet, will you?”
“What am I to look for, sir?”
“Suspicious liquids, Mr Quam.”
“Poison liquids, sir?”
“Well I wouldn’t expect a skull-and-crossbones on the label.”
Hook opens the medicine cabinet. From the upper shelves he takes out and examines two bars of La Parle Obesity Soap, jars of Radior Cream and Odo-ro-no, a tin of Encharma cold cream powder by Luxor, and a half-full atomizer of perfume. To judge by the bottom shelf, it seems that the effort has taken a toll on Mrs Crombie’s health: Rexall Orderlies laxative, Anusol suppositories, a tin of Bayer Aspirin, a box of Dr Chase’s Nerve Food, a bottle of Hamlin’s Wizard Oil and a packet of Dr Batty’s Asthma Cigarettes.
Overall, Hook is struck by the dearth of masculine products. Unless he doesn’t shave at home, Mr Crombie must spend his nights elsewhere. On the other hand, with or without Mr Crombie at hand, Mrs Crombie seems to have spared no effort to make herself soft and fragrant—perhaps she was having an affair…
He closes the cabinet (without looking at the man in the mirror) and turns to Constable Quam, on his knees before the corner cupboard, having emptied it of its contents: spare rolls of Scott Tissue, an enema kit, an electric vibrator and, on the bottom shelf, tall bottles of Emerson’s Botanic Bitters, Riker’s Beef, Wine and Iron tonic—and, as Hook expected, a half-full bottle of Patterson’s Silk Hat Martini Cocktail.
“Something else for the laboratory, I think. Be sure it’s properly labelled.”
“I’ll take it to them, sir, but they’re already complaining about the workload.”
“My heart bleeds for them.”
“If I may say so, sir, I don’t really think that’s true.”
A Profitable Crusade
Ed McCurdy
Staff Writer
The Evening Star
O welcome the Damsel of Dry
The Yankee came down from the sky
With the God-given grace
To better the race
And bid all our boozing goodbye.
Rev Daisy Douglas Tyler, the celebrated American speaker, has come to town, courtesy of the People’s Prohibition Association.
Miss Tyler’s fee, said to be not unadjacent to a thousand dollars (a PPA spokesman refused to confirm the amount, terming it a “private matter”), has raised eyebrows among some, but the association can well afford her price.
Since the plebiscite, the People’s Prohibition Association has never been stronger. The organization is so well funded by disgruntled Drys that it is now staffed by professionals and not volunteers. Temperance is no longer a movement, but an industry.
And as with any industry in the public market, promotion is key.
Wednesday evening at the Opera House, before an audience of 900, Miss Tyler did not disappoint. She swept onto the stage like an opera diva, in a nurse’s uniform that might have been designed by Coco Chanel, topped by a blue military-style cape as light as a cloud. Her dark hair was curled and gathered like a Greek goddess; her makeup was a testament to Max Factor; her feet hovered over four-inch heels that made her to appear statuesque, despite her compact physique.
And a bravura performance it was—peppered with rhetorical tricks worthy of a Barrymore. When she lifted her arms as though to bless the audience, the position emphasized the fetching line of her bodice—a look that one male audience member termed the “bee’s knees.” Indeed, her entire affect seemed calculated to arouse, in the way that a callow youth is aroused by a comely, authoritative schoolmarm.
The speech itself, which may be read in its entirety on the pages of The Beacon, combined Miss McClung’s WCTU rhetoric with Miss Tyler’s passion for eugenics—the movement that would cull defectives from the human herd and breed a superior race.
To go by her reception, the audience at the Opera House seem to have received their money’s worth—if not the whole story.
As it appears in the programme, Miss Tyler’s record of achievement is an impressive one, highlighting her leadership of the Indiana WCTU, the Indiana War Mothers and the Better Babies movement.
Strangely absent from this list of honours is the fact that her Queens of the Golden Mask is more commonly known as the Women’s Ku Klux Klan, in which her title was Imperial Empress, until she resigned last year after facing and denying charges of personal enrichment.
This enterprising temperance maven, suffragette and racial purity advocate allegedly pocketed eighty per cent of a steep initiation fee, while investing in businesses that manufactured Klan robes, a Klan bible called the Kloran, as well as “Klan Water” for certain rituals—all compulsory equipment for the new member.
Not that she has gone to any great lengths to hide her affiliation with the Klan—nor should she, given its burgeoning Vancouver membership under the leadership of the Grand Goblin, Maj Luther Forrest.
While in the city, she has quietly taken up residence at Glen Brae mansion, now known as the Imperial Palace of the Knights of the KKK, as a guest of Major Forrest, who hasn’t done badly for himself either.
Having organized Klan chapters in Washington and Oregon, Major Forrest has wheeled his vacuum cleaner north to hoover dollars from chumps in “Kanada”—including, it is said, an alderman, several policemen and at least three members of the Legislature.
One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Is there no end to our gullibility?