The first constable on the scene gained entry by breaking the door, then galloped across the room to open a window and air the room out—never mind that a howling squall was carrying on outside. Gusts of wind are causing the corpse to swing gently, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
The constable is now standing guard by the door, while a second is stationed outside the front door, awaiting the ambulance.
DS Hook has been assigned to lead the initial investigation—a post that, in a case involving violent death, normally goes to a more senior member. Maybe Hook is being oversuspicious, but he wonders if someone on the force wants to put him in a difficult position, for the Klan is popular among several officers. Some admire their anti-Asian position; others view the KKK as a Protestant bulwark against Papist domination. And there are always a few temperance cranks on the force.
Thanks to Chief Barfoot’s eagerness to please the rank and file, a recently promoted outsider can always depend on being first up for any assignment likely to be controversial, gruesome or, as in this case, both at the same time.
Constable Quam holds a handkerchief over his nose. “What an awful smell.”
“Yes, Constable, they always stink. Keep in mind that Forrest didn’t intentionally shit himself.” Hook is well aware of the pong, having dealt with several suicides at Rugeley Camp—recruits who feared what was to come in the field of battle, or who had grown tired of the rain and the mud and the boredom, or who could no longer stand the homesickness.
Most soldiers shot themselves (for convenience if nothing else), but there were others who, by training or instinct, couldn’t quite manage to aim a pistol at themselves and pull the trigger. (In fairness, it’s harder than it looks.) With the availability of rope, hanging was the second choice.
As the squall eases, and the swinging carcass of Grand Goblin Luther Forrest gradually reaches equilibrium, Hook takes mental notes for the inevitable report, to be filed in triplicate: Deceased wearing the white robes of the Ku Klux Klan. Hood cast aside, lying on floor. Cord of the robe cause of death by hanging…
The two policemen contemplate this marionette with the plum-coloured face, kept upright by a single string.
“It all seems quite open-and-shut, sir. Do you think he left a note?”
“Not unless he committed suicide.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something doesn’t sit right—don’t you agree?”
Clearly, for Quam, the answer is no. The constable’s face takes on a certain weariness: “You’re saying that it’s more complicated, aren’t you, sir?”
DS Hook steps closer to the corpse and points above the head. “Quam, do you see where the cord is tied to the fixture? What kind of a knot is that?”
Quam holds his nose and looks more closely. “I have no idea, sir.”
“I take it you weren’t a Boy Scout, then.”
“I was 4-H. The club is very strong in Manitoba.”
“Ah. Well, that knot is called a clove hitch—used for quickly tying, say, a boat to a mooring or a horse to a post. Now look closely at the noose itself. What do you see?”
“I see a hangman’s noose, sir.”
“Well done, Constable, you just put your finger on it.”
“Put my finger on what? Are you being sarcastic again, sir?”
“Not a bit. Do you see the regulation thirteen coils? Such careful work, when a simple running knot would have been sufficient. Why would he take the time to fashion a traditional hangman’s knot, then use a simple clove hitch at the other end and not tie it properly?”
“Because it was faster, I suppose.”
“And yet there was no reason for our man to hurry. The door was shut and locked. Eternity was at hand.”
With a sigh, Quam stops to think. His eyes grow moist with effort. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, sir.”
“Did you see Birth of a Nation a few years ago?”
“No, I was too young. Anyway, I prefer comedies.”
“It could be that someone hastily tied the clove hitch, while someone else held the body up—with difficulty, because the victim was resisting at the time.”
“Or he could have done it himself in a hurry, just to get the thing over with.”
“Point taken, but now let’s look at the physics of it. What did our man stand on to secure the cord?”
“Obviously it was that stool in the corner—it’s on its side, don’t you see.”
“And a good ten feet away. Now imagine yourself with a noose around your neck, hauling off and kicking the stool that’s holding you up with such force that it lands that far away. Quite an achievement, wouldn’t you say, constable?”
“Was he a football player?”
“I would think it far more likely that someone else kicked the stool.”
“Sir, I take it you’re seriously suggesting that some other party hanged Mr Forrest.”
“Not hanged, Mr Quam. Given the thirteen coils and the occupants of the house, I think the correct term is lynched.”
Quam takes a moment to process this detail, then brightens. “Still, it must have been him who locked the door—don’t you see, the key is on the inside of the door?
“A house this size usually has more than one set of keys.”
The constable’s eyes dart about like those of a cornered animal, then take on a look of resignation. “And there is something to complicate things further. Isn’t there, sir?”
Hook reaches into the side pocket of his tunic and comes up with a copper bullet casing. “Do you know what this is, Mr Quam?”
“It’s a bullet.”
“Not exactly. It’s the casing for a bullet. A bullet that has been fired.”
“Where did it come from, sir?”
“An associate left it at the station, to prove something. But since you don’t know what a bullet is, I don’t suppose you know what kind of weapon fired it?”
“I’m not a ballistics expert, sir.” Quam is beginning to look ill, not just from the stench but from the mental effort.
“Surely, Quam, you agree that something is off.”
“Pardon me, sir, but you tend to make everything seem a bit off.”
“In any case, while we’re in the building, perhaps we might just as well take a look around.”
“Surely we need a warrant, sir?”
“Foul play is suspected, Mr Quam. I thought we agreed on that.”
It takes only a few moments to establish that the entire second floor has been recently abandoned. Two rooms show signs of long-time occupation and a hasty exit—unmade beds, dresser drawers gaping open like tongues, stray socks on the floor.
“Someone was here but now they’re gone,” observes the constable.
“Very good, Mr Quam. People dodging a summons tend to make themselves scarce. Especially with a hanged man just down the hall.”
Closer to the staircase, they come upon a former library that appears to function as a warehouse for Klan products, complete with price tags. The two policemen rifle through the racks of robes ($9.50), headgear ($3.50) and the shelves packed with Klorans, boxes of Klansman cigars, bottles of Klan Water, Klan flags and helmets, piano rolls with Klan songs, a crate of Kluxers Knifty Knives, and a bookcase containing The Clansman, The Rising Tide of Color against White World-Supremacy, The Menace of Modern Immigration and The Ku Klux Klan in Prophecy, as well as issues of The Watcher on the Tower, The Fiery Cross and The Pillar of Fire.
Curiously, the bookcase also contains what are apparently non-Klan publications: The Protocols of the Elders of Zion and The International Jew.
“It’s almost like a business, isn’t it, sir?”
“Constable, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head.”
Quam narrows his eyes, suspecting sarcasm, but he remains silent.
Assuming the room was once a library, there had to be a storage room of some sort for books. Hook ducks behind the racks, sidles his way around the perimeter—and there it is.
Pushing a white curtain of satin gowns aside, he opens the door to what has become a cabinet for weaponry. On the far wall, a set of shelves contains .45 caliber Smith & Wesson revolvers and a Thompson submachine gun. On another wall hang baseball bats and truncheons, while on the third wall is a rack of six .30-03 Springfield rifles and a tripod for sniping.
From a box of ammunition he extracts a bullet. If the elevator operator was correct, and the person who shot at McCurdy used a Springfield rifle, it might narrow things down, somewhat.
Dear, Dear Millie,
This can only be a short note, for I must feed and exercise Miss Carr’s sheepdogs. I am happy to do so because my poor landlady is run ragged by bad tenants.
There is a man downstairs who complains about every little thing and, we suspect, beats his wife—his third wife, I am told. He has fingers like bananas. Why she hasn’t left him is beyond me.
Then we have the tenant who refuses to pay her rent and refuses to leave without official notice.
What with shovelling coal and fielding complaints and going to and from city hall, Miss Carr is being ground down to a husk, and I fear for her health if she doesn’t spend more time painting.
Meanwhile, everyone in the Legislature is a-twitter about goings-on at the Liquor Control Board. According to Gwendolyn, my former employer Mr Taggart arrived for an appointment with the Attorney General, and when he emerged from Mr Stalker’s office, his face was bright crimson, his hands were bunched into fists and his eyes were redder than whatever they were before. On his way out, he picked up Angela Fleet’s typewriter and flung it to the floor, then overturned her desk!
Mr Taggart hasn’t been seen or heard from since. I don’t know what to make of it—and there are too many rumours for one letter.
Oh please, we must have a visit if ever we can—if only for an hour. Knowing you are so close and yet so far, sometimes I feel as if I shall die!
Your loving friend, Gracie