A member of the cleaning staff discovered the body next morning when he noticed that the sleeping man had yesterday’s newspaper spread across his lap.
After checking for vital signs, out of respect our man fetched a tablecloth with which to cover the corpse. He then spoke to his superior, who telephoned the manager, who telephoned his secretary, who telephoned Front Desk, who telephoned the hospital, who telephoned the police.
Nestled in an inconspicuous corner, the shrouded form could be mistaken for a statue protected by a dust cover—maybe a fish.
Detective Sergeant Calvin Hook sighs and lights an Ogden’s, his first of the day. Another dead body: a hundred and sixty–some pounds of meat to be identified, diagnosed, transported and buried.
Hook saw his share of them at Rugeley training camp: men blown up during grenade training or shot with their own rifles (some by accident, some not) or skewered in bayonet practice or struck by a motor car or fallen off a horse, kicked by a horse, bitten by a horse or trampled under a number of horses, or dead because of having cut themselves on a nail. You didn’t have to have fought at the Somme to get your full ration of dead bodies.
The disposal of war dead wrecked the French economy. Every family thinks their boy is special, to be buried with his name on a piece of stone, never to be forgotten—which is fine when people died at a normal rate, but in the millions?
Where do birds go when they die? Why can’t humans be like birds and just disappear?
He can smell Constable Quam standing behind him. Some might call it a stink, but it isn’t really. Quam doesn’t stink, he smells.
Every day he smells of something different—always a faint but distinct odour, not necessarily repulsive. Today it’s sour apples; yesterday it was ear wax.
Hook turns to face Quam, staring back at him with the eyes of a cow, the stance of a bull and the round forehead of a newborn child. Hook speaks in his Royal Canadian Army voice, the Redhat voice that could stop a fleeing AWOL in his tracks—not to exert authority over the constable but so that his words might penetrate the man’s thick skull.
“Very well, Constable, let us unveil.”
“Unveil, sir?” The word seems to frighten him. His little eyes glitter with moisture.
“Unveil, yes. To see whether it’s a body or a work of modern art.”
Constable Quam’s brow furrows, with not a flicker of comprehension. “Oh I wouldn’t know much about art, sir.”
“I’m talking about the sheet, Constable! The bloody piece of cloth covering the corpse!” Hook takes a moment to calm down. “Remove it, please.”
Hook hasn’t yet decided whether Quam’s mulish incomprehension is due to mental impairment, mental inertia or a combination of both. Perhaps overzealous bodybuilding deprived the constable’s brain of the energy required for what is commonly known as thinking.
Plus, he didn’t serve.
Hook knows just to look at him that the man has never used a weapon other than at target practice. His fists certainly, but you don’t fight a war with your fists.
And of course the question follows like manure follows a horse: Why the hell not? Was it brain impairment of some sort? Does the Vancouver Police Department recruit imbeciles who are too stupid to be conscripted?
In Hook’s view, this might indeed be the case. By the end of the war, men of Quam’s stature became a fixture of the force—burly man-bashers who learned to enforce the law under the War Measures Act, when a policeman could arrest a citizen on a hunch, then beat a confession out of him and it would stand up in court.
Such methods are no longer acceptable in peacetime. Police forces must adapt accordingly. But for men like Constable Quam, it isn’t easy.
To deal with the situation, to ease the transition from wartime to peacetime police work, the Police Board called for a program of “professional upgrade” in which these officers were to become familiar with concepts such as habeas corpus and the presumption of innocence.
With a recession in progress, however, the city refused additional funds for such “professional upgrades,” in order not to burden the hypothetically hardworking taxpayer. The chief of police was ordered to assign the retraining program to lower-tier officers—as an unpaid contribution, like marching in funeral processions or playing in the brass band.
Any shift in the way of things is bound to produce unintended outcomes. In this case, VPD Chief Lionel Barfoot saw the “retraining program” as an opportunity to keep the peace among the regulars by making Hook’s life as difficult as possible.
The recent piecemeal amalgamation of scattered municipal police forces in the region by the Vancouver Police Department had disrupted the established pecking order. VPD regulars were understandably resentful of officers like Hook, who had been promoted over their heads after having been lured away from the Point Grey detachment.
The upshot is that, in return for a new rank and a minuscule increase in salary, DS Hook has Constable Quam attached to him like a wart.
But there’s no turning back. Calvin Hook is a married man now. He is responsible for someone other than himself. He must accept that Quam has entered his life and is not going away anytime soon.
Hook flicks a kitchen match with his thumbnail and sets fire to his second Ogden’s of the day.
“Mr Quam?”
Seemingly, the constable’s mind has wandered off someplace else, or nowhere. His hands dangle from his sleeves like boxing gloves with fingers.
“Yes, sir?”
“Are you hard of hearing, Constable? Please remove the bloody sheet!”
“Right away, sir!” Quam turns sideways to squeeze his torso between the chair and a tree fern; in doing so he jostles the side table, which in turn upsets the brass table lamp. Reaching out to steady the lamp, he nudges an empty martini glass with his sleeve, causing it to tumble onto the carpet and the stem to break in two.
Quam gets down on one knee, retrieves the two pieces of glass, examines them without interest and lays them on the side table.
DS Hook shuts his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, doing his best to relax.
“Shall I take the sheet off now, sir?”
“Yes, Mr Quam. If you would.”
Quam grips the tablecloth by two corners, whisks it off as though he’s a magician’s assistant and drops it at Hook’s feet—once a death shroud, now a pile of laundry stained with wine and gravy.
Quam peers at the body as though it were a dead animal in a ditch. “Sir, is this someone familiar?”
“It’s Gordon Cunning, Mr Quam. The Attorney General of the province. The boss.”
Leaning against the railing a few yards away, breathing asthmatically due to the tobacco smoke in the lobby below, McCurdy cleans his spectacles with his handkerchief, gazes up at the shreds of limp bunting dangling from the ceiling and withdraws his notebook from a side pocket. Opening it to a blank page, he steps forward for a closer look at the body.
Though well acquainted with the Attorney General, he scarcely recognizes the figure in the chair.
Known for his impassioned speeches and barbed exchanges with members of the Official Opposition, Gordon Cunning roared through one ministry after another, as Speaker of the Legislature, Minister of Labour and, until now, Attorney General. Cunning was the political equivalent of a Duesenberg—sleek and quick, putting rivals in the ditch.
This is not that man.
The man in the overstuffed chair leans slightly forward and gazes upward and to the right, as though watching some passing bird. His mouth, bluish-purple, is stretched into a rictus of a smile, all the more grotesque because his dental plate has come loose; it no longer adheres to the roof of his mouth but hangs suspended in mid-bite, creating the impression of two mouths, one on top of the other. The hand that shook thousands of palms and waved at cheering crowds is now a white talon, squeezing the chair arm as though he is on a roller coaster.
McCurdy wishes he had stayed in bed.
Corpses are a reporter’s bread and butter to be sure, but their value hinges on who they are, how they died and under what circumstances.
Paradoxically, in this circumstance, Cunning’s prominence wrecks the story. By the looks of him, our man suffered a seizure of some sort, which can happen to anyone, no scandal there. And to publish a photograph of a cabinet minister in this state would invite accusations of partisanship, cynicism and bad taste.
Important Man Dead—that is the story.
Since he walked several blocks to get here, McCurdy makes a token attempt at a lede: Neither instant nor lingering, though surprising nonetheless…
Surprising? He rips the page from his notebook, balls it between his palms and lobs it into a brass ashtray.
You win some, you lose some.
Thanks to tipoffs from DS Hook, McCurdy is usually first on the scene of any potentially newsworthy crime. In return for this service, he supplies information to bear on whatever case the sergeant might be working on. It’s an unwritten, unspoken agreement that both men will deny to the end.
But not every tip pays off. In this case, the potential scoop is just another dead politician.
A bit early in the day, but McCurdy feels like a drink.
DS Hook takes a last drag of his second Ogden’s, flicks the end into a brass ashtray and gestures for Quam to grant the Attorney General a shred of dignity by returning the tablecloth to its former position. The constable doesn’t respond.
“Mr Quam?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Cover the goddamn corpse.”
The constable’s eyes water slightly. “No need to swear, sir.”
“Quite right. Carry on.” Hook turns toward the bar and catches sight of McCurdy making himself at home. A bit early in the day, one might think, but the reporter’s indulgences are well known.
A pair of white-coated attendants from Edwards Funeral Home arrive with a furled stretcher. They lay the stretcher on the floor in front of the armchair and attempt to slide the body downward, only to find that it has stiffened in position. After a moment’s discussion, they manoeuvre the corpse sideways off the chair onto the carpet and shift it onto the stretcher so that it lies on its side in the foetal position, hands outstretched like the claws of a dead bird.
An attendant shakes out a crisp white sheet and covers the corpse; now the shrouded shape beneath could indeed be a piece of modern sculpture, or a machine having to do with agriculture.
“Well, if it isn’t Ed McCurdy!”
Having struggled to the top of the marble stairway, red-faced and out of breath, Max Trotter spots McCurdy with his fat glasses, his thin moustache and his soiled tailored suit, here first. Snookered again. How does he do that?
“A bit early for a nip, Ed, wouldn’t you say?”
McCurdy already sensed an enemy present. “Actually, Max, I’m here for a witness quote from the barkeep. Basic reporting—if you practised it, you’d still be with the Sun.”
“In fact I’m with the World now, a higher word rate. The World is based on fact you know, a step up from the Star.”
“No more red-baiting then, Max? No more temperance whoring? Taken the pledge? Life of purity from now on? Trotter, your hypocrisy is appalling.”
“It’s called journalism, McCurdy. You should try it sometime.”
Trotter lights a cigarette and heads back down to the lobby. “Have fun, Ed. See if you can find a rhyme for corpse.”
McCurdy knows that word of his alcoholism will spread anew, like the opium rumour and the cocaine rumour. If the trend continues, he’ll be the only drug fiend in town.
He leans toward the white-jacketed bartender, whose pink jowls and white moustache radiate the required English bonhomie. “Excuse me, sir, but what is that chap at the other end of the bar drinking?”
“The gentleman is having a Bloody Mary, sir. It’s one of the new drinks we serve.”
McCurdy senses a note of disapproval, to be encouraged. “Just another faddish cocktail—like the martini.”
The bartender leans closer to speak in a near whisper, not to be overheard by certain parties.
“With these drinks it’s all about the look, sir. I tell you, it’s the American influence—what the devil is this penchant for ice? They want ice in everything. They insist on beer just this side of freezing!”
“I take it that Mr Cunning enjoyed the occasional martini.”
“Very much so, sir. I don’t know where that glass came from, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been serving the cocktail in tumblers with crushed ice and a lemon slice. We ordered martini glasses from New York, but they haven’t arrived. And there have been complaints, let me tell you, sir. Without the proper glass they say it’s nothing but a puddle of gin.”
“It’s the times we live in,” McCurdy says. “Packaging is everything.”
He takes out his notebook, writes three words and tears off the page.
The lift doors open like vertical eyelids; the cage is swept aside and the manager emerges. He has a little moustache and is dressed in a vested lounge suit with a bow tie. As he approaches DS Hook he manages a sour, twisted smile so insincere that it virtually says out loud: I trust you will be leaving very soon.
“Good morning to you, officers. You have everything you need, I think? We do not wish to alarm our guests.”
Though Hook has taken an instant dislike to the man, he can appreciate his concern. Whether the hotel is a Michelin five-star or a fleabag in Hogan’s Alley, the longer the police remain on the premises, the more rumours will spread and the more skittish guests will become.
DS Hook produces his warrant card. “I am with the Vancouver Police, sir. And might you be the manager of this hotel?”
The manager’s accent originates in Quebec but is sufficiently Parisian to convey sophistication and taste. “I am Manager Bernard Tremblay, Officer, and I bid welcome to you. Anything we can do for speeding things up will be welcome, I say this.”
Reaching into his pocket, Hook trades his warrant card for his tin of Ogden’s and produces a fresh cigarette. “We don’t want to put you to much trouble, sir, but we do need to look at Mr Cunning’s—”
Before he can finish his sentence, the manager extends a room key and gives it a shake for emphasis, in order to show off his gold Hamilton watch.
“Voilà, officer. The key to Mr Cunning’s suite. It lies on the eighth floor.”
“Our inspection shouldn’t take more than a few hours, if all goes well.”
“Very good. You may return the key to the concierge. Now if you are having no need of me further—” He turns, starts to walk away, then stops and turns back, remembering that a human being died in that armchair.
“The hotel is shocked and saddened by Mr Cunning’s decease, I say this. A valued guest of long standing, there is no two doubts about it.”
With a sigh and a tilt of the head, Manager Tremblay frowns at the empty chair whose arms are spread as if to say, “What was I supposed to do?”
“We are extending deepest condolences to the family—and flowers, of course.”
Hook maintains his official expression, though he would like to grab both ends of the manager’s moustache and pull. But that would set a bad example for Quam, who is currently loitering by the stairs with his finger up his arse.
“On behalf of the Vancouver Police Department, I thank you very much indeed, sir.”
A brisk nod and another smile, not far from a smirk: “You are most welcome, monsieur. If you are having any further concerns, you may connect my office without hesitating.”
Hook turns toward the bar where McCurdy is working on his second Bloody Mary. The reporter throws a nod in his direction and raises his glass, as though proposing a toast.
Gordon Cunning Dead
Cecil Harmsworth
Staff Writer
The Beacon
Last night’s gala reception at the Hotel Vancouver for His Royal Highness The Prince George took a bitter turn this morning when hotel staff discovered the remains of Gordon Cunning, Attorney General for the Province of British Columbia, in a corner of the Crystal Ballroom.
“We didn’t notice him right away. He sort of blended in with the fabric,” said janitor Stanley Flemming. “He was sunk so deep in the chair it was almost like he was part of it. I only seen him when I stooped over to dust a lamp.”
Up until Monday, Gordon Allen Cunning’s political career seemed like one triumph after another. Elected to the Legislature in 1916 by the voters of Omineca and re-elected this last year (albeit with a narrow margin), Mr Cunning has served in succession as Speaker of the Legislature, Minister of Labour and, until yesterday, as Attorney General.
Among observers in Victoria it was thought that, should Premier Gulliver choose a graceful exit after his well-deserved humiliation at the ballot box, Mr Cunning was the obvious choice to succeed him, having assembled an impressive list of allies through the generous distribution of patronage plums, courtesy of the taxpayer.
For others, Mr Cunning will be remembered as the man who brought “moderation” to the province and, with moderation, new sources of tax revenue—as well as, observers note, new opportunities for patronage and graft.
Mr Cunning’s physician, Dr Lloyd Kettle, pronounced the cause of death to be peritonitis brought on by an inflamed appendix. “He complained of abdominal pains from time to time. We contemplated some tests, but he was a very busy man.”
Plans for a ceremony and a parade are underway at the Provincial Grand Lodge, of which Mr Cunning served as Grand Master for BC and the Yukon.
“Gordon Cunning was a bright star in the Liberal Party,” reads the official statement. “It is a great loss to the province.”
A government spokesman, speaking over the telephone, added: “Mr Cunning was a smashing orator, a jolly fine administrator and an all-around capital chap. He will be terribly, terribly missed.”