Located at the northwest corner of the building at the end of a carpeted hall, the Alexandra Suite consists of sitting room, living room, dining room, bedroom and bath; DS Hook inspects the soles of his boots before continuing, like a child about to enter the front parlour.
“Say, aren’t guillotines French, sir?”
“In the field they used a smaller version. Quicker and more efficient than a bone saw, with less splatter.”
The constable flinches. Civilians flinch easily.
Hook pushes the light switch, causing a series of shell-shaped wall sconces to cast a warm glow over an arrangement of imitation Chippendale furniture, a popular choice that conveys Britishness and is immune to criticism.
“Don’t touch anything with your bare hands.”
“Fingerprints, sir?”
“Yes, Mr Quam. And, in your case, breakage.”
“I suppose you mean the martini glass, sir. It was not my fault.”
“Quite.”
“So we are treating this as a crime scene?”
“For the time being, yes.”
Quam thinks about this. “I suppose every scene is a potential crime scene, depending on the people present.”
For not the first time, Hook wonders whether Quam’s remark was very deep or very stupid. He decides on the latter, lights an Ogden’s and examines the slip of paper McCurdy slipped into his side pocket.
No martinis served.
Hook thinks about the martini glass. Did Cunning supply his own? Otherwise, whoever served the martini must have planned ahead. Perhaps McCurdy has something to say. He’s an inveterate bullshitter, but some of his bull hits the mark.
“Right, let’s get to it then. Mr Quam, you are to search the bedroom. See if you notice anything suspicious.”
“Such as what, sir?”
“If we knew what it was in advance, it wouldn’t be suspicious, would it?”
“I agree, sir. Nothing is suspicious until it is.”
“Oh come on, you might as well say that everything isn’t suspicious until it isn’t.”
“Yes indeed, sir, that as well,” Quam says, heading for the bedroom.
Alone now and able to concentrate, Hook surveys the sitting room. Nothing seems out of place; in fact the room looks as though the maids have prepared it for the next guest—except for an area in front of the bay window looking toward Grouse Mountain, a niche occupied by a walnut writing desk topped by irregular stacks of paper—documents, reports, newspaper clippings—piled around a brass banker’s lamp.
He crosses to the desk and pulls back the chair—an executive’s chair with curved arms and dark brown leather upholstery designed to assure the sitter that his comfort is of utmost importance. He sits down and rifles through the mounds of unsorted paperwork. Apparently Cunning was no detail man, rather the sort who spends time staring at the mountains and making plans.
Hook gets up and crosses to the bedroom, where for some reason Quam’s legs are sticking out from under the bed.
“Mr Quam, are you hiding from someone?”
“What?” The muffled voice might just as well be coming from the floor below.
“What are you doing down there?”
“I think I found something, sir.”
While Quam reverse-crawls from under the bed, Hook opens a side table drawer and extracts a Gideon bible. Clamping his cigarette between his teeth, he flips through the pages, causing a number of twenty-dollar notes to flutter onto the table. He wets his finger and counts them out: a hundred and twenty dollars.
By now Quam is on his feet, holding a near-empty bottle of clear liquid. “It rolled under the bed to the side, where you might put a chamber pot.”
“Very observant, Constable. And did you search the drawers?”
“Every one of them, sir. Nothing to report there.”
Hook holds up the notes and the Gideon bible. “People stash money in books, Mr Quam.”
“By stash, sir, do you mean he was keeping the money hidden?”
“That would be one interpretation, yes.”
“I keep my money in my wallet. That’s hidden enough.”
“Bully for you, Constable. Do you think it possible that this money is reserved for payment to someone who comes to his suite, someone who provides a good or service?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that,” Quam says, scratching his armpit. “It’s a lot of money to spend on room service.”
“But not for other services, surely? Of the female persuasion?”
The constable’s cheeks acquire a rather fetching blush: “Beg pardon, sir?”
“You’re a bachelor. Surely you’ve had some dealings with working girls.”
“Only to arrest them, sir. Begging your pardon, but I find your suggestion shocking.”
Hook feels an urge to thrust Quam’s head into the drawer and slam it repeatedly; instead, he points at the bottle in his hand. “What is that you’re holding?”
Quam hands it over. “It’s a bottle.”
“You don’t say.” Hook reads the label: Patterson’s Silk Hat Martini Cocktail—one of many so-called tonics from pharmacist’s shelves, popular during Prohibition. The heel contains maybe three fingers of clear liquid.
He wonders whether Cunning might have discreetly ordered liquor brought to his suite, to be paid for in cash—with Patterson’s Cocktail as a standby for a rainy day. With paid informants at every liquor store (the People’s Prohibition Association employs a stable of them), an Attorney General who campaigned as a moderationist can scarcely be seen buying liquor on a regular basis.
At the same time, with martinis available in the hotel lounge, why resort to Patterson’s Cocktail?
While the constable roots about the dresser and armoire, Hook inspects the bathroom, which wouldn’t be out of place in a hospital for royalty: a spotless sanctuary of marble and porcelain, equipped with a tub that would accommodate a small family, a massive pedestal sink, a chrome towel warmer, a steam radiator and multiple towels as puffy and soft as whipped cream.
Opening the water closet, Hook steps into an immaculate cubicle with a small frosted window and an electric fan for ventilation; an image comes to mind of infantrymen squatting over holes in the ground, bent double to avoid snipers…
How long have I been staring at this pokey little window?
This has been happening more frequently of late—situations in which he looks at a thing and suddenly he remembers the war. Even more alarmingly, the experiences that come to mind aren’t limited to his own, or even to scenes he has witnessed: bursts of machine-gun fire tearing a man in half; entire platoons blind and choking to death; foot rot, lice infestation, rat bites: events he “heard about somewhere” can burst into view every bit as vividly as any memory. In the army you hear stories. They seep into a man’s bones, like family lore from the Old Country.
Next to the flush toilet, a metal stand embraces a stack of multiple-ply paper sheets with a soft, flannel-like finish. Hook removes several sheets, folds them in two and slides them into his breast pocket; Jeanie will find them a welcome change from the usual Izal loo roll, whose edges can cut a person’s arse to shreds if he’s not careful.
Across from the water closet and beside the marble sink (with gold faucets), a hardwood table contains a brass stand carrying a straight razor, shaving brush and a bowl of Taylor’s Lavender Shaving Cream. Next to it is a chamois-lined, zippered leather toilet case containing a silver-backed hairbrush and toothbrush holder. He examines the toothbrush—a Koh-I-Noor, the brand Jeanie buys.
He must let her know that, in one respect at least, they travel first class.
The top shelf of the recessed medicine cabinet contains a bottle of aspirin, a bottle of Wildroot hair oil and a tin of Ex-Lax. On the next shelf down, a bottle of Bromo Seltzer and another of Mrs Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, a cocktail involving baking powder, ammonia and—until the recent legislation—morphine. The bottom shelf holds more Patterson’s products: bottles of Patterson’s Pepp, Patterson’s Male Bracer and Patterson’s Kick (“To Get You Going”).
He dumps half the aspirin tablets into the side pocket of his tunic (he is running low), and furtively shuts the cabinet door—to face a nondescript policeman with an unsatisfactory moustache and the eyes of a boy from Waldo who wanted to be a motorcycle acrobat. He removes his cap, notes his receding hairline and quickly puts his cap back on.
“Sir! I think you might want to take a look at this.”
Returning to the bedroom, Hook finds Quam at an open armoire peering at the suits and haberdashery: cap-toed Oxfords, spats, club ties, all muted and unobtrusive, the garb of a man who wishes his clothing to be recognized only by people who can afford it themselves.
However, the constable’s focus is on the shallow wooden case of bottles sitting on the hat shelf.
“There are more bottles, sir.”
“I can see that. Bring them down, then. But cover your hand with your handkerchief.”
“Are we worried about fingerprints, sir?”
“Do we want your fingerprints, Mr Quam?”
“I think not, sir.”
“Well, then.”
Using his handkerchief as a mitt, Quam brings down the case and sets it on the bed. It contains three bottles of Patterson’s Martini Cocktail. Presumably the fourth was under the bed.
“Constable, I want you to return these bottles to the station, secure them under lock and key, then take the one from under the bed to the BCPP.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I hope you don’t mean the Provincial Police.” Quam appears alarmed, probably by the prospect of actually doing something.
“Correct, Constable. Take it to their shiny new lab and we’ll see what they can make of it.”
“Sir, did Mr Cunning not die of natural causes?”
“Well, he didn’t die of old age. Let’s move on, shall we? At the time of death, our man had been drinking martinis. Now we see that a bottle labelled Patterson’s Martini was under his bed. What do you make of that?”
“Nothing, sir. Pure coincidence.”
“Or it could have been a pun.”
“A pun, sir?”
“Oh, never mind.”
Quam’s eyes grow watery: “Detective Sergeant, I hope you appreciate the paperwork involved in requisitioning all this lab service.”
DS Hook’s jaw has become so tense that he wonders if it’s beginning to crack. “Indeed. Most inconvenient having to do one’s job.”
Constable Quam’s eyes narrow: “I believe that sounds like sarcasm, sir.”
“Oh does it really? How strange.”
“Sir, I should caution you that sarcasm is frowned upon in the VPD. There’s an unwritten rule that officers should refrain from taking the piss.”
“Do you mean it’s a tradition, like saluting?”
“It’s just not the thing, sir. If you don’t mind me saying so, a good punch in the mouth is more acceptable.”
DS Hook is well aware that he is the new man in the constabulary, and that members are expected to demonstrate loyalty to the force—sometimes in preference to the law. In Hook’s case, such devotion has not yet presented itself, to his colleagues or to himself; he is an outsider, arbitrarily promoted and parachuted into a senior position.
Quam has long been established as one of the gang, and has the advantage.
While seated alone in the staff room with his tea, Hook has often watched Quam in conversation with other constables, exchanging gossip and sports stories, with periodic bursts of unpleasant laughter at someone other than themselves.
To succeed in this new position, Hook will have to put out of mind the VPD’s earned reputation for incompetence and venality. (Not unlike the army, really.)
He takes the last aspirin from his tin, chews it to a bitter powder and swallows it down. “Mr Quam, the government has funded a shiny new crime lab. Surely the BCPP will be eager to put it to use.”
“I wouldn’t know about the workings of the BCPP, sir.”
Hook’s mind is suffocating. He needs space to think clearly. To exchange ideas with Quam is like having glue pumped through his ears and into his brain.
“What about a spot of lunch, sir?” Quam says the word lunch as though chewing on it. “Twenty minutes for a Downy Flake and a coffee?”
“Good idea, Mr Quam. But there’s one thing I need you to do first.”