Читать книгу Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Jack Batten - Страница 15

AFTER FIVE-THIRTY in the afternoon, parts of downtown Toronto turn dulcet. The buildings empty, the bankers, brokers, and their minions head down to the subways and over to the expressways, and the streets are left to the strays. I walked south between the office towers on York Street and watched the setting sun bounce off the glass of the Stock Exchange Building. A good singer named Tommy Ambrose once wrote a song about Toronto. He called it “People City.” Sometimes I like it better without the people.

At King Street, I went east. McIntosh, Brown’s offices are in the black and daunting Toronto-Dominion complex, the only Mies van der Rohe buildings in the city, maybe in the country. I signed in with a security guard who sat behind a bank of buttons and TV monitors in the lobby and rode an elevator almost to the top. McIntosh, Brown occupies three floors. Tom Catalano works out of the floor in the middle and he was waiting for me under a Tom Thomson painting in the reception area. On the opposite wall there was a David Milne and a Christopher Pratt. If all the law firms on Bay Street got together and opened a gallery, they’d put my neighbour the Art Gallery of Ontario out of business. Catalano led me down a silent corridor to a small conference room. It had four Harold Town prints.

“Am I supposed to be overwhelmed by the display of good taste?” I said. “Is that why all you big-ticket law firms go crazy for art?”

Catalano shrugged. “I suppose it makes our rich clients feel like they’re sitting in their own living rooms.”

Tom Catalano has tight curly black hair and a long melancholy face. He plays squash. Plenty of lawyers in firms like McIntosh, Brown play squash. They can fit it in at seven o’clock in the morning at the Cambridge Club. Back in law school, Catalano was known as a cagey guy around the poker table; now he just works too hard.

“Fix yourself a drink,” he said. “The booze’s in the cabinet. Ice too. I’ll go and greet our client.”

“I thought juniors attended to the night doorman’s duties.”

“I dispatched my juniors to the library,” Catalano said. “If they got a look at you in those jeans, they might be tempted to defect.”

The Scotch in the cabinet was Johnnie Walker Black, the gin was Tanqueray, the vodka was domestic. Some kind of anti-communist conspiracy seemed in operation. I poured two ounces of the vodka into a tall glass, added ice and soda water, and sat down at the conference table. It was polished oak, and at each place there was a small white pad and a sharpened yellow pencil. I sketched two stick men boxing. If the vodka didn’t soothe my unease, maybe doodling would.

My drink was a third of the way down the glass when Catalano returned with Wansborough. He had on another three-piece suit, chocolate brown this time. It was without a crease and his cordovans had a high shine. I’d be willing to wager his undershorts were pressed.

“You know Crang of course, Matthew,” Catalano said.

Wansborough tilted his head in my direction but didn’t offer his hand.

“I’m keen to have your report, Mr. Crang,” he said.

Catalano said, “Something from the bar before we start, Matthew?”

Wansborough asked for a Scotch and soda. His eyes didn’t leave my face as he spoke. It was my day for being stared at.

“Something’s not right at Ace,” I said, “but I can’t tell you what it is.”

I described Charles Grimaldi’s bloodlines, my discoveries at the Metro dump sites, and the recent visit from Sol Nash. I added the punch-up on Bathurst Street for flavour.

“I didn’t expect violence,” Wansborough said. The remark was addressed to Catalano. He put Wansborough’s drink in front of him.

Catalano said, “I’m sure Crang knows what he’s doing. He usually does.”

“To hit a man as Mr. Crang did,” Wansborough said to Catalano, “I don’t wish the family to be associated with such behaviour.”

“Let’s call it self-defence in this case, Matthew,” Catalano said.

“Yoo-hoo, fellas,” I said. “Why not discuss my talents after I’ve left. There are a couple of other points I have for the agenda.”

Wansborough turned his attention back to me. His face was a mix of worry and distaste.

He said, “I would like a guarantee there won’t be any further hooliganism.”

“Mr. Wansborough,” I said, “my scuffle with the driver ranks near the bottom of your concerned list.”

Wansborough did an elaborate throat-clearing.

“You say Charles Grimaldi is connected to the, ah, underworld,” he said.

“Intimately,” I said. “Through his dad.”

Wansborough said, “Well, simply because Charles’ antecedents are involved in criminal pursuits doesn’t establish that Charles himself is party to anything improper. Not as it relates to Ace Disposal at any rate.”

Wansborough didn’t sound as though he were convinced of his own logic.

“Let’s go with what we’re reasonably certain of, Mr. Wansborough,” I said. “There’s something at Ace that Sol Nash and by extension his boss Grimaldi are wary about me uncovering.”

“Which is what?” Tom Catalano asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I’d like to talk to Alice Brackley.”

Wansborough hadn’t touched his Scotch.

He said, “What makes you think my cousin would be of any assistance in this deplorable affair?”

“She works at Ace,” I said. “That gives her a head start in the information department. Whatever isn’t on the square at the office, she might provide me with leads. It’s a cinch nobody else is going to dish out secrets.”

Wansborough took his first taste of Scotch and looked at Catalano. His expression wore a question mark.

“I see no harm in Crang talking to your cousin, Matthew,” Catalano said. “He may not always seem it but he can be discreet.”

Wansborough didn’t speak. I held my glass up to Catalano. It was almost empty. He pointed a finger in the direction of the liquor cabinet, and I made another vodka and soda. Catalano was drinking straight tonic water. The non-conversation stretched out in the room. Wansborough brooded. Catalano and I waited. Catalano decided to prime Wansborough’s pump.

He said to me, “Have you got a guess about what’s going on at these dumps? Why the extra time in handling the Ace trucks? And the visits of this Nash character to the weigh people, what do they mean?”

“Ace has something happening under the table with the weigh-masters,” I said. “That’s how it looks to me. But that is, in your word, a guess. I’d like to try out the guess on Alice Brackley.”

“Very well.” Wansborough had done with the brooding. “Go ahead and have your discussion with Alice, Mr. Crang, but I wish confidentiality observed.”

“You mean,” I said, “you don’t want me to tell Ms. Brackley I’m acting for you.”

“Exactly,” Wansborough said. The take-charge tone was back in his voice. “There are good and sufficient reasons for secrecy.”

“Such as?” I asked.

“Very privately, gentlemen,” Wansborough said, taking in both Catalano and me, “I’ve had cause to question the nature of the relationship between my cousin and Charles Grimaldi.”

“Oh-oh,” I said, “they playing footsy around the office?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Mr. Crang,” Wansborough said. “It’s simply that they may be spending more time together socially than is strictly necessary in business. Or so I’m informed by my wife’s friends.”

“What are we talking about here?” I said. “Something more than working lunches? That kind of thing?”

My questions were making Wansborough uncomfortable.

“I concede it’s hearsay, Mr. Crang,” he said. “But twice, different friends of my wife have reported seeing the two of them, Alice and Grimaldi, dining out around town.”

“Twice isn’t much.”

“Alice was observed holding his hand.”

“Well, well, handsy can definitely lead to footsy.”

“Whatever it is,” Wansborough said, “it wouldn’t do for you to create an upset within the family by revealing too much to Alice.”

“There might be an upset down the line.”

“Not if all of us handle our tasks with due precaution.”

I swallowed the rest of my drink and ripped the doodle off the small white pad in front of me. As I left, Tom Catalano was talking soothing words to Wansborough. I walked down the hushed corridor and out of the building.

An affair between Alice Brackley and Charles Grimaldi? This was more like it. Not just the suspicion of crime at Ace but the chance of romance, passion, seething emotions.