Читать книгу Blood Count - Jack Batten - Страница 7

Genet was my excuse for stepping into Alex’s quarters. I was supposed to feed the mutt. I had no excuse for what else I intended to do. I intended to conduct a search of the premises.

There was a tin half full of dog food in the refrigerator. I peeled off the Saran wrap covering the top and scooped the meat into Genet’s bowl.

“Yuck, this stuff smells terrible,” I said to the dog.

Genet sniffed the bowl and turned his head up to me.

“You think it stinks, too?”

I looked at my watch.

“Or maybe it’s the hour? Too early for dinner?”

It was four thirty, Saturday afternoon.

“See, Genet, I’m a tad keen to get on with the search.…”

What was I doing? Explaining to a dog!

Genet blinked his rheumy eyes and focused on the bowl’s contents.

“Think of it as high tea,” I said to the top of his head.

On the refrigerator door, a pair of silver magnets pinned a New Yorker cartoon done by the guy who draws in dots. It showed a doctor examining a patient’s arm and saying, “Well, Bob, it looks like a paper cut, but just to make sure, let’s do lots of tests.” Two more silver magnets held up a list of things to do: “Cancel Globe till May 19”; “Join Winston Churchill Tennis Club”; and “Book window washer.” The list was in Alex’s handwriting. None of the items said: “Advise Crang where to find Ian’s killer.”

I walked down the hall to the living room at the front of the house. Behind me, Genet slurped his protein. I sat at the elegant little Biedermeier desk and looked at the small oil painting over it, an Albert Franck of a downtown Toronto backyard. It didn’t tell me anything except that it was a clear, evocative, tough-minded piece of art. Genet padded into the room and fixed a gaze on me.

“Don’t even mention it.” My voice was on the loud side. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s for a good cause, okay?”

Genet whimpered.

Alex kept orderly desk drawers. Receipts clipped together — Bell Canada, Imperial Oil, Visa, the University Club. There was a file marked “Income Tax” and another labelled “Ian’s Estate.” A bundle of fat documents with many official seals had to do with the ownership of the Key West cottage. I fingered through every scrap of paper and found nothing that revealed where Alex might have gone digging for the guy who gave Ian the disease.

There was a black box beside the phone. It was a memory machine — an electronic gizmo that automatically recorded the number of anyone who dialed Alex’s place. I fiddled around until I located the button that lit up the machine’s screen. It showed three numbers.

I dialed the first.

“You have reached the Ontario Ministry of Education,” a recorded female voice said. “The offices are closed today, but if you call Monday after eight thirty in morning, we will be happy to assist you.”

It was Alex’s business number. He’d been provincial deputy minister of education for as long as he and Ian had lived in the house.

I dialed the second number on the memory screen.

No answer. I let the phone ring a dozen times. Definitely no answer.

I dialed the third number.

“Purple Zinnia,” a pleasant male voice said. “Good afternoon.”

“Have I got a flower shop?”

“No, we’re still a restaurant.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve heard the flower shop line?”

“Twice before,” the voice said, still pleasant, “and that’s just today.”

“I’ll call back later when I think of something more original.”

“If you want a reservation, we don’t take them. But tonight, get here before, oh, seven fifteen, and you should be okey-doke.”

“Thanks.”

I spent another half hour in the apartment. Genet kept me company, silent and observing. The closest I came to a clue was a ceramic bowl that held a collection of matchbooks. Maybe one from a place where Ian had met the bad guy? Where Alex had traced the same bad guy? Most of the matchbooks advertised upscale restaurants. Cibo. Centro. Bistro 990. No particular leads there. When it came to dining out, Ian and Alex had always treated themselves. I opened each matchbook, about twenty-five or thirty of them, and checked for anything jotted in handwriting on the inside. All were clean.

I ended up at the Biedermeier desk. So did Genet. I dialed the second number on the memory screen. Still no answer. I used the weighty gold pen on the desk to jot the number on the top sheet of Alex’s memo pad. I tore off the sheet, folded it into my wallet, and phoned Annie at her office.

“Flicks.” It was Annie’s voice.

“I’m striking out so far.”

“Oh, hi.” Annie sounded pumped up. “I just put down the phone from calling your place.”

“I’m busy ransacking Alex’s apartment.”

“What does Alex say about that?”

“Not much. He’s winging his way to Key West.”

“Fantastic.” Annie’s adrenaline seemed to be running on high. “Gives you more time for the project. Sorry, gives us more time.”

“Things nifty at your end?” I asked. “I feel something like sparks emanating from the receiver.”

“God, Crang, you wouldn’t believe what a marvel Tavernier is, so intelligent and so articulate and so French.”

“You got the interview taped?” I said. Bertrand Tavernier was in Toronto from Paris on a North American tour to hype the latest movie he’d directed.

“Two interviews already. Twelve minutes each, two different topics. And he enjoyed the interviews so much he agreed to come back tonight for a third after he’s had dinner with his Canadian distributor.”

“Sounds like you made an impression.”

“What we’ll do, we’ll drop the interviews into the next three shows, starting this coming Tuesday.”

Annie has a TV program about movies. She landed it after some television guys with good taste caught her in her former job, reviewing movies on the local CBC morning show, Metro Morning, and made her an offer. Annie’s the host and the program’s a syndicated deal, carried on twelve sta­tions across the country, channel eleven out of Hamilton in the Toronto area at seven every Tuesday night. The budget is minuscule, enough to pay Annie, a producer, and a part-time researcher. The syndicate guys inflicted the frivolous title on Annie, Flicks, but by general consensus, the show is smart and lively, a nifty balance of reviews, interviews, and panel discussion stuff.

“You talk to Tavernier about Round Midnight? I asked.

“Not till the last interview.”

“Best jazz movie ever made.”

“I’ll tell him you think so,” Annie said. “Listen, sweetie, I only have two minutes. What’s this about striking out?”

“Alex didn’t exactly leave his apartment strewn with leads, and Genet isn’t saying a thing.”

I gave Annie a precis of events during my prowl through Alex’s drawers and ceramic bowls.

“Bingo,” Annie said.

“Which bingo?”

“The Purple Zinnia’s a well-known gay restaurant. There you go, a place to start.”

“It’s not a well-known gay restaurant to me.”

“It’s the local for some CBC people. That’s how I’ve heard about the Purple Zinnia.”

I was silent.

“Does it make you nervous?” Annie asked. “The thought of going to a gay place by yourself?”

“I was considering the ramifications. For numbers of gay bars and bathhouses and hair salons and so forth, I gather it goes San Francisco, Greenwich Village, Fire Island, and then probably Toronto. I could disappear into the subculture for weeks.”

“But you’ve got something firm that this one particular restaurant might supply some answers.”

“What qualifies a restaurant as gay, anyway?” I said. “The food?”

“No, silly, the clientele and usually the ownership.”

“Apart from me, the clientele.”

“Don’t be insecure,” Annie said. “Just have a nice dinner and ask if anyone there knows Ian in a special way.”

“I’m not insecure.”

“Then you’re going?”

“Yeah, but I won’t wear my most fetching getup.”