Читать книгу Campbell Young Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - J.D. Carpenter - Страница 9

Young knocked on the rickety screen door of Morley Rogers’ farmhouse.

He waited briefly, then knocked again. A shadowy figure slowly and haltingly approached, entering the daylight in the front hall.

“Mr. Rogers?” Young said through the screen.

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

But before Young answered, a woman he recognized from the videotape as Myrtle Sweet hurried up behind the old man and said, “Sir, you know you’re not supposed to be up and about.” She turned and propelled him back the way he had come.

Young opened the screen door and stepped inside. A moment later Miss Sweet returned to the front hall. “You can’t come in here!” she said. “Who are you?”

She was a knockout. Maybe thirty-five, as Wheeler had suggested, maybe even forty, but gorgeous. Olive skin. Black hair. Big black eyes. She looked Greek or Italian—Sophia Loren-ish. She was wearing a house-keeper’s outfit, black with a white apron. Not short, like a French maid’s outfit, but sexy, Young thought, sexy as hell.

“Detective Sergeant Young,” he said, flashing his badge. “Metro Toronto Homicide. Are you Myrtle Sweet?”

“Yes, I am. What do you want?”

“My partner, Detective Lynn Wheeler, was out here Sunday, and you answered some questions for her.”

“I was happy to be of assistance. Delbert’s death has been a terrible blow to all of us, but especially to Mr. Rogers.”

“I was hoping I might be able to speak to Mr. Rogers.”

“I’m sorry, he’s in very delicate health, as I explained to Detective Wheeler, and I simply can’t allow it.”

Young nodded. “You sent along a videotape of the meeting—”

“Mr. Rogers instructed me to do so, yes, sir.”

“—that was very interesting to watch, but I’m not sure what—”

A banging sound started up, a sound familiar to Young—trowel on metal. Myrtle seemed unaware of it and continued to look at Young.

Young said, “I think your boss wants you.”

The polite smile on Myrtle’s face froze into a hard line. “Wait here,” she said.

Young studied the hallway while he waited. Several pairs of men’s sneakers on the shoe tray. He stuck his head into the living room. Gloomy portraits of old people. Knick-knacks on the mantelpiece.

Myrtle returned. Her face was a mask of courtesy. “Mr. Rogers would like to speak to you. Follow me.”

Morley Rogers was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit on a saucer in front of him. “Look at the size of you,” he said, as Young entered the room. “You’re big as a house.”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Rogers.”

“Nonsense,” the old man said. “Creates a diversion in an otherwise uneventful life.” He coughed into his hand. “There’s not a whole lot I’m still capable of doing”—he glanced at Myrtle, who was standing in the doorway—“but I can still talk. Now what can I do you for?”

Myrtle said, “Sir, I really wish you wouldn’t—”

“Go away, my beauty,” Morley Rogers said, waving a limp hand in her direction. “I’m fine, and anyway what difference does it make if I die here or in my bed, today or a year from today? What difference, God bless? Now go away and leave the men to talk.”

When they were alone, Morley said, “She says your name’s Young. That right?”

“That’s right.”

“You get that movie I sent you?”

“I did, yes. I watched it yesterday with my partner.”

“What did you think?”

Young shrugged. “There seems to be a lot of interest in your property. And seeing Shorty like that only two weeks before he died—”

“Before he was murdered, you mean.”

Young nodded. “I knew Shorty. We weren’t close, but I considered him a friend. My daughter worked for him for five years.”

“Delbert was a not bad sort at one time, a sweet boy, really, but mischievous. Then, as young man, he got himself in with the wrong crowd.” The old man shook his head. “I blame him for the heart attack that killed my brother.”

“Why did you want us to watch the videotape?”

Morley Rogers looked up at Young. “Isn’t it obvious? Whoever killed Delbert’s coming after me next.”

Young frowned. “To be honest with you, Mr. Rogers, the only person on the tape who seemed hostile towards Shorty was you.”

The old man grunted. “I can imagine how it must have appeared, but what you need to understand is that Delbert was my only living relative. With him dead there’s no one to inherit my property when I die. Or so the general public believes. Eventually it would be sold at auction to the highest bidder. My decision not to sell the land might have prompted one of the people at the meeting to kill my nephew. I think Delbert’s killer is on the film, and I think I’m next to go.”

Young considered, then said, “I was told this meeting of yours was top secret and by invitation only. If that’s the case, why was Shorty there? From what I could tell watching the video, you had no use for him, and all he wanted to do was squeeze you for money. So how did he get invited?”

Morley Rogers said, “He wasn’t invited, he just showed up. I was as shocked to see him as anyone. He must have heard about the meeting from one of those other vultures, Khan or that Buckley fool.”

“Do you have a will, Mr. Rogers?”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “How does that concern you?”

“Would it be possible for me to see it?”

Myrtle Sweet bustled into the kitchen, saying, “I think that’s enough talk for now, don’t you, sir?”

Morley Rogers began to cough. Myrtle helped him to his feet, clucking at him. “I asked you not to overdo it, sir.”

Young stood up, too. “I just have a couple more questions.”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Myrtle.

As she and the old man shuffled off down the hall, Young said, “Thank you for talking to me, sir.”

The old man waved feebly. “Mustn’t keep a lady waiting.”

Young listened to their slow ascension of the stairs. He scanned the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and looked in. Milk, juice, eggs. A brick of cheese. A package of bologna. Ketchup. Mustard. A jar of pickles.

A six-pack of Red Stripe.

Young was standing in the front hall when Myrtle came back down the stairs. He had a flashback to the Raquel Welch cavewoman poster he’d had on the wall of his college dorm. “I’m sorry to cut short your conversation, Detective,” Myrtle said, “but you saw for yourself he’s in delicate health.”

“You weren’t listening in, were you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your timing was interesting, that’s all.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m going to have to talk to him again, you know.”

“If you’ll leave your number, I’ll call you when he’s stronger.”

“This is a murder investigation. It’s important we move quickly.”

“I said I’ll let you know.”

Young opened the screen door and stepped onto the verandah. Myrtle began to close the inside door behind him.

Young turned to her. “Our business is just starting,” he said quietly.

Her eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“You’re in his will, aren’t you?”

She closed the door. Young started down the steps towards his minivan. He heard the door open again. He turned and looked at her. She had pushed open the screen door as well, and was framed by the doorway. “Be careful what you say to me,” she said.

Young smiled. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know what kind of woman you are.”

She pointed a shaking finger at him. “I’m warning you. Nobody talks to me like that.”

At 4:00 p.m., Young sat down on a bar stool at McCully’s Tavern. Above the bar, four television sets were mounted. Each had an adhesive number stuck to it: TV #1 featured closed-circuit coverage of the horse races from Caledonia Downs, where a field of horses was just entering the starting gate; TV #2 was tuned to a sports talk show; TV #3 showed a tanned woman in a tiny orange bikini doing exercises on a beach; on TV #4, a man was fishing from a boat and speaking silently towards the camera.

On the stool next to Young was a ravaged, colourless man in his fifties whose white plantation suit was creased and stained, as if he’d slept in it and then eaten spaghetti in it. Yellow streaks in his gray hair added to the look of dissipation.

“Dexter,” Young said, “two Blue, please.”

The ravaged man had his head down, but at the sound of the voice beside him he looked up and around. “Detective Sergeant Campbell Young,” he said.

“Mr. Harvey,” Young said. “How are you making out today?”

Priam Harvey pursed his lips. In front of him on the bar lay a Racing Form open to the eighth race at Caledonia Downs, an empty pint glass, and an empty package of Player’s Light. “My best recollection,” he said, combing his thin hair with long, nicotine-stained fingernails, “is that I contributed generously to the retirement fund of a certain party who shall remain nameless.”

“Oh, the bookies were in today?”

With his right hand Harvey made a zipper motion across his lips.

“Relax,” Young said, as Dexter placed two bottles of beer in front of him. “Next time I want to bust a few bookies, I’ll let you know. I’m here to talk about Shorty.”

“To me?”

“Yes, to you.”

Harvey shook his head. “I tried to interest my editor in a story about the life and times of Shorty Rogers, but there seems to be some suspicion that his death was not simply an accident, and of course if there’s anything unsavoury about a story, Sport of Kings will avoid it like the plague. As you know, Detective, we only write what reflects well on our industry, an industry—I needn’t point out to you—that depends for its success on the willingness of the poor, the halt, the lame, the stupid and benighted to gamble away their welfare and unemployment cheques, money that might otherwise be spent on milk for their babies or heat for their houses. No, Sport of Kings wouldn’t touch a story like the death of Shorty Rogers—good man that he was, good horseman that he was—with a ten-foot pole.”

“I heard you didn’t work there anymore.”

There was a pause before Harvey answered. “Who told you I didn’t work there? Of course I work there. They wouldn’t know what to do without me. I’m the only literate member of the staff, for God’s sake.”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me out in a different way.”

“Shorty was a valued citizen among the racetrack community, and he was a friend of mine. Furthermore, he was named after Shorty Rogers, the jazz trumpeter. Therefore, I would be honoured to assist in any way I can.”

Young scratched behind an ear. “I thought he was called Shorty because he was short. He was a jockey when he was younger.”

Harvey gave Young a withering look. “I know he was a jockey when he was younger. I’ve done stories on the man. By the way, you might be interested to know that his real name was Milton Rajonsky.”

“Shorty’s?”

“Yes, Shorty Rogers.”

“I thought his name was Delbert.”

“No, I just told you. His name was Milton Rajonsky.”

“The jazz guy or the racetrack guy?”

“The jazz guy, as you so quaintly put it. The trumpeter.” Harvey was fishing for something in the pockets of his suitcoat. “Our Shorty’s real name was ... well, isn’t that interesting. I’m not sure I know what Shorty’s real name was.”

“That’s what I’m telling you, his real name was Delbert. That’s why I was confused when you mentioned this Milton guy. And to tell you the truth, I’d be surprised if whoever gave Shorty his nickname had ever heard of the jazz guy.”

Harvey’s impatience turned to appraisal. Then he nodded his head. “You may be right. Anyway, proceed. How may I help?”

“Shorty Rogers was murdered. And it’s more than likely that someone involved in horse racing is the killer, or at least hired the killer. I know a bit about betting the ponies, but I know dick-all about the ins and outs of the racing business. That’s why I need you. You understand how it operates, who the big players are. You understand the politics. I need someone with that kind of inside information to help me with the investigation, to let me know what’s being said on the backstretch.”

Harvey lifted a fresh pack of cigarettes from a pocket and was trying to locate the tiny cellophane tab to unwrap it. “What’s in it for me?”

“Fifty bucks a day. You’ll be my consultant.”

“Why me? There’s lots of people who are knowledgeable about the track.”

Young shrugged. “I owe you one. You told me to talk to Shorty about a job for Debi.”

“I did? When?”

“Five years ago, give or take.”

Harvey laid down his pack of cigarettes. “I don’t remember anything about it. I have no recollection ...” He looked at Young, then away again. “You aren’t just feeling sorry for me, are you?”

“Of course not. You’re the best man for—”

“Isn’t that Percy?” Harvey interrupted. “It is. That’s Percy fucking Ball!”

During their conversation, Young had been watching the tanned woman in the bikini on TV #3. Young looked around to see Harvey pointing up at TV #1, the closed-circuit Caledonia Downs channel, where a short, skeletal man with bouncy blond hair was leading an exhausted thoroughbred away from the unsaddling area.

“No question about it,” Harvey said. “That’s Percy Ball. I thought he was dead. Skinny bastard owes me seventy dollars. I think it was seventy. I haven’t seen him in months, and there he is, large as life. When old Dawson—you know him, sits here a lot—when he told me Percy was dead, I said, ‘Oh well, I can kiss that seventy bucks goodbye,’ and old Dawson, bless his heart, he says, ‘That’s okay, Mr. Harvey, all debts are paid in heaven.’”

Young, lighting a cigarette, said, “Oh, Percy Ball is very much alive.”

“Little prick probably started the rumour himself,” Harvey said, “just so I wouldn’t come after him.”

“As it happens,” Young said, exhaling, “Percy Ball was working for Shorty at the time of the murder.” He lifted his chin towards TV #1. “But it seems he’s found a new barn.”

“They all find new barns,” Harvey said. “They’re like rats that way.” Then he sat up straight and waved his hand. “Dexter? A pint of Creemore, please, and a shot of Bushmills. Detective, allow me to buy you a drink.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Harvey, I still have a full one here.”

Harvey was leaning forward and looking around. “Where the hell’s he got to?”

A tall red-headed woman approached them behind the bar. She said, “Dexter’s downstairs getting a keg. What do you want?”

“Ah, the radiant Jessy,” Harvey said. “I require a pint of Creemore and a chaser.”

“Haven’t you had enough?” Her voice had an Irish lilt to it. She looked at Young. “Hello there, sailor.”

“Jessy,” he said.

She continued to look at him for several seconds. Then she turned back to Priam Harvey. “I think you’ve had enough, Mr. Harvey. I think it’s time you went home and lay down for awhile.”

Harvey was about to protest, but Jessy wagged a finger in front of his nose. “No arguments. Get going. I’ll add the bill to your tab.”

As Harvey climbed unsteadily down from his stool, he said to Young, “Detective Sergeant, allow me to repeat myself: I would be honoured to assist in any way I can with your investigation. I’ll just toddle off home, have a little rest, and I’ll be in touch.”

After Harvey was gone, Vinny, the owner of McCully’s, a squat, sweaty man in a soiled apron, came out of the kitchen. “Hey, Vinny!” Young called from the bar, and when Vinny nodded to him, Young said, “I hear there was some business going on in here today.”

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Vinny said.

“Rumour has it the bookies were in today.”

Vinny turned and headed back towards the kitchen.

“Be careful, Vinny,” Young said. “I don’t want to have to call Vice on you.”

Vinny disappeared behind the swinging doors.

Young decided to have one more beer. “Jessy,” he called.

She came over, leaned her elbows on the bar, her chin in her hands, and gazed up into his eyes. “Mmmm?” she said.

“One more Blue.”

“You make me blue, big guy,” she said, “when you don’t come around.”

It had been a long time—at least six months—since Jessy had said anything of an encouraging nature to Young, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. Last December, he and Jessy had been seeing each other more or less steadily for two years, and he had been lulled into a false sense of security. It was in hindsight that he knew this, just as it was hindsight that helped him remember the warning she had given him when they first discovered their attraction to each other. Because she treasured her independence so much, she told him she had a policy where men were concerned: she would date each man only once. As it turned out, she was willing to bend her rule for Young and see him on a more or less regular basis because, as she put it, there was no danger of the two of them ever considering marriage or co-habitation or any other threat to her freedom. Although he sometimes wondered whether or not she actually liked him or had any genuine affection for him, the arrangement suited him fine: he was done with marriage. And, to his delight, she wasn’t just willing to date him, she was also willing to sleep with him on a more or less regular basis.

Until last Christmas.

Young, sitting in his usual spot at McCully’s one evening, had been surprised when Jessy told him she was going home for two weeks.

“You mean Ireland?”

“Of course I mean Ireland, you great ox. Dublin. See me mammy and pappy.”

“I was hoping we might get away for a few days. Do something different. Maybe go down to New York City. Catch a couple of musicals.”

She put her hands on her hips. She tossed back her red hair, flashed her green eyes at him. “Am I correct in thinking this is the first I’ve heard about any trip to New York? And when did you develop this sudden interest in musicals? You make it sound like you’re president of the Gilbert and Sullivan Fan Club, like you hop down there every weekend for a bit of the culture. Have you, in fact, ever been to New York?”

The truth was he didn’t want to be alone at Christmas. Debi and Eldridge and Jamal were flying down to Jamaica to visit Eldridge’s brothers and sisters, and the prospect of being alone filled Young with dread. He knew suicides soared at Christmas. Not that he’d ever do anything like that, but it just showed how depressed people could get. And when Young was depressed he drank too much, and when that happened he usually ended up in a seedy bar in some completely unfamiliar part of the city with no recollection of how he got there.

“Forget it,” he told her. “When are you leaving?”

She laid a freckled hand over his. “You know I don’t like to be managed.”

He nodded. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!”

“It was kind of a last-minute decision, and that was the only flight they could give me.”

He scratched his chin. “I got something for you. Just got it today, as a matter of fact. I was going to give it to you on Christmas, but since you’re going away, I better give it to you now.” He took a beautifully wrapped little package out of his coat pocket and placed it on the bar in front of her. “Merry Christmas.”

Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, Camp, you darling.” She opened it, and when she saw the necklace she gave out a little squeal. She studied it for a moment, then looked up at him and said, “I’ll go get your present. It’s in the back.”

Because Jessy was a favourite among the drinkers at McCully’s, she received many Christmas gifts. Sometimes in her haste to open them she lost the name tags, and later she couldn’t remember who gave her what. Mostly, she was given candy. Trick had shown Young a plum-coloured box of Belgian chocolates he had bought for Jessy. The name, Simryn, was spelled in raised gold on the lid. Trick said they cost him thirty dollars. That’s why Young had spent over a hundred dollars on the necklace and had it properly wrapped in the jewellery store. He didn’t want his gift to pale by comparison with Trick’s. After all, he was the one she was sleeping with—if only occasionally. Not that Trick was any kind of threat in that department. Not anymore, at least. But nonetheless, it was only right that he buy her something special.

So when Jessy returned from the back room with a gift bag and presented it to Young, and he reached in and pulled out a box of Simryn chocolates with a little tear in the paper where the name tag had been removed, his stomach sank. Is this how you do your Christmas shopping? he wanted to ask her. Recycle gifts you don’t want, or have too many of? Somebody gives you a box of chocolates, you give it to somebody else?

But Young said nothing. He just nodded his head.

“I hope you like them,” Jessy said.

He couldn’t look at her. Not only are you giving me Trick’s gift, he said to himself, but you know I hate chocolate. You should know I hate chocolate. At one point or other during the past two years I must have told you I hate chocolate. Can’t abide the stuff. But that’s what you give me. Because you know me so well, you give me Trick’s thirty-dollar chocolates.

The next day she left for Ireland. He drove her to the airport. He insisted she give him her parents’ address. He made sure he had all the details about her return flight.

While she was away he wrote three letters to her and sent them priority post. He didn’t hear from her at all and wondered if she’d received them. She didn’t even phone at New Year’s, and he didn’t dare phone her.

On January 6, he picked her up at the airport. On the way back into the city he asked if his letters had reached her. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t write you back, but, well, it was only two weeks, and besides, I’m not really the letter-writing type.”

He wanted to ask if she’d kept his letters, but again he didn’t dare. He was afraid of the answer. “Oh no,” she might say, “I never keep letters.” Or she might say, “I think they’re in my luggage somewhere, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to read them.”

So it was that after six months of cold war Young was surprised to hear Jessy say, “I’m off at ten tonight. Give a girl a ride home?” Her elbows were still propped on the bar, her chin still in her hands.

At 11:00 p.m., Young emerged from Jessy’s shower and stood in the doorway of her bedroom, a purple beach towel wrapped around his waist. Candles were burning in various corners of the room. Jessy was lying on her back on the bed, naked. Her ankles were crossed, and she had her hands behind her head. Normally, Jessy’s skin was so white it was almost translucent, almost blue, but in the candlelight it wore a rosy glow. She looked warm and content.

“Wow,” he said.

“Hungry?” she asked, looking up at him with her flickering green eyes.

“Starving,” he said.