Читать книгу Nightshade - Tom Henighan - Страница 9

Three

A police car deposited Sam and Paul at the Winthrop, a hotel noted for its efficiency and lack of character, but well-located on the edge of the main historical district.

The morning rush of summer tourists had begun to enliven the upper city. The ancient military parade ground, the Place d’Armes, charming in its old age, lay adjacent, surrounded in various directions by the structures of a lost world: residences of merchants and rulers, now converted into museums; courthouse and church, made suitable for visitors; convent and seminary, now open to the public.

“War, religion, and money,” Sam remarked, eagerly devouring everything he could see. “The architecture changes, but the old power show goes on. And people arrive from every direction just to gape and take photographs. It’s pretty spectacular. Which makes me realize, I could be tripping around here with some beautiful creature or another, doing nothing but enjoying myself, instead of dialoguing with a bunch of obsessive cops, artists, and scientists.”

“But you do want to help Clara — and me,” Paul said.

“Oh, sure. If I can just learn to keep my mouth shut.”

Paul laughed. “McCarthy’s a bit touchy. And you’re not exactly benign. He knows we don’t want him here — the damned FBI. But it was orders from the provincial level, or the feds, probably all worked out by the higher-ups in the RCMP. They liaison with the FBI; we don’t. They want this thing solved. They want to keep the Americans happy, and so do we. American tourists come here in droves, as you can see.”

“You think that’s all it is?”

“What more have you got?”

“Plenty. A corporation has been formed. They’ve got what sounds like a grip on some fundamental genetic changes, things that will affect the environment big-time. Some powerful folks have a stake in this. The Canadian and U.S. governments, the big international economic players, the scientists themselves, the environmentalists, everybody has an agenda. McCarthy is here to look out for more than tourism.”

They entered the hotel and Paul began reaching for his police ID. “I hear you,” he told Sam. “I’ll see if I can find out anything else about that guy.”

Paul fetched the key to Dr. Linton’s still vacant room and they made their way through the crowd to the elevator. Considering the size of the hotel, the lobby was not a large space, and everything seemed so plush, so polished, and so upholstered that Sam felt almost claustrophobic.

“We’ll take a quick look at the place where they found the body, then go and see Jane Linton,” Paul told him. “That’s Linton’s ex-wife. She’s a couple of floors up and waiting for us, I hope”

“What’s she doing here … if they’re divorced?”

“She told us she and her husband still had a few issues to settle. Something about their son, who’s just entering college, a property, and also her share of the Arbor Vitae project.”

“What’s she like?”

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll let you form your own impression. Well, here we are — 1212, this is Linton’s room. We’ve already picked it clean, and the hotel’s putting it back in circulation later today.”

He flicked on all the lights and they looked around. “A very nice room, as you can see. Here’s the writing desk and the chair. They found Linton on the carpet just about here, somewhere near 1:00 a.m. He was reading some scientific paper — you can see it later, if you want to — when the poison started to take effect. He got up, knocked over the chair, and collapsed beside the desk. The effects of atropine are quite severe, they tell me, and things happen quickly. Dilated pupils, dryness of the mouth, and increased heart rate, for a start, probably followed by muscle failure, delirium, hallucinations, general paralysis, coma, and then finally death. The official C.O.D. is respiratory failure. It probably took only about a half an hour after he swallowed the stuff for it to start working on him. That’s why it’s important to pinpoint where each suspect was late on Friday.”

Sam took a deep breath. “It’s a pretty horrible way to kill someone.”

“Every way is horrible, but I think I know what you mean.”

“To me it shows hatred, careful calculation, and monstrous premeditation.”

“Not to mention some knowledge of science, of plants and chemicals.”

The clean, polished water tumbler and the tall glasses on the desk reminded Sam of something.

“Eddie told us there were bar chits. Do they give some indication of what Linton drank when?”

“They do. He made two separate visits to the main bar. The first was just before nine o’clock — that’s when he had drinks with his wife. But if she had dropped something in his glass then, it would have taken effect well before midnight. He’d told her he was going to bed early, but there’s another chit from about 11:35. That would fit the time of death perfectly. So far we can’t find anyone, not even a waiter, who remembers seeing Linton around that late … Shall we get out of here and go see Jane Linton?”

“Definitely.”

On the elevator, Paul had a question. “So now that you’re into a murder investigation again, what do you think?”

Sam considered. “You know I never did much on that Gatineau schoolteacher thing you solved. This is a little different. For one thing, it looks pretty complicated. Not some lowlife thug gunning down a couple of retirees.”

“I agree.”

“And I suspect there’s probably some sleazy stuff in the background here — and maybe some politics — so I should feel right at home.”

Paul laughed. “You said it, Sam, I didn’t.”

“I needed a break from the creepy Rockcliffe crowd, and the endless marital backstabbing. I’m a bit tired of trailing horny wives to condos in the west end and motels over in Hull.”

“It’s the wives you chase, then?” Paul asked, with a wink.

“The wives are easier to spy on. They do what their lovers want, and the lovers don’t give a damn about precautions. Most of the wives want to get caught in the end. The husbands are much more careful.”

“The wives get tired of the game?”

“Usually. It starts because they’re bored with their husbands and in search of a little romance. They meet some charming operator who tells them they have beautiful eyes, or a beautiful something else, and they get infatuated. The new guy has more muscles, more brains, or more money than Poppa. They always have something the husband doesn’t. Or else he’s just so kind, so considerate, he understands them. So the wives think they’ve found a new heaven. But romance wears thin very quickly. Most wives give the show away in the end.”

“Or the husbands catch on.”

Sam laughed. “The husbands! Good God! Most of them wouldn’t catch on if their wives did it upstairs while they were having breakfast. They’d be too busy feeding their faces and complaining about the coffee.”

They came out of the elevator and walked some way down the hall, stopping at room 1430. Paul knocked on the door.

“You’re as cynical as most of us Québécois, Sam. Must be your Montcalm ancestry.”

“I’m only cynical about sex and politics — and that’s based strictly on experience.”

Paul nodded. The door of 1430 swung open and a tall woman greeted them. She had a freckled face, broad shoulders, dark red hair in bangs, and very bright blue eyes. She wore a green polo shirt and white chino slacks.

“You’re the policemen? Yes, I can see you are. I’ve already talked to a lieutenant. A nice man. God, this is terrible! Come in.”

“Inspector Berthelet of the homicide branch,” Paul explained, showing his credentials. “This is Mr. Montcalm, a detective from Ottawa who’s working with me.”

“Ottawa?” the woman said. “I’m going down there in a few days. There’s a board meeting — everything in chaos. It’s a godawful nightmare. I still can’t believe it. Can I order you gentlemen something to drink?”

“No, thank you. This won’t take long. Mr. Montcalm and I just wanted to ask you a few more questions.”

Jane Linton waved them into chairs. Fifty something, she must once have been attractive, Sam thought, but she had put on too much weight, and despite her expensive casual clothes, she looked outdated, an ex-hippy, a granola girl, for whom the skimmed milk had turned slightly sour.

“I tried to give that lieutenant clear information,” she told them. “I hope he got it straight. I’m still in a state of shock over what happened to Charlie.”

“I’m sorry to have to run through this again,” Paul said. “But as I understand it, you learned of your husband’s death on Saturday morning. You’d seen him the previous night and he went to his room at about nine o’clock. What did you do after that, Mrs. Linton?”

“What did I do? Well, I didn’t want to go to that dreadful party they had. I couldn’t stand spending time with the Ballards. I had a couple of drinks and went to my own room.”

“You and your husband have been divorced for a few years. Why did you come up here from Toronto — that’s where you live, I believe?”

“Yes. Didn’t that lieutenant fill you in? I’m here because I was and still am vitally involved in the Arbor Vitae Corporation. Charlie and I may not have been very good marriage partners but we agreed completely about Arbor Vitae. We were determined not to let it be used to destroy or radically modify the environment. Unlike Bobbie Ballard and his gang, we didn’t want the big U.S. corporations to take over the process and make millions. As Canadians, we had some notion of public responsibility. On the other hand, the protestors worried us. We thought that Native artist fellow was a bit crazy, a publicity seeker. Why, he never even came to us to talk about our plans for the company! Just started making trouble and scaring the hell out of some of our scientists. I just hope he didn’t really kill poor Charlie. That would set the Native cause back a few years.”

Sam leaned forward. “Do you have any reason to think Daniel Summerways might have killed your husband, Mrs. Linton?”

“No, of course not. He didn’t even know him. Unless he really is an environment nut.”

“Last Friday night, in the bar — what did you and your husband talk about?”

“Let me see, what did I tell that lieutenant?” She smiled at them. “I wouldn’t want to contradict myself, you know.”

“People always contradict themselves,” Sam said. “Life contradicts itself. Just relax and tell us what you remember.”

She cast him a grateful look. He felt sympathy for her, but he doubted that was the kind of thing she would have wanted. She seemed too tough, too strong-minded in her vulnerability; she wore her L.L. Bean rig as if it were J. Crew, and likely never unlearned her sixties trust in carefree virtue.

“Charlie and I talked mostly business,” she said. “We talked about the future of Arbor Vitae and how we wanted the new company to be something good for Canada. As you both know, this country of ours has a precious resource of trees. Charlie and I wanted to make sure his research didn’t undermine that. We talked about how we could draw the Americans in without letting them take it over — always a tricky business. And that meant not letting Ballard and Annie Sergeant run the company. We didn’t know what to make of Kenny Chen, another senior adviser — at least I didn’t. Charlie said he thought Chen had a private agenda, and that we might have to get rid of him. That surprised me. He also said something about Ballard having a problem, a personal problem, but he wouldn’t go into it. He mentioned a businessman named Frank Rizzo, who operates here in the city. He was at the hotel that night. In fact, he passed through the bar when Charlie and I were there — a suave little man in an expensive Italian suit. I didn’t like him at all. Charlie said he had some business to discuss with Rizzo privately, but that it was complicated and he would fill me in later.”

She paused, and then added, “My husband and I also talked about our son, Charlie Jr. — he’s at school in New England. He enters university next year. My poor husband didn’t know they’d never see each other again. The boy’s up here now, in Montreal, making arrangements for his dad’s final rest. What makes me angry is that recently Charlie’s been spending more time with Simon Ballard than with his own son. God knows, with that father of his, Simon needs it, but I wish my husband had seen more of young Charlie.”

Her voice cracked a little, and her solid post-sixties facade threatened to dissolve. But when Paul offered to fetch her water, she waved him off.

“I don’t know if I’ve told you anything new,” she said. “I feel as if I’ve had this conversation already.”

“It’s important that we meet and talk to everyone,” Paul reassured her. “A lot comes from personal impressions. But one thing, Mrs. Linton, we do need to know. Will you be inheriting all your husband’s interests in Arbor Vitae?”

“That’s right. I get his majority shares and retain my place on the board, of which I’m already a member. Of course we’ve lost his incomparable guidance, and his vote. But I intend to get Charlie Jr. on the board as soon as possible. We won’t let this ship be taken over by those pirates, if we can help it.”

“I have a question, Mrs. Linton,” Sam said. “Did your husband mention anything about some strong American interest in the Arbor Vitae venture?”

Jane Linton considered this. “I don’t know … There’s so much going on. But there was somebody south of the border, some ‘White House crony,’ I believe he said, in the department of the environment down there who wanted to jump in with Arbor Vitae. Apparently, they’d approached Bob Ballard.”

“What did your husband say about that?” Sam asked.

Jane Linton caught her breath. “He said, ‘they’ll buy in over my dead body’ … yes, that’s what he said. I remember his words very clearly … ‘over my dead body.’”

Sam exchanged a glance with Paul, who stood up abruptly. “There’s just one more thing, Mrs. Linton, unless Sam has something. May I ask what your background is? Did you meet your husband at university, for example?”

She sighed; her face took on the weary look some people have when they are asked to repeat a past they remember only too well, or have gone over in their minds far too often. “That’s right — it was when he was teaching in California. I was a promising student, or so he told me when we met. Funny how professors marry promising students and turn them into housewives and acolytes. Sure, we were happy for a while. We used to go swimming and skiing together. But Charlie had other interests.”

Berthelet sat up. “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Linton?”

“I’m not going into it, I’m sorry. Most marriages have a few rocky years. Charlie was very ambitious, very busy, but we often had fun. We used to do a lot of outdoor things together, although I never went mountain climbing with him. I always got vertigo in the high places. Charlie was a fanatic climber, but he got a bit desk-bound in his old age. When he called me the other day he told me he might go climbing with Simon Ballard. That surprised me. He hadn’t been climbing in years. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t take young Charlie.”

Paul Berthelet looked inquiringly at Sam, who nodded and posed the next question.

“Do you mind telling us why you split up with your husband?”

Jane Linton’s face twisted into a kind of sour smile. “Why does any woman split up with an older husband? Because you get sick of their limitations, of their physical presence. You get tired of their obsessions, their jokes, their memories, their lack of any future. You begin to hate their eating habits, their bathroom routines, their snoring in bed, their pathetic sexuality. You want to be left alone, to be free, to wake up one morning and do whatever you damn well feel like doing …”

She stopped suddenly, then laughed to herself, not quite meeting the men’s sharp glances, as if she were suddenly embarrassed by her own brutal frankness. Paul Berthelet cleared his throat.

“Well, that’s very helpful, Mrs. Linton,” the inspector told her. “I think we can leave it at that. We’ll both be in Ottawa later this week. I’m sorry to say we may have a few more questions then.”

“Is that all you’re going to ask me?” She gave them an ironic look. “Well, why should I care, after all? Why should I care?” She hesitated, pressed her lips tightly together, and said in a quiet voice: “I may have more to tell you later. It depends on how things go.”

“If you have pertinent information …” Sam intervened. He could see that she was holding back intentionally, taunting them a little, or maybe gauging just how much pain would be involved in telling them more.

Jane smiled bitterly. “When I think of what poor Charlie suffered, I can almost forgive him — for everything,”

“We’re sorry about this,” Paul told her. “Such things are upsetting, brutal. But as Sam says, if you think of anything else …”

“Yes, yes.” She suddenly seemed anxious for them to leave, preoccupied.

They stepped into the corridor and she closed the door softly behind them. The elevator came at once but it was occupied by a couple of elegantly dressed older women, two men in dark suits, and a priest. The two men rode down in silence, but when they stepped out into the lobby, Sam said, “I found that very helpful. High-level interest from the States, thus McCarthy. Rivalry between the Lintons and Ballard. Linton’s interest in Ballard’s son, the Chen and Rizzo connections. Plus a mystery that she doesn’t seem quite ready to go into.”

“The worst kind of suspect,” Paul growled. “She was upset, yes, but you feel she might be making it up as she goes along. She was a bit more guarded with Eddie. It was worthwhile doing a second interview.”

“Maybe a third will be even better.”

“I hope so. In my mind, Mrs. Linton is by no means clear of this — in fact, she seems deeply involved — and I take it you think likewise?”

“Likewise,” Sam said. “And more than likewise.”

They came out on the street and climbed into the waiting police car.