“Yeah, we won’t be able to prove a thing without digging out your former partner from Lake Muskoka. What you just told me is officially hearsay. But it has the ring of truth.”
“I guess it doesn’t change diddly.”
“You know, Chris, Wise hated Neustadt for that. He was at the funeral, you know. I’ve never seen such hate. You knew Wise when you came on the force yourself?”
“He made a career of staying away from the bright lights. Except when there was a charity ball or two hundred of our best citizens in tuxedos dressed to the nines for some reason. I saw him a few times, was part of a couple of campaigns to try to nail him for something. Hell, if they could only get Al Capone for tax evasion, I thought we might get Wise for spitting on the sidewalk. But we never could. The part of his life that we can see is-was-exemplary.”
“And Neustadt, Chris. Did he support the schemes to bag Wise?”
“Ed could be a stickler for boxing in a suspect. If there was an escape hatch visible, he would try to cool things down until we really had him in the bag.” Chris scratched his belly at the belt-line and considered what he had just heard. “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right: while Ed was gung-ho for all kinds of villains, he kind of soft-pedalled Wise.”
“Sure. Know why? Because a tacit blackmail situation had been established.”
“What do you mean ‘tacit blackmail situation’?”
“After he was allowed to walk, after Mary Tatarski was allowed to hang, Wise had Ed Neustadt in his pocket.”
“You mean Ed was paying Wise off all those years?”
“No. As far as I know they never met again. But this secret was lying there between them. If Ed pursued Wise too closely, then Wise could tell what he knew. Wise had Ed Neustadt’s career in the palms of his hairy hands. Neither one of them probably noticed it at first. Wise had some growing and maturing in crime to undergo before his threat ripened.”
“But Ed Neustadt gave Abe Wise a fresh start. What did he have to complain about?”
“What does a fresh start mean in a community that will take an innocent woman and hang her?”
TWENTY-FIVE
I invited Chris to join Anna and me for dinner at a place Anna had found near Turner’s Corners. It was an old coaching inn that had also been a gas station and a hamburger joint. Now it had been dolled up as its original self, without exaggerating things the way the Patriot Volunteer did over the river. This was authentic without hype, not a movie designer’s idea of an old inn, but the inn itself with all of its blemishes showing. The best thing about it was a huge fireplace which had a fire going in it, while a few birds and joints turned on spits above twin andirons. It was the sort of place you felt you had come home to as a familiar haunt, even though it was my first visit.
Chris and I kept clear of the case and Anna made light of a brewing crisis in the university’s history department. The focus of the talk turned on Chris, whose recent adventures on the island of his birth held our complete attention. He was a good raconteur. Better than that, he was a good delineator of political and social differences. By the time he had finished, both of his listeners knew more about the present situation on the island and the subtle differences between the professional and other classes in the villages, towns and capital. As for the meal, it was simplicity itself, roasted meat and boiled potatoes served with greens. The dessert was apple pie. It was what the food editor of the Beacon would have called a cliché meal, but all of our faces were rosy with contentment as we gathered our coats, and ran through a fine Scotch mist to the car.
The following morning I called Napier McNabb University in Hamilton to try to catch up with the record of Drina Tatarski, or Tait, as she was calling herself. The voice in the office at the other end took a lot of convincing. I heard a prepared speech about giving out confidential information. I explained my business, the woman on the phone explained the rules. I suggested that she should be the judge of what information was confidential and what was for public consumption. She suggested that I drive to Hamilton to see her in her office. I asked whether the rules were different for people on the spot and didn’t that tend to prejudice inquiries from, say, Halifax or Vancouver. There was a sigh at the other end, a sign either of frustration or capitulation. I pressed my advantage.
“We have her as Alexandrina Tait, not Tatarski, Mr. Cooperman. Tait was her legitimate name. It had been legally changed. She dropped out at the end of her first year. I can’t tell you what her grades were, but they were above average for first year.”
“You mean she could read and write?”
“What a cynic you are, Mr. Cooperman. Miss Tait appears to have been able to do more than that. She was quite accomplished. French Club, Fencing Club, Archery Club.”
“Is there a reason given for her dropping out?”
“There’s a note about sickness at home in Grantham.”
“I see. Is there anyone who knew her? I’m looking for a friend or teacher; someone who can give me a clue to where she might be now.”
“You might talk to Professor Hardy. He does first-year English. I think he might remember her.” She gave me a telephone number and wished me luck. By the end, we were getting on famously.
I had no luck getting in touch with Professor Hardy. He wasn’t at the number so I left a message on his machine. I began to feel the urge to drive to Hamilton to spy out the land for myself, but there was work to do on other fronts. Professor Hardy could wait.
Julie. I decided to focus on Julie. Together with her brother, Julie had the most to gain by her father’s death. She also had a ready market for any money she came into: Mode Magazine. I called her mother. Julie hadn’t been seen. I tailed Wise’s secret number and got Victoria, who said she hadn’t seen Julie since the morning of the shooting. I finished the dregs of cold coffee in a styrofoam cup and was sitting back in my chair wondering where to look next, when the phone rang. It was Julie.
“You’re lucky I’m a dutiful daughter, Mr. Cooperman. I just called my mother. She told me she’d spoken to you a minute ago. What can I do for you?” She sounded a trifle breathless, but it was part of her manner to appear to be in a rush. I shouldn’t imagine that she had just raced up three flights of stairs to place the call. I told her that I needed to see her. She mentioned The Snug at the Beaumont Hotel, which was still one of the few places in town where it was not chic to order draught beer, and the only place for miles around where free peanuts were supplied to every table. She gave me a couple of hours to get ready for the meeting, so busy was her schedule. I accounted myself lucky that she didn’t want to meet at the top of the CN Tower in Toronto. I spent some of the time back at the library and some of it on the phone with Duncan Harvey, the architect and crusader for the quiet repose of an innocent Mary Tatarski.
“Sure I remember our talk, Benny. How is your case going?”
“I’m still digging in, Duncan. There’s a lot that’s been hidden.”
“Ah, you begin to see what McStu and I had to go through.”
“Mary didn’t ever confess to anything, did she? Anything at all?”
“No. She admitted that she and her mother had had words on the night of the crime and that relations between them were not happy. But that’s all. Margaret, the older sister, didn’t get on that well with her mother either. That’s why she was planning to move out. Her ‘motive’ was at least as good as her sister’s. The first story Mary told to Sergeant Neustadt was the one she stuck to: early to bed with sleeping pills after an argument, and didn’t hear anything until she was wakened by her sister after the body had been discovered and the police had been sent for.”
“Was there any serious attempt at suicide?”
“That was all Neustadt. She took an ordinary dose and was on her feet before the police arrived. If you need an example of ‘facts’ made out of whole cloth, that’s a dilly.”