‘I know the word. It means dotingly fond of one’s wife. Why?’
‘Guy called himself that today. Now tell me this . . .’
But Annie had left.
Late that night, in bed, she asked him, ‘Charlie, have you had any other women lately?’
He grabbed her in a mock-brutal gesture. ‘I haven’t had any women lately.’
She took his hand away. ‘I’m not surprised if that’s how you go about it.’ She sat up and took off her nightdress. ‘Try a little tenderness,’ she said.
Afterwards she asked, ‘Well, have you?’
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What? Oh, for Christ’s sake, go to sleep.’
On Wednesday morning Salter phoned Montreal. He found O’Brien in the office. ‘Hello, Onree. Charlie Salter here. I’ve done the rounds and it looks to me as if the guy we’re looking for is in Montreal. Apparently Summers was celebrating something and throwing his money about. He was drunk, too, even before he got into the whisky. I think someone followed him back to the hotel and clobbered him for his money. Then they panicked.’
‘You have interviewed all the people he was with?’
‘Yes. An unlikely lot. One possibility, but my guess is still a whore and a pimp.’
‘Did he spend the night, what do you call it, pub-crawling?’
‘More or less. But they only went to three places. Here they are: Maison Victor Hugo, The Iron Horse, and Les Jardins du Paradis. How’s my accent?’
‘Bad, Charlie, but I know these places. OK. I’ll put a couple of men on it. You think any of them is the most likely?’
‘Les Jardins du Paradis. They were in there between nine and ten, and my guess is that the killer was, too.’
‘OK. You have seen everybody?’
‘No, no. The funeral is this afternoon. I’ll go to that. And I want to go down to this squash club where he spent so much time. Then there’s the wife, who I’ll see tomorrow. Oh yes, I found out who Jane is—you remember the note in his box? She’s an old pal of his, apparently, so I don’t expect to find anything there.’
‘What about those phone numbers on the little sheet of paper in his wallet?’
‘Not yet. I’ll do that today. But I still think you will be looking for the villain in Montreal.’
‘OK, Charlie.. This is taking up a lot of your time.’
‘Time’s what I’ve got a lot of, Onree. Talk to you later.’ Salter hung up and turned to Sergeant Gatenby.
‘Frank, would you let “Chiefie” know that this Montreal case is continuing, and I am assuming he wants me to stay with it. And here—’ He picked up the IN tray on his desk, piled high with little errands. ‘Send these back where they came from and tell them I’m all tied up. And don’t take any more.’
‘At all? They’ve got quite used to us doing their extra jobs.’
‘Well, they’ll have to get unused to it. They can figure out how to dispose of the surplus horse-shit from Central Stables all by themselves. I’m busy.’
‘Being busy is being happy,’ Gatenby said. He was fond of this kind of ‘old country’ patter. This time he was right.
The funeral was conducted from a parlour on Yonge Street, between an English Fishe and Chippe Shoppe and a tavern. When Salter arrived there were a dozen people sitting silently facing the closed coffin. He identified the widow and daughter, pale without weeping, dressed quietly but not in black. Pollock was there with Marika Tils; all the people Salter had interviewed plus several others, presumably from the English Department, sat in a group. One other man sat alone, several rows behind this group, and a girl of about twenty sat in the back row. The funeral was private, so only the most determined had come. The service was Anglican, without a eulogy, and was soon done. When the small crowd straggled out, Salter caught the stranger on the sidewalk and introduced himself. ‘You were a friend of Professor Summers, sir?’ he asked. The man was making no effort to speak to the widow, unlike the others.
‘Not really. I used to play squash with him, that’s all. Have to find another partner, now.’ A summer-weight business suit and a dark tie; hair slightly shorter than the fashion; a completely typical and nearly faceless Bay Street type, although the shirt was cheap and the shoes too old. Now he acted as if he just wanted to get away, as if the funeral had been a duty of the worst kind.
Salter asked him, ‘Who am I talking to, sir?’
The other man stopped walking away from him backwards, and contented himself with continually looking around him as if waiting for a car to pick him up. ‘Bailey,’ he said. ‘Arthur Bailey. I’m called Bill, because of the song.’
‘And you were his squash partner?’
‘That’s right. He played some other people, though. Me, mostly, I guess.’
Bailey was in an agony to be gone, and out of the corner of his eye, Salter noticed the young girl in the back row, saying goodbye to Pollock and Marika Tils. He said, ‘This is a difficult time, Mr Bailey. Perhaps I could come and find you tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know anything about him, Inspector. I don’t even know what his wife looks like. I just played squash with him.’
‘In a situation like this, it helps to know as much as possible about the victim. Perhaps you can tell me why he was suddenly addicted to squash, Mr Bailey. Where can I find you?’
The man looked wretched. ‘At the squash club, at four, before my game?’ he suggested. ‘I may be late. I have to go to our plant at Oakville tomorrow.’
The girl seemed to be saying goodbye. ‘Perfect,’ Salter said. ‘I wanted to get a look at the club. Where shall I wait for you?’
‘In the lounge.’ Bailey was now moving backwards again.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.’ Salter turned and swooped down on the girl just as she was starting away. ‘Excuse me, miss, could I have a word?’
Professor Pollock crossed the sidewalk and introduced them. ‘Molly Tripp, one of Summers’s students, Inspector Salter.’
Thank you very much, Salter thought. Now bugger off.
Pollock did a bit of pipe-puffing before he realized that Salter was waiting for him to go. Eventually he made the best of it by inviting the girl to drop by for coffee at any time, and left them alone.
She had shed some tears, but was in control of herself. ‘What do you want me for, Inspector?’
‘I’m trying to find out all about Professor Summers, miss. You are the first student I’ve been able to find. What about some coffee?’
‘I need something.’ She looked at the tavern. ‘I’d sooner have a beer.’
Salter led the way in.
‘You must have felt pretty strongly about Professor Summers,’ Salter began when the beer came.
The girl unbuttoned her raincoat and pulled her arms free. Underneath she was wearing a grey sweater and a dark skirt. Her hair was curly and seemed uncombed. ‘I will miss him,’ she said. ‘He showed me things, and he liked me.’
‘A great teacher?’
‘No. Some of the students didn’t like him. I did, though, and some others.’
‘Why?’
‘I liked the way he got excited over poetry, especially Romantic poetry. It was from him I realized that poetry is written in a different language, not just prose with rhymes. A lot of people already knew that, I guess, but