‘What did he mean?’
‘I haven’t found out yet.’
‘Uh. So someone sees a party of profs, a bit pissed, our man throwing his money about, at a tit-show, you say?’ Orliff smiled companionably at Salter. ‘As one middle-aged man to another, being middle-aged, the young girls get him going, so he dumps his friends and finds himself a hooker. Not so hard because she has already got him picked out and is waiting for the nod, maybe already arranged while his friends weren’t looking. Back at the hotel he gets undressed, they have a drink, the boy-friend arrives. Our man objects—maybe threatens to call the police—you never know—and all hands panic. Boyfriend clobbers him, then the real panic. That it?’
‘I expect so, sir. Something like that.’
‘What’s the problem with it?’ There was no aggression in the Superintendent’s voice. If there was a problem he didn’t want Salter to make a fool of himself.
‘I’m not happy with it yet. There’s something screwy. He’d drunk too much. As one middle-aged man to another, sir, he wanted his bed.’
‘He was a professor. Maybe they can keep going longer.’ Orliff smiled to show he was joking.
‘Nobody at the hotel saw a whore, sir.’
‘Like I say, he was a professor. Cunning. He would have slipped her past them, all right.’
‘Even drunk?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s possible, sir, but it’s got no life in it. It lacks verisimilitude.’
‘Say that again.’
‘Verisimilitude, sir. It means believability.’
‘Does it, by Christ. You mean it may be true, but it won’t play?’
‘Well, yes, but in this case I think that means it may not be true.’
‘It sounds likely to me,’ Orliff said agreeably.
‘It’s probably true, but . . .’
‘Now what?’
‘I’m just trying to put myself in this man’s shoes. Here I am in Montreal, feeling good because I’ve just had a stroke of luck—any kind, but it probably involves money because I’m taking the boys out for dinner, a hundred and thirty dollars’ worth. (My guess is that professors are a tight lot.) So, I’ve drunk a fair amount and I feel good, all the time I’m thinking about my luck, whatever it is. Would I feel like a whore? Right then and there? I don’t think so. I think Summers just went home in a cab.’
‘I see—psychology. After a big win at the track you feel like celebrating, not screwing.’
‘More or less, sir, yes.’
‘I don’t know, Salter. I’ve never won a lot of money. Tit-shows make me horny, don’t they you? They are supposed to.’
‘Well, yes, sir, and I expect they made the others feel that way, which is why they are all suggesting that Summers must have picked up a whore. But . . .’
‘All right, all right. So what’s your theory?’
‘If there was a whore, sir, I think it would happen later, after he’d climbed down a bit from his high. He would have had to use the bell-boy—he wouldn’t know any call-girls in Montreal, or anywhere else. And O’Brien says the hotel staff swear they saw and heard nothing like that.’
‘The bell-boy is lying,’ Orliff offered.
Salter felt all the weight of a weary and unintelligible world fall on him. He gave in.
‘All right, sir. I’ll pack it in. I’ll phone O’Brien and tell him that’s it.’
‘No, no. I’m just doing my job. Giving you a hard time. What’s the rest of your alternative theory?’
‘There’s a piece missing somewhere, probably connected with his lucky day. Whoever killed him did it for more money than was in his wallet, or for envy or revenge. He could have told someone what his lucky day was all about.’
‘This guy Dunkley. We’ve got him on file, you say?’
‘He was arrested once for disturbing the peace outside the American Embassy. He’s in most of the protests.’
‘One of them, is he?’ Orliff was mildly interested. It was his strength that he did not feel any enmity towards the citizens who tried to make life difficult for him, the robbers, the rapists, and the civil disobedience crowd. ‘Without them,’ he would say, ‘we wouldn’t have a job, some of us.’ He fingered the report for a few moments. ‘You want to stay on this?’ he asked. ‘We aren’t too busy at the moment.’
And you can always spare me, anyway, thought Salter. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Until I find out more about Summers and his luck.’
‘Many more possibilities?’
‘I haven’t talked to the wife yet. Then there’s this Jane Homer woman. And I have to talk to his pals at the squash club. At least I want a better idea of the man who got killed, and the kind of man who might have killed him.’
‘All right. Don’t spring any surprises on me, though. Keep me in touch.’ Salter got to the door before Orliff spoke again. ‘By the way, this isn’t the dregs. I talked to the Deputy in Montreal. He said O’Brien speaks highly of you, I told our Deputy. He was pleased because we owe Montreal a favour. It wouldn’t do you any harm if this squared the books.’
Salter understood. Just possibly, if he got lucky, he might find himself moving across the desert again, on the way to the fertile land on the other side.
He still had some time before he had to meet Jane Homer, so he paid a rare visit to the canteen for a cup of coffee. The only other occupant was an inspector in the homicide division whom Salter had known slightly in the old days. They, nodded to each other, and Salter sat down at the same table.
‘What are you up to these days, Charlie?’ the detective asked, pleasantly enough. His name was Harry Wycke, and Salter had no real reason to suppose him hostile. They had never crossed each other, and by now most of his old enemies, like his old cronies, rarely bothered him, but he assumed they were all still relishing his demise. Annie said he was paranoiac, to which Salter replied that even the constable in charge of records gave his requests for information a very low priority when he was busy.
‘I’m investigating a murder—in Montreal,’ Salter said.
‘How does that work, then?’
‘A Toronto professor got himself killed in Montreal. I’m helping out at this end.’ Was this a problem? Was he poaching on homicide’s territory?
‘Tough shit. What are you doing, exactly?’
‘I think I’m supposed to be looking for a motive. Just in case there’s someone here who might have done it.’
‘Wife? Lover?’
‘Not the wife. And no lover so far. Someone clobbered him in a hotel room.’
‘Whore, maybe?’
‘Or a pimp. It looks possible, but they left behind a wallet full of money.’
‘They got scared. Did he have any enemies?’
‘That’s what I’m supposed to find out. So far, I haven’t found anyone who looks like a killer.’
‘What do killers look like, Charlie? The ones I know all look different. Couldn’t be a professional, could it?’
‘The mob, you mean. Christ, I don’t think so. He was a professor. Besides, don’t they warn you first, like breaking your legs?’
‘They’ve