‘I have talked to everyone in the area, Charlie. They remember him in the bars, but that’s all. I think I’ve talked to every known character who was in Les Jardins du Paradis when Summers was there, but I can’t smell anything.’
‘The hotel staff remember anything?’
‘I question them every day, just for practice, and to see if they start remembering. Nothing. Why don’t you come down and try it yourself?’
‘It’s your turf, Onree,’ Salter said, but thinking, Why don’t I?
‘My what?’ O’Brien asked.
‘Your turf. Your manor,’ Salter explained.
‘Ah yes. Mon fief.’
‘I guess so. Onree, I’ve had a thought. Maybe I will come down. Not to help you out, but just to get a feel of what happened on Friday night. When are you free?’
‘Monday would be good.’
‘Perfect. I’ll come down on the afternoon train.’
‘I’ll meet you, Charlie. Look for me.’
At 3.30 Salter left for the squash club.
Salter was aware of the new concern for health which had filled the streets of Toronto with men and women trotting about in shorts, and had created an industry devoted to selling fitness. One of the products of this concern was the huge growth of racquet sports, especially squash. Annie had suggested to him more than once that it was a sport that might answer his own need for exercise. Salter watched his growing belly, and listened to himself puff up the stairs, and toyed with the idea, but his overwhelming concern not to look, sound, or feel a fool under any circumstances had kept him from enquiring further. Now he had an official reason to look inside one of the new clubs and he was looking forward to satisfying his personal curiosity.
The Simcoe Squash Club is on the edge of Toronto’s downtown shopping district, which is also Toronto’s business district. The location makes it ideal for the man or woman who wants a game on his way to or from work, and it is at its busiest in the early morning, the late afternoon, and at lunch-time. It is housed in a converted warehouse, and Salter found it easily, at a few minutes before four, by following the trickle of men with athletic bags who were converging on the large brick building.
A girl seated at the desk inside the door was checking off members as they arrived, confirming bookings in a ledger and taking money. Salter did not introduce himself officially, saying merely, ‘I’m meeting Mr Bailey here. He’s a member.’
She nodded, and picked up the phone at the same time. ‘If you follow those guys—Hi, Joe, that was a real wingding last night—down the stairs—Just a minute, “Hello, Simcoe Squash Club”—hang on, Mary Lou, I’ve gotta talk to you—Gerry! How are you?—through into the lounge—hang on a second—no, sir, all booked at four-forty—don’t go away, Mary Lou—you could get a cup of coffee and—WAIT, Mary Lou—OK? He’ll see you when he comes in. OK?—now listen, Mary Lou, you know what happened last night?—’
Salter picked out the bits of this that were his and followed the crowd into a large area full of tables and chairs. The crowd disappeared, one by one, through a door in the far corner, and Salter found himself a seat and looked around. Half a dozen pairs of members dressed in shorts and looking more or less exhausted and sweaty were drinking beer. Most of them were in their twenties, but one pair was white-haired and ten years older than Salter. One wall of the lounge was made of glass and formed the back wall of a pair of courts. A game was in progress on one of the courts, and Salter tried to follow it. The players leapt and ran, hitting the ball alternately, sometimes seven or eight times, before one of the players missed. Salter couldn’t follow the ball and instead concentrated on the players, marvelling at the way they ran round each other, never crashing into each other, rarely touching. As he watched, one of them dived to retrieve a ball low against the wall and smashed his racquet in two. It looked like an expensive game. Would he be able to play it? Salter had been a mediocre though enthusiastic athlete in his youth, reduced in the last few years to golf, and not much of that. He had left behind all team sports, he hated the idea of jogging, and his attention span for formal calisthenics was about a minute. In fact, apart from golf, he hardly exercised at all, which is to say for about nine months of the year. He felt the need. This game looked as though it might provide the answer—half an hour of competitive frenzy leading to renewed fitness or a heart attack.
‘Are you a member, sir?’
The young athlete standing beside him in squash gear was obviously an official of some sort.
Salter decided on a touch of rudeness. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m the club pro, sir. In the afternoons I’m also the manager. Can I help you?’
‘I’m waiting for Mr Bailey.’
‘Oh yes. Old Bill. Mind if I sit down?’ The pro pulled out a chair. ‘You thinking of joining?’
‘I’m not thinking of anything right now, Mister . . . ?’
‘Larry.’
‘Right now, Larry, I’m watching these two, and waiting for Old Bill.’
‘Do you play yourself, Mr . . . ?’
‘Salter, Charlie Salter.’
‘Do you play, Charlie?’
Salter continued to be offended by this boy with dark ringlets cascading down his back, how putting himself on first name terms without permission, but the pro’s easy manner, like that of a new wave priest, disconcerted him.
‘No. I’ve never even seen the game until today.’
‘Like me to explain it?’
No. Why? ‘Yes,’ he said.
Larry outlined the objectives of the game, the elementary strategies employed, and then supplied a brief commentary on the game in progress. Salter was intrigued. The pro said, ‘Like to have a go?’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not dressed for it.’
‘I can fix that. We have cupboards full of stuff that’s been left behind in the washing machines. All clean. Shoes, too. I’ll find you a racquet.’
‘No. Some other time maybe.’
‘Tomorrow? Come down in the afternoon. I’ll give you a lesson. Show you around.’
‘Why?’
‘If you like it you might become a member. I get a commission on everyone I sign up.’
‘No secrets with you, are there, Larry? What does it cost?’
‘I won’t charge you anything for tomorrow.’
‘I know that. I mean this place, a year.’
‘Three hundred the first year. Two hundred after that.’
‘And the cost of each game?’
‘The courts are free except between eleven-thirty and one-thirty, and after four. If you played during the day it wouldn’t cost you anything.’
‘Who would I play?’
‘No problem. Lots of people looking for a game.’
‘My age?’ Salter asked shyly.
‘Our oldest member is seventy-two. We have lots of members in their fifties and sixties.’
‘I’m forty-six.’
‘No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, about three.’
‘What?