Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

“Why not?”

“There’s no sign of struggle. The arms were not even raised in self-defence. If one of the gambling thugs did this, would he take a chance on walking right up to Badger in the dark before shooting him? Would you come within a yard of those grappling arms? The fellow was a bruiser, remember. And he had been on the run for almost two days, wary and desperate. Would he let a stranger accost him in the middle of the night?”

“You’re sayin’ he was shot by somebody he knew and wasn’t ascaired of?”

“I am. No other explanation fits the facts.”

“Okay, I’ll give ya that, Major. But let’s say Burly Bettman or some other henchman decides to bribe one of Badger’s cronies to do him in?”

“Now that’s a real possibility, though it’s hard to fathom how anyone would know where he could find Badger. However, if it comes down to that, I guess you and your fellow constables are the best people to handle the investigation.”

“Well now, I ain’t lookin’ fer work,” Cobb said with a grin. Then he pursed his lips. “What’d’ya think that bulge is in his shirt pocket?”

“Don’t disturb anything until the doctor’s had his turn,” Marc said, as Cobb knelt down beside the body.

“I’ll be real careful.” Cobb slid two fingers into the vest pocket of Badger’s shirt and drew out a familiar object.

Marc whistled. “A key.”

“And I’ll bet my wife’s bloomers what lock it’ll fit inta.”

Marc tried to keep his hopes from rising inordinately. It had been a day of disappointment. “So Mrs. Burgess was right: Badger did steal the key to the hatch.”

“Which don’t mean he used it.”

“I realize that. But this definitely makes Badger our prime suspect once again.”

“Maybe somebody in Irishtown suspected the same thing and decided to save us the price of a rope.”

Cobb stared at the fallen giant, awed by his vulnerability despite his size. “Looks like he’s been sleepin’ rough,” he said. “Them burrs and bits of hay on his shirt front didn’t get there from the tumble he took inta the ditch.”

“And what’s this?” Marc said, noticing for the first time something white and crisp sticking out of the side pocket of Badger’s overalls.

“Better not touch the body, Major.”

Marc ignored the dig and pulled out into the mid-afternoon light a single sheet of notepaper, its elaborate watermark clearly visible.

“What is it?” Cobb asked, coming around to Marc.

“What I’ve been looking for since Tuesday morning,” he said. He passed the handwritten note to Cobb.

Tuesday, 2 p.m.

Badger:

Here is the 30 dollars you requested. My advice is to leave the city and all its temptations.

Sincerely,

Alasdair Hepburn

Cobb’s eyes widened. “By golly, Major, I think you’ve got him.”

Marc was patting the other pockets in the overalls, ignoring his own advice about contaminating the crime scene. There was too much at stake to fuss over protocol. “There’s a wad of something in this rear pocket. I’ll wager it’s thirty dollars’ worth of blood money.”

“This sure wasn’t no robbery, then,” Cobb opined, “and I can’t see any of the thugs up here shootin’ him and not goin’ through his pockets.”

“This looks more and more like the work of a quick-strike, paid assassin, somebody who knew exactly where to find his target. And I know who put him up to it.”

“Where ya goin?” Cobb called, as Marc sprinted up to the path and startled Wilkie, who was dozing on his feet like a sun-drugged horse.

“To bring a blackguard to heel,” Marc said, and disappeared down Jarvis.

When Una Badger answered his knock, Marc drew her quietly onto the stoop and, as he had promised, gave her the news that her brother had been found shot to death. Having braced herself for just such an eventuality, she accepted the news with stoic resignation. After a moment to collect herself, she thanked Marc, and then followed his advice that she go directly to the police station to wait for more details. She naturally assumed that one of Badger’s cronies had done the deed, and Marc did not disabuse her, even though he now knew the matter to be less straightforward and more sinister. But the sight of that brave, grieving woman gave him added incentive to do what had to be done. He entered the home of Alasdair Hepburn with all the tact of an outraged bailiff, striding the short distance to the door of the “whist club’s” lair and flinging it open.

Hepburn was sitting alone at the card-table. He looked startled for an instant, but as soon as he saw who it was, he gave Marc a grimacing little smile and rose halfway in his chair. “Miss Badger usually does that,” he said with a glance at the open door.

“Miss Badger had to go to the Court House on an urgent family matter,” Marc said, annoyed that he suddenly found himself short of breath. “I took the liberty of showing myself in.”

Hepburn raised his brow slightly and said amiably enough, “So I see.” Evidently he had no inkling of what was to come, which suited Marc just fine. “Well, now that you’re fully in, please take a seat. Miss Badger said you had called earlier.”

“I prefer to stand for what I have come to say.”

“As you wish. As one of His Lordship’s amanuenses, I presume you’re here on some errand relating to the commissioner’s agenda here in Toronto?”

Marc bristled at the barb but decided to maintain his post on the moral high ground. “I am here representing both His Lordship and the Toronto constabulary.”

The banker’s brow again lifted a single notch. “Indeed. Then you have my undivided attention, for I hold both offices in high regard.”

“Do you?”

“Is that a question, sir, or an accusation?”

Marc ignored the riposte. “I have come here to ask you some questions in regard to the events of Monday evening and early Tuesday morning, and I demand-in the name of His Lordship, the governor of the Canadas-that you give me straightforward and truthful answers.” With a sinking feeling, Marc realized that he should have brought Cobb with him, for even if he compelled incriminating testimony from Hepburn, he would have no witness to it, and it could all be retracted and contradicted after the fact.

“I have never been known to do otherwise, young man, though I would appreciate your putting your queries with a more courteous tongue.”

“I’m not seeking a mortgage!” Marc snapped.

“You may thank your lucky stars for that.” Hepburn calmly opened a humidor beside him. “Would you care for a cigar?”

“No, thank you.” Marc began to feel a tad ridiculous standing in front of the card-strewn whist table while the accused sat peacefully in his favourite armchair. “Now, about the events of Monday evening.”

“I assume you are referring to the unfortunate death of a whore somewhere in Irishtown.”

“How do you know about that?”

“My wife told me. It’s the talk of the town, apparently. You see, we don’t often have murders of any kind here in Toronto-unlike London.” He gave Marc the practised, pecuniary smile of a self-satisfied banker. “But I fail to see how I may have anything to contribute to your investigation, if that is what you are about.”

“I intend, sir, to show you exactly how you did contribute to the death of Sarah McConkey.”

“Then please, proceed. You have me intrigued.” Hepburn reached for his tinderbox. “Do you mind if I smoke while you talk?”

“Let me start with the fact that, according to Mrs. Hepburn, you and she were driven, alone, out to Spadina.”

“That is true and is our usual custom on such occasions.”