Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

“It was a badly run show from start to finish. Lots of fights and rows. The leader’s body was exhumed from the permafrost nearly one hundred years later. It was perfectly preserved, of course. The body proved to be full of arsenic. Now there’s a puzzle for your enquiring mind, Ben.”

“In history, everybody was poisoned by arsenic,” I said, remembering something from a few years ago. “Take Napoleon.”

“Yes! A very interesting case!” said Hamp, shortly before Peggy excused herself to walk down to see the falls before the light was gone. That killed it. And about time too. There is something about Napoleon that either turns you on or turns you off. There’s no middle ground. We got up after a few minutes and, at a distance, followed Peggy down the steep and twisting path to the river. On the way, he quizzed me about the investigation. I talked as we walked.

“A vexing case, I’d say,” Hamp said, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. “A veritable three-pipe problem.”

“Excuse me?” Hamp waved his hand to show that it wasn’t important.

“May I ask who keeps you informed, Hamp?” I was tempted to call him “mister,” since the familiarity, which worked quite well with dinner, had now hardened into the old routine of my being professionally nosey.

“Ted Thornhill is my main source, but there are others too. I’d prefer to keep their names to myself, if you don’t mind. Unless it becomes important later on, I mean.”

“Not at all. Can you tell me how Vanessa Moss came to NTC? She seems to have collected a number of business rivals and, well, enemies since she arrived. I don’t know whether any of them would try to advance himself over her dead body or try to remove her opposition to dividing up her empire.”

“You think that her enemies are that dedicated?”

“Well, at least one of them could be. As you know, someone shot and killed Renata Sartori. She was staying in Vanessa’s house, wearing her dressing gown.”

“Yes, I see. I see. I don’t know quite what to say to you, Benny. I first heard of Vanessa Moss a little over a year ago. She was still with CBC then. Her name came up twice in two separate meetings. Same day. I mentioned this to Ted Thornhill as a curiosity. Nothing more. A few weeks later, I heard from Ted that he was negotiating with the CBC to buy up her remaining contract.”

“I know you’re not kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Ted should have been warned by the eagerness with which the CBC entered into negotiations. I try not to meddle at that level. People learn from their mistakes. Perhaps I’m a teacher at heart. Although what I could teach Ted Thornhill about bad decisions is moot.”

“Why do you keep him on, then?”

“He is just that much better than his nearest rival. I swallow his imperfections. He’ll do until another comes along. People are so ambitious, Benny, they unmask themselves. No eighteenth-century French court official ever got more mail from the colonies than I get from ambitious time-servers at NTC. I hear about their rivals’ stupidity, their duplicity, their petty dishonesties, their ignorance. Oh, don’t get me started. I am sometimes forced to promote liars and swindlers to high positions, Benny, simply because the alternatives are even more disastrous. I’ll leave you to imagine the rest.”

We had come to the riverbank, where the Muskoka River ran swift and black in front of us. Peggy had walked to her left, upstream and under a series of high bridges that criss-crossed the river at the waterfall. The sinking sun caught Peggy’s silhouette as she traced the edge of the stream back to the falls, which could now be heard more and more clearly.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Hamp Fisher said out loud.

I wasn’t sure whether it was meant for my ears or not. I took a chance: “Yes, I’ve always thought so.”

Sunday

For the rest of the weekend, I was content with my view of Lake Muskoka from the hammock at Norchris Lodge. I finished reading the Dermot Keogh biography, which left me with a clearer notion of the man. It reminded me that if I wanted to know more about him, I could catch his posthumous doings on the Internet. I made a mental note. In the hammock with my toes lined up against the view of pines and birches, that seemed like enough work for one day.

In front of the fireplace in the lodge on Sunday evening, I had been reading up on the history of Muskoka, the Muskoka Lakes, the summer cottages of the Lakes. There was a book about poisonous mushrooms that tempted me. I saw myself becoming the only private investigator in the Niagara Peninsula who could detect mushroom poisoning. Norma invited me to look into the photo albums for pictures of summers gone by. Judging by the smiling faces, I’d been misspending my summers for some decades. Norma told me that Chris, her husband, was on a fishing trip with his brother. When I’d finished with the albums, I returned to the mushrooms. By the time I was ready to go to sleep I could tell an Amanita phalloides from an Amanita verna . It’s a start.

Monday

I heard the city beckoning. I knew that should Vanessa return from Los Angeles early, she would expect to find me on hand to defend her against sudden death in whatever form it took. While thanking the McArthurs and paying for my short stay at Norchris Lodge, I got directions to the hospital in Bracebridge. I headed there after a bite of breakfast in town at a Chinese-Canadian restaurant, where I tried to memorize the creatures of the Chinese zodiac from a paper placemat.

The hospital was small, but busy. Orderlies, nurses and doctors were running through the halls as though they were on film that was being played at the wrong speed. The calm centre in all this was a woman in a crocheted sweater behind a glass marked “Information.”

“Why is everyone running around this morning?” I asked. “Has there been a big accident on the highway?”

“Welcome to the New Ontario,” she said with a mock grin. “We practise no-frills medicine these days. What may I help you with?” I told her and she looked up the room number. “Mr. Patel’s a pet,” she added. “Doesn’t get many visitors since Alma died.”

“His wife?” Then I remembered.

“Alma tried, but Ed could never see anyone after Lilly passed on. Alma ran his office and bought his neckties. Down the hall to your left and then turn right beside the stairs.”

I followed these instructions to the letter and came out in a small cafeteria. Reversing engines, I got back to the main corridor and asked an orderly for the room I wanted. This time I ended up in a new wing that had been attached to the main building as an afterthought. I walked past the nursing station and entered the small room, trying to decide which of the four men in the room was Ed Patel. I decided that the grey-faced skeletal figure by the window was the best candidate. The name, posted in masking tape to the wall behind him, confirmed my diagnosis. He was dozing over a copy of National Geographic balanced on his blue hospital gown. I saw that it was open to a picture of Lawrence of Arabia dressed in his flowing Arab costume. Ed Patel opened one eye and stared at me. Then his other eye opened, and they both examined me for a full thirty seconds. The magazine slipped from his chest to the edge of the bed and then to the floor.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he said. “Which agency sent you? Are you Community Care or Centra? I told them I can’t go home yet. My house’s been sold and the apartment’s still unfurnished.”

“I’m not from any agency, Mr. Patel. I’m just a visitor.”

“What church sent you? I don’t hold with churches nowadays. I’ve tried them all.”