Desperate Acts Read online

  “But . . . but that’s mine,” Brodie gasped. “I must’ve left it in the alley.”

  ***

  Gussie had been sent home to the tender mercies of his hen-pecking wife. Cobb, Sturges and Brodie were sitting in the Chief’s office, lit only by a single, flickering candle.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Brodie said for the fifth time.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute, son,” Sturges said. “First, I need to know all the other facts. Cobb, did you find out who this fellow was?”

  “I did. I didn’t know him myself, though I’m sure I’ve seen him here and there in the taverns about town. His face wasn’t crushed, only the back of his skull. I saw the mark on his cheek where Brodie says he hit him.”

  “Someone in The Sailor’s Arms would know him, then?”

  “Right. That’s what I figured. I tucked the shillelagh under his coat – I didn’t want anybody slippin’ away with it – an’ went around to the taproom.”

  “The Shakespeare gents had all cleared out?” Sturges said, recalling the comic events of Wednesday last in that upper chamber.

  “No lights up there anyway.”

  “You found Budge, the chap who runs the place?”

  “Yeah, but the bugger said he was too busy tryin’ to keep his booze flowin’ to come out with me. I was about to read him the riot act when the missus says she’ll come out an’ have a gander. She give Budge a dirty look – I figure she gives him plenty of those – an’ followed me out. When we get back there in the alley – nothin’s been disturbed – I see that Nestor Peck’s been bringin’ up our rear.”

  “Nestor?”

  “Seems he was workin’ at the taproom tonight. The girl Etta was sick.”

  “Some help he’d be.”

  “Turned out he was more’n a help. He knew right off who the dead bugger was.”

  Brodie leaned forward. “Who was it?”

  “Chap named Albert Duggan, his so-called cousin from Montreal. They been livin’ together at the far end of town in the old Mulligan cottage beside the hatchery.”

  Sturges looked at Brodie.

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Gillian Budge told me she’d seen Duggan in the taproom once or twice before,” Cobb said. “Last week he made a pass or somethin’ at young Etta Hogg, an’ Budge threw him out.”

  “Sounds like a fine fellow all ‘round,” Sturges said.

  “We found a paper parcel, half-opened, near the body.”

  “Did you send fer Dr. Withers?”

  “I sent Nestor off to fetch him. He seemed terribly shook up by what he saw. But he did manage to find the coroner. Didn’t come back with him, though! As soon as Angus come, I showed him the walkin’-stick. By then somebody had lassoed Phil Rossiter from his patrol, and I left him there to guard the area till the body can be taken to the surgery. Then I come straight here.”

  “There’s no doubt Duggan’s death was due to blows from Brodie’s cane?”

  “None, I’m afraid. Angus looked at the bloody knob, an’ told me to bring it here as evidence. He said the fella’d been hit at least twice on the back of the skull.”

  “I only struck him once, on the cheek,” Brodie said.

  Sturges sighed. He needed a smoke badly, but his pipe was in the other room and he had to think now, quickly. “Cobb an’ me know you, Brodie. We’re inclined to believe you. The question of the moment, though, is what Magistrate Thorpe will believe. On the face of it, it looks bad. You’ve admitted, in writing, that you an’ Duggan had a rendezvous in that alley, an’ you rigged up a trap fer him, an’ bearded him, punched him unconscious, an’ took off, leavin’ yer cane behind. You also had a good reason to want the fella dealt with – one way or another.”

  “But I confessed to the crime I did commit,” Brodie protested, “not murder.”

  “Thorpe may see that as a clever ploy on your part. You’re a very clever young man.”

  “But I didn’t kill him! I abhor violence.”

  “Why don’t we think about who else might’ve done it?” Cobb said, moving easily into the role of investigator.

  “Good idea.”

  “Let’s say that Brodie did exactly what this awful-davit says he did,” Cobb said, holding up the signed statement he had given a quick read. “He leaves the club before the others to deposit the fake money in the ashcan. The other gents in the club are still upstairs. I was up there myself last week – as everybody now knows – and I spotted a window in the coatroom at the back. It overlooks the alley.”

  “You think one of the club members might’ve seen me knock Duggan out?” Brodie said, perking up.

  “It’s possible. You circled the block an’ waited ten minutes or more to surprise the blackmailer. By then one or more of them gents could’ve been in the coatroom ready to leave.”

  “Most of them do go out the back way – to avoid the taproom,” Brodie added.

  “An’ may’ve seen you scuttlin’ off up the alley – with yer silvery cane layin’ down there winkin’ in the moonlight.”

  “Then sneaked out there an’ beat Duggan to death,” Sturges said.

  Brodie looked stunned, but said nothing.

  “Right,” Cobb said. “Or it coulda been some bum or roustabout scourin’ the back alleys an’ comin’ upon Duggan,” Cobb said. “Duggan was dressed like a gentleman, so a little robbery might’ve been temptin’, eh? Duggan feels somebody gropin’ at his pockets, wakes up, an’ gets his head bashed in fer his trouble.”

  “Wouldn’t a thief have ripped open that parcel?” Sturges said reluctantly.

  Cobb sighed. “If he saw it, I guess. Still, we found no wallet or purse on Duggan.”

  “Well, if it was robbery,” Sturges said, “then our chances of findin’ the culprit are slim.”

  “I got my snitches,” Cobb said. “Includin’ Nestor, who’s gonna need talkin’ to.”

  “Alright, then,” Sturges said. “We now got a couple of directions to go in if we’re to find out who killed Duggan.”

  “God, I hope you can,” Brodie said. “I know I didn’t do it.” He was beginning to have some doubts about the law always being the law.

  “Cobb, I want you off yer patrol fer a few days. You’ll need to go back to the The Sailor’s Arms in the mornin’ an’ snoop about. If Duggan lived with Nestor, a visit to the stone-cottage is in order. Maybe Nestor knows who might’ve had reason to kill his cousin.”

  “Well,” Cobb said, “the bugger was a blackmailer. We do know that.”

  “I wish you had kept that note,” Sturges said to Brodie.

  Brodie gave Sturges a strange look. He was regretting his failure to mention the second note in his statement, the one that had come to light just minutes before Brodie had left for the club. “I wish I had, too,” he said.

  “So what do we do right now?” Cobb said.

  “It’s too late to rouse Magistrate Thorpe,” Sturges said. “Brodie, I want your word that you’ll appear promptly at nine o’clock in James Thorpe’s chambers. I’ll present the evidence we have in hand and outline our other lines of inquiry. What happens then is up to him.”

  “It looks as if I’ll need a lawyer,” Brodie said.

  “You will, son. And a damn good one.”

  No-one in the room had any doubt as to who that might be.

  ***

  Brodie arrived at Briar Cottage at eight o’clock the next morning. By eight-thirty he and Marc were walking briskly along King Street towards the Court House. Beth had left Charlene to mind Maggie while she headed up Sherbourne Street to see what comfort she could bring Celia, who was understandably upset and anxious for her brother. As they walked, Brodie filled in those details of last night’s events that he had not had time to mention in the cottage, where he had received Marc’s assurance that he would be properly represented by legal counsel. Marc had stopped short of officially agreeing to represent Brodie, in part because he felt obligated to Robert and the Union Bill cause and in pa
rt because he expected Brodie would not be charged on the basis of the evidence thus far.

  “So you tore up the extortion note?” Marc said as they approached Jarvis Street.

  “Wouldn’t you? It was vile and libellous.”

  “If we did have it, I could prove to James Thorpe that this Duggan was a serious criminal and offered extreme provocation. He did strike you in the thigh, you say?”

  “Yes. But that was not the reason I struck out. I didn’t even bother to mention it in my statement.”

  “That may have been unwise. This Duggan sounds like a dangerous character. You say that Cobb indicated, before they released you, that Duggan was involved in a fracas last week at The Sailor’s Arms?”

  “Yes. I saw it myself, and Mrs. Budge told Cobb about it after she saw Duggan’s body in the alley. She didn’t know his name, though, till Nestor Peck identified him as his cousin.”

  “There’s something very strange about that. Nestor’s been a loner for years.”

  “Chief Sturges is going to send Cobb out to talk to him, and do some further investigating.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t have to – at least as far as you’re concerned.”

  ***

  “Wilf here brought over these sworn statements and notes about an hour ago,” James Thorpe was saying. “I’ve had a chance to read through them and to question the chief and the constable about points that needed clarifying. In addition I have in hand Dr. Withers’ report. Mr. Edwards has had ten minutes to peruse the documents on behalf of Mr. Langford. I take it then that we are ready to begin.”

  Marc did not like the expression on the magistrate’s face. It was the look he got when the duty he felt bound to perform was truly painful. The interested parties were seated before him in his comfortable chamber at the rear of the Court House.

  “We have Mr. Langford’s admission that he had a strong motive to silence Albert Duggan, that he lost his temper and knocked the fellow senseless. His own walking-stick was used to club Duggan to death – two vicious blows that caved the back of his skull in. Unless Mr. Langford is willing to retract his statement or materially alter it, I do not see why he should not be detained as the most probable perpetrator of the crime.”

  “But, sir, as I understand it,” Marc said quietly, “there was a fifteen- or twenty-minute gap between the time Mr. Langford fled the scene and the arrival of Constable Cobb there. If Mr. Langford’s statement is the truth, then someone else could have come upon the unconscious Duggan and, for reasons yet to be determined, picked up the abandoned walking-stick and finished him off.”

  “And why, even if they should by incredible happenstance come upon the prone fellow, would they have reason to kill him?”

  “An attempted robbery perhaps. With Duggan coming awake and trying to thwart it.”

  “Pretty far-fetched, Marc.”

  “It’s possible also that one or more of the members of the Shakespeare Club was coming down the back stairs during that critical twenty minutes, and got curious.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Thorpe said. Although fair-minded and strict in his judicial role, Thorpe was also a high Tory and protective of those who mattered. “What possible contact would any of those gentlemen, fine citizens all, have with the likes of Duggan, a drifter from Quebec, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “I’m not suggesting they were involved in any way, sir. But they may have seen or heard something that will help exonerate Mr. Langford. For example, if one of them, while leaving through the cloakroom, saw Brodie strike Duggan on the cheek and flee up the alley, without bludgeoning him, then that would be critical testimony, would it not?”

  Thorpe rubbed his chin. “I agree.” Looking somewhat relieved, he said, “So this is what I propose to do. Before I go to the Attorney-General, I’ll ask you, Wilf, to seek out corroborating or exculpatory witnesses and take their statements. Bring the results back here to me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. In the meantime, I’m going to have to detain Mr. Langford at the jail until that time.”

  “Surely he could be released on bond?” Marc said.

  “We’ll see about that tomorrow,” Thorpe said. The meeting was over.

  Ten minutes later, Calvin Strangway the jailor took Brodie Langford by the arm and led him towards the tunnel that linked the Court House and jail.

  “Jesus,” Cobb said, “I don’t like the looks of this.”

  “Me neither,” Marc said.

  SEVEN

  Marc joined Sturges and Cobb as they walked down Church Street towards City Hall.

  “Cobb, I want you to track down any possible witnesses today an’ report to me by seven o’clock. I’ll have Gussie lined up to take notes or prepare affidavits.”

  “Don’t worry, Sarge. There’s no way Brodie clubbed a fella to death in cold blood. I’ll find the bugger that did it, an’ when I do, he’ll be lucky if I don’t do the same to him.”

  “I’m heartened to see you take investigating seriously,” Marc said to his long-time associate in such work. “Deadly serious.”

  “I’d advise you to let the hangman take care of the killer,” Sturges said to Cobb. Then he turned to Marc. “But if you’re gonna be Brodie’s lawyer, you can’t be headin’ out with Cobb to do the interrogatin’. It’s now a police matter.” This last remark was uttered with a sigh of disappointment. Sturges had absolute faith in Marc’s ability to ferret out the most cunning of murderers.

  “That may be so, Sarge. But if Marc was to do some of his own private investigatin’ an’ we was to bump into one another whilst on the job, so to speak, it’d be silly to pretend we weren’t in the same place, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, Brodie hasn’t been formally charged,” Sturges said as they turned onto Front Street. “But I want you two to be discreet, eh?”

  “Tack-full, ya mean?” Cobb said.

  “You know you can trust me,” Marc said.

  “And I do, Marc. But you’ve got to promise me here and now that if you learn anythin’ important – anythin’ – you’ll not hold back on us.”

  “Agreed,” Marc said, “unless Brodie is formally charged and I take him on as a client. After that, of course, I’ll play the lawyer – by the book.”

  Sturges left them to return to the police quarters. Cobb had already decided to begin his investigative effort at The Sailor’s Arms. Thursday morning was one of Nestor’s regular workdays, and both the Budges were on Cobb’s list of material witnesses. And if Duggan really did live with Nestor, the stone-cottage beside the hatchery would need a thorough going-over.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Robert and Francis Hincks right now,” Marc said when Cobb had revealed his plans. “I’ll need to alert them of my possible prolonged involvement with Brodie.”

  “An’ you could corner Miss Ramsay an’ deliver the bad news. I figure Brodie could use a little friendly company before the day’s out.”

  “I intend to do that, certainly. But this business couldn’t have come at a worse time for me.”

  “Is there a good time to be accused of murder?”

  “Parliament is due to open in two weeks or so, and the new governor is relying on Robert’s crew for almost daily advice on how to manage the dozen moderate Tories we’ve targeted to support the Union Bill in the Assembly.”

  “Without lettin’ on you’re doin’ so,” Cobb added – to Marc’s surprise, for Cobb portrayed himself as blissfully uninformed about the machinations of politicians, even ones he liked and agreed with.

  “Yes. We’ve been meeting secretly, at least we hope we have.”

  “Well, I’m gonna find myself at Nestor’s cottage about eleven o’clock. If you happen to be in the vice-inity, you could join me in searchin’ that dark an’ depressin’ hovel.”

  “I’ll be there,” Marc said. “And I’ll bring the lantern.”

  ***

  When Cobb arrived at The Sailor’s Arms, he was not surprised to find it shuttered. While there were no regular or regulated hours
for public houses, most of the respectable taprooms opened up sometime after noon on weekdays and observed the sanctity of the Sabbath. He rapped on the thick front door with his truncheon. It was a full minute before he heard footsteps coming along inside, as he was certain they would. He knew how to knock when he wanted an answer.

  Gillian Budge stood in the half-open doorway – leaning on a mop, with a bandana looped about her sandy curls. Her green eyes were flashing. “What do you want, Cobb? It’s two hours before we – ”

  “You ain’t forgot about last night already, have ya?” he said.

  She adjusted the scowl on her face sufficiently to say, “Oh, that. You haven’t caught the culprit, then?”

  “I need to ask ya some questions about what happened, that’s all.” He regretted the somewhat pleading tone in his voice, but Gillian Budge had that effect on people.

  “Alright, if you must. C’mon inside, if you can make your way through the rubbish and spit.”

  Cobb followed her in. The taproom was cold and dark, lit only by two candles in sconces over the bar and beams of sunlight slanting in through the front windows at a sharp angle. The tables and chairs were all askew, several of the latter tipped over, one of them broken beyond repair.

  “A typical soirée at The Sailor’s Arms,” Gillian said, and almost smiled.

  “I thought I’d find Nestor here. He told me he comes in to help clean up on Thursday mornin’s.”

  “He hasn’t showed,” she said, revisiting the scowl. “I waited as long as I could, then I started in on this mess myself.” She gave the mop a push and it skidded along the slate floor until it struck a pail beside the main stairs.

  “You got a husband, ain’t ya?”

  She seemed amused by this remark, and gave Cobb a rare view of the ironic glint in her very attractive green eyes. Then she frowned and snorted, “That’s what the preacher called him when I was foolish enough to say ‘I will.’ But he’s not here, as usual when there’s elbow grease required.”

  “Off to town, is he?”

  “On a mission of mercy,” she said with scathing sarcasm. “Our barmaid Etta took sick last night – the third time in a week – and he’s gone to the Market to see if he can find some girl who’d rather have her bottom pinched in here than spend a cold day fondling pumpkin-squash.”