There was an Old Woman (23 page)

“Let's try the famous fries again. Are they still the same as they used to be at the corner of Queen and St. Andrew?”

“Ah! You remember the truck, do you? You know, I've still got that truck. Can't make myself throw it away. And why should I? It made me my first dollar. In the end, it made me a millionaire. So I guess I can afford to give it room to rust in, eh? What can I get you to drink?”

“Coffee.” When he brought it, I said: “I don't get this, Mr. Morella.”

“Steve, please.

“Steve.”

“What don't you get?”

“Call me Benny. I don't understand what you're doing here in an apron, up to your elbows in cooking fat. Isn't there a mountain of paperwork on the top floor of the Venezia Block waiting for your signature?”

“Let it wait! Let it wait! This is the important part of my job: talking to you, watching the faces, seeing what people eat and what they leave on their plates, seeing who comes in and who walks along the street to the next place.”

“I see, but—”

“Look, anybody can buy three, four, half a dozen freight cars of potatoes. I've got people working for me who can tell where I should go to get the best deal. But
who have I got to tell me why I should buy them and who am I buying them for?”

“You like a hands-on approach. I can see that that does very well here. But what about your other outlets?”

“‘Outlets': that's the kind of word my hired help uses. It turns them all into rubber stamps. They're all different, Benny. The one in Duluth isn't the same as the two in New Orleans. The three in Montreal aren't like the one that just opened in Paris. Each one has settled into its own community. But they all have my sign over the door.” Steve Morella brought a cold cup of coffee to the counter and continued to explain.

“Just as the truck was right for the top of Queen Street, the new place in Paris has a zinc bar and serves good cheese and wine.”

“You know your food!”

“Listen, Benny. Food is the study of my life. I was busy in the kitchens of big English hotels when I couldn't speak a word of English. I learned this racket from dishwasher and bus boy up through the ranks. I know all the angles.”

“How are you going to deal with the death of your former brother-in-law, Thurleigh Ramsden?”

“Ha! They weren't kidding about you! You come right to the point!”

“After ordering a deck of fries, yeah.”

“Ramsden's Newby's problem. I don't get in his way. Look, Benny, if Ramsden's death complicates things, I can live with it. I deal with the possible. Let Julian play
games with making things happen. He knows Ramsden's business as well as I do. All I see coming out of this is delay. I can live with delay. I'm a patient man. Newby says there's a way to save the situation. I believe him. That's what he's good at. So far he's never let me down.” At this moment, a man in white appeared holding a telephone.

“Steve, it's for you!” Steve Morella looked at me in a way that told me the telephone was the bane of his existence. He grinned and held his hand over the receiver.

“Look,” he said, still smiling, “a fellow could get hurt messing around in a town like this. You know what I mean? Take it easy, Benny, and give my best to your father.” A moment later he was deep in conversation on the phone. This too left no doubt about who he thought was in charge. I ate my fries, which were as good as I remembered them, paid my check and walked back in the direction of my office.

I hadn't really asked Morella any hard questions. I knew this, but he rose to the bait just the same. He didn't even know what cards I was holding. I was beginning to see what my father saw when he sat across from Steve Morella playing gin rummy.

TWENTY-FIVE

Newby's office was located in an old house that used to be a doctor's residence in the last century. Most people knew where the brass speaking-tube ran from a former upstairs bedroom to the large veranda below. It simplified midnight interruptions on evenings when the doctor had to saddle up the horse and head halfway across town to attend a woman in labour. But that was history; for as long as I remember, this had always been a law office with the names Newby, Boyle, Weaver and Mendlesham on the small sign in front. To be perfectly honest, I remember when Newby was the second name on the sign, right after Trapnell. Of course, in those days, Stan Mendlesham hadn't been thought of.

I tried the door and found it open. There were large rooms both to the left and to the right of me. The one to the right was a waiting-room with an old piano standing against the wall, left over from some other age. The other room was a library in severe legal colours that included the dark, heavy boardroom table and all of those shelves of law books. Moving on through the central hall, past the stairway to the upper regions, I found myself in a reception area without a formal receptionist. There were two
people there, sitting where the receptionist usually sits, but this couple was involved in private pursuits. They broke apart as I came in and the young woman began adjusting her blouse. The man, not abashed in the least, put on a friendly smile and told me that there was nobody about but themselves.

“We're really closed this late in the day,” he explained. There was a drink of something balanced on top of a call director. He picked it up and took a sip.

“I was hoping to find Mr. Newby in,” I said.

“Julian's not been seen all day I think he's taking a few days off. You heard that he found poor Ramsden's body, didn't you?”

“I was there when it happened. It wasn't any prettier being the second on the scene.”

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. By now the young woman had vanished into the back part of the shop.

“Thanks, but I've just put one out,” I lied. “Could I use your phone?”

“Sure. Just dial nine to get out. I'm Gerard Newby, by the way. I work here, Mr.…?

“Cooperman. Ben Cooperman. Your father's a client of mine.”

“Right! I've heard of you. Private eye, right?”

“Nobody calls me that. Nobody that knows me anyway.” I began scouting around for a phonebook and found one on the floor, near a second glass with a drink
in it. I looked up Newby without being able to find it. “Do you think I might bother your father at home?”

“Why not? Everybody else does.” He told me the number and I dialled it. Young Newby vanished to the back, holding his drink but just.

“Hello, Mr. Newby? It's Ben Cooperman.” I could hear a pause at the other end. He then repeated my name, as though to recall who I was. I explained about how I'd been instructed to get in touch with him directly by Mendlesham. He said that the past two days hadn't been ordinary in any way for either of us. I agreed with him and shook my head at the sentiments he expressed about sudden death and its nearness at all times.

“The reason I'm calling, Mr. Newby, is that the subject I've been attending to on your behalf knows that I'm on the job. It happens that way some times.”

“She knows you are following her?”

“She caught me in the act. I didn't admit anything, of course, but I'm not much good to you from now on.”

“I see.” He took his time at seeing and, finally, thanked me for what I'd done and for letting him know. He would settle up with me later in the week if I could wait until then. I agreed and he was sure I would. He had that kind of assurance.

“Thanks for the use of the phone,” I called to the back of the office after I'd hung up. In a moment both of the young people came forward to see me off the property, I thought, but in fact to invite me again to have a drink with them. A second invitation is supposed to be more
serious than the first; it expresses a sincere desire for one's company, so I agreed to have a short drink.

“What'll it be?” I told him rye and ginger ale and the girl looked at her boy-friend with a special look. I'll have to sort out drinks one of these days. My old choices are getting dated. I could have tried out Orv Wishart's Campari and Perrier, but I didn't think that this establishment could provide anything but the serious basics. Gerard made up the drink and handed it over. “By the way,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “this is Claudia Morella. Claudia, Ben Cooperman.” We all said how do you do and sipped from our glasses.

“Was this the end of a Christmas party?” I asked. “I don't normally get a drink when I call on lawyers.”

“Just some pre-Christmas cheer that we didn't want to cancel along with the party. The party's been canned because of what's happened.”

“I didn't know that Mr. Ramsden was so close to the firm.”

“Mr. Ramsden was doing some work for my father,” Claudia volunteered, moving closer to Gerard.

“In a small town like this, Mr. Cooperman, everybody knows everybody. For whom the bell tolls and all that,” said young Newby.

“Well, I, for one, don't feel diminished at his passing,” said Claudia to Gerard with a sly smile.

“He certainly had his share of enemies,” I said, just fishing for any stray comments that might take the bait. “The police will have their hands full.”

“I think it was that evil-smelling kook who was after Lizzy Oldridge's money, myself,” said Gerard.

“Kogan?” I said, somewhat more loudly than I'd intended. “Kogan couldn't fix a toilet let alone Ramsden's hash, if you'll excuse me saying so. What makes you say he was after her money, by the way? I know he was trying to get some of it for Oldridge to spend while she was still alive. I doubt if he has any interest in the money or the property now she's dead. He wasn't named in the will, was he?”

The youngsters glanced at one another and said nothing. I waited but there was no flood of information. I tried priming the pump again: “Oldridge left everything to the Guild of the Venerable Bede, didn't she? Kogan wasn't mentioned as far as I know.”

“You really should find the will and read it,” Claudia said.

“Maybe I'll do that. Who was his lawyer?”

“Dad acted for him in some things—usually those connected with Steve's business,” Gerard said. “I don't know who handled his personal stuff.”

“I do,” volunteered Claudia. “It's Rupe McLay. He's with Wilson, Carleton and Meyers on King Street, across from the market.”

“That's right,” added Gerard. “He used to be with Fleming, Harris, Irwin and Bartlett until they turfed him out.”

“Oh?”

“Rupe's a well-known souse. Can't get his life together. He goes from one firm to the next and lasts about a year at each.”

“And he's the lawyer that Ramsden got to draw up Liz Oldridge's will? When he was on close and friendly terms with this office? Sounds odd to me. Why would he do that?”

“I guess Thurleigh Ramsden took that secret to his grave, Mr. Cooperman. He did a lot of peculiar things.” Both my host and hostess were now standing shoulder to shoulder and I was suddenly feeling like a fifth wheel. So I drank up my drink, thanked them for their help and left the way I'd come in. As I walked along Ontario to King, I thought that Ramsden hadn't quite gone to his grave yet, he was still sharing accommodations in the morgue with a few other corpses including Temperley's. I wasn't sure what that did to the status of his secret. Maybe Rupe McLay could help me out on that one.

As I rounded the corner, the wind hit me in the face. It was uncompromising and icy. It cut through my clothes, making my knees feel numb against the cloth of my trousers. Mixed in with it were ice pellets which you couldn't see, only feel on your cheeks as they came at you from the direction of the old court-house. I tried to wrap myself more securely in my coat and save my hat from being whisked into Helliwell Lane. I was glad when I read the sign on the side of an old two-storey building on the south side of the street: Wilson, Carleton, Meyers and Devlin. Devlin I'd heard about from Rupe McLay. Devlin's
name had been added since Claudia Morella had taken her last look at the sign in front of the building. But there were distractions for Claudia that made her mistake understandable.

There was no elevator, and the stairs creaked as I went up them. The building was about as old as mine, but the stairs weren't so steep. Nor were there so many of them. The first door on the right repeated the name of the firm again on frosted glass. In Toronto, this sort of office would be considered cute or trendy. Some businesses make a big deal of reproducing the look of the thirties. But this was the real thing. If business got bad, they could sell the front door and probably all the inside furnishings to a Toronto decorator and make a profit at the end of the year.

The door was locked, but there was a light burning inside, so I knocked. Soon I heard steps moving in my direction. Then the door snapped off the latch. It was the expected face that appeared in the crack between the door and the doorpost.

“Mr. Cooperman! Well, well, well!” He opened the door and made an elaborate bow and motioned me to come in. I went in and caught a whiff of strong drink on his breath as I passed in front of him. What's the legal profession coming to in this town, I wondered. Was off-hours drinking part of the scene or should I blame it on the holiday that was fast approaching.

There was nothing festive on the other side of the frosted glass, only more doors with more frosted glass
and a small empty reception desk with a call director standing out as the only recent piece of equipment. Even the typewriters looked like second-hand electrics bought from the
Beacon
's sale ten years ago when they went to computer equipment in their editorial office. I won't even attempt to describe the effect of the plastic Christmas tree with grey cotton batting under it that had seen more Christmases than I had. McLay's long, triangular face topped by a thinning thatch of faded red hair had the look of a misspent youth and middle age about it. He was taller than I remembered, but most of my earlier sightings had been of him sitting down. His sloping shoulders gave him the watchful look of a meat-eating bird. Maybe he was bent over from his long years of sleeping on the briefs he should have been studying.