CHAPTER SIX

1810 hours, Saturday, June 24th, 1922

Station House No. 4

"...and you won't be constable first class for much longer if you keep that up, do you hear me, Sunshine?!"

Murdoch didn't bother to chastise Crabtree for tardiness. Inspector Brackenreid did it loudly enough for the whole station house. Crabtree took the dressing down manfully and immediately started examining the box of clothing and personal items from Mr. Landswell he'd brought with him from the morgue. The whole station house was happier when the inspector jammed his hat on his head and left for the day.

Murdoch gathered the men in his office where he could make notes on his chalkboard. Hodge and Worseley had already given him information on the additional presumptive "Bootleg Booze Deaths" as the afternoon edition of the papers was calling it. His chart was filling up fast, necessitating a second one be scrounged and soon. He picked up the chalk and wrote, 'Alkaloid poison' under cause of death in the column next to Mr. Landswell's name.

"Constable Higgins, let's start with you." Higgins, whose otherwise baby-face was improved by a rakish scar through his right upper lip, nervously extracted his notebook from his uniform breast pocket. Murdoch hoped Higgins was going to be better organized than the last time.

"Sir. I did a gander through city records and at his office. There is nothing that says he was ever dizzy for a dame enough to put a ring on it. Mr. Landswell made his nut with a small electrical shop he opened about five years ago. He did jobs for the telephone company. Last year he bid for work on the Toronto Transportation Commission for the electric street cars." Higgins turned a page. "He got a small job out of it but a nice piece of dough. He has no full-time guys, hires day-labour and uses subcontractor fellas for the larger jobs. He rents his office space on the cheap, but he owns a small warehouse down by the docks where he keeps his supplies. Oh, he hired out his bookkeeping."

Crabtree rubbed his chin with his hand. "Could a warehouse be the connection with Rocco Perri, sir? Or the city contracts?"

Murdoch was thoughtful, looked at his chart as if it would give him an answer. He wrote 'connections?' on the board, reluctantly. "Any business debts, or perhaps lawsuits going against him, Higgins?"

"None that I can find, sir. Although the city records are well...er, bewildering. Sir."

"Thank you. I am sure you were thorough. Please look over the bookkeeper's records as soon as possible. We could use your understanding of business, and if he was slow paying his workers." Murdoch was exaggerating of course; it was Higgins' father who had a small family-run piano store, but he was trying to encourage Higgins to use his resources and his brain. "And visit his banker, as well, first thing Monday..."

Murdoch was about to move on when Higgins spoke up. "I think he was behind the eight ball, busted, sir. He has bankers, plural. Not a fakaloo artist exactly, but he was circulating cabbage from one to pay the vig from the other."

Crabtree got to Higgins first. "Which means...?"

"He was floating a lot of loans," Higgins said, as if it had been perfectly clear the first time.

"I see. "Murdoch was not surprised by the information, although he was surprised Higgins discovered it so quickly. "Very good, constable."

"And that may just be money from the, er, more legitimate sources," Crabtree suggested. "Loan sharks? Gambling?"

Murdoch nodded, making more notes on the board for 'loan shark' and 'bookie.' "A good point as well. Constable Higgins, you have more work ahead of you. Keep digging into Mr. Landswell's private life on Monday. Crabtree, what else have you found?"

"I... I think Higgins is right about Mr. Landswell's, er…situation. It's quite odd. His pocket watch, chain, cufflinks, suit and shoes are of fine quality, but his undergarments are...well, they have the holes repaired in them. As do his socks. Nothing one would see from the outside, but, discordant with his outerwear." Crabtree continued. "Could financial straits be a cause for suicide? Is it enough to be so down on his luck he'd voluntarily put poison in his up-scale drink and die, er...in style as it were?"

"Or was there a money motive to kill him over? Get him mixed up with the mob?" Higgins was excited by the idea.

Murdoch was pleased something had caught the young man's energy. He made notes on his chalkboard under 'motive.' "Gentlemen, my observations concur with yours. Our Mr. Landswell presented a certain facade to the world for public consumption, but underneath, he was different. There is practically nothing personal at all in his quarters. And no evidence of military service, not a speck of it. He rented his home and all the tasteful, expensive, furniture while his private rooms were sparse, his wardrobe sparser, indicating to my mind he did not have the funds to support his outward lifestyle. He was, in other words, a sham."

Crabtree was the first to catch on. "No wonder he did not have any friends or close associates: they might have seen beneath the veneer."

"Exactly. We need to locate his next of kin, or someone who knew him well, to get the real picture. I have the name of a woman with whom he has corresponded, and..." Murdoch pulled out a sheaf of correspondence from the top of his desk with a small flourish, "her address so we can interview her and get her to come down and identify his body in the morgue."

Murdoch was feeling rather pleased with the shape the Landswell investigation was in after less than 24 hours, thinking he had matters well in hand - that was until Crabtree spoke up:

"But, sir. If he is a... a sham as you say, perhaps he is not even Conrad Landswell at all?!"


Julia hadn't had time to finish her coffee when the morgue telephone rang again; this time it was Mick to remind her she'd be picking her up at eight o'clock sharp this evening, and that she had better not be working late. "I am bushed! Two complete autopsies today! I forgot I had muscles where I am aching. I am stiff and sore and wish to go home for a long bath and longer sleep, like an ancient crone."

"Nonsense, Julia! An inordinate amount of time with the dead makes one forget one is living," Mick admonished her in a low, throaty chuckle Julia loved. "Besides, I know you. You do want to go back to the Crown Club tonight and learn more about what happened, don't you?"

Julia hesitated only a moment; Mick always nourished Julia's sense of adventure and laid out just the right bait she was going to bite at. She laughingly agreed with the plan and rang off.

She finished her coffee, believing it an abomination to waste any of the precious potion, and grabbed her bag to hurry home for a quick bath and to dress. On the way up to her rooms she checked at the desk for her post - nothing but a medical journal. Sighing, she continued up the stairs to her bath. Movement and hot water helped unknot her tight muscles, making her feel almost like herself again as the caffeine hit her blood stream as she toweled off. From her closet, she chose a pair of white silk wide legged pants with a white silk blouse and paired a white and red flower-patterned kimono over it. She fashioned her hair into a low chignon, added silver and garnet drop ear bobs, and slipped strappy white sandals on her feet. Her last choice was her favourite evening bag, a small enamel mesh Mandalian purse featuring a red flower design with silver chain and fringe which was a birthday gift from her best friend - just holding it made her miss Dennie even more.

"There," she said to the mirror, looking at herself with satisfaction from several angles. "No desiccated biddy anymore, back to being a bright and shiny twenty-eight-year-old!" Thus, it was not even eight-thirty when both she and Mick McDaniels sat in the Crown Club lounge, sipping their drinks - Julia, an Old Fashioned made from Mick's personal stock and Mick with her usual straight whiskey.

"God, this is bliss!" Julia let the whiskey and bitters mixed with sugar and orange twist slide icily down her throat. The rich, silky-smooth concoction hit her senses exactly right, after a rough day. "My job is going to kill me. I am running out of cooler space in the morgue."

Mick set her glass down. "No more shop talk. I insist. There will be plenty of time for that."

Julia looked around, noticing several people she knew by sight. Mick was right - all work and no play was going to turn her into no fun at all. She and Mick immediately fell to gossiping about mutual acquaintances.

"Surely not all of your friends have settled down and married?" Mick asked her as they scanned the room for a source of amusement.

"They have. Dennie, who lost her husband in the war, is the only one not to have children and she is busy running her family tobacco factory. I am the last single girl, and their husbands are not as keen as yours is to allow them freedom," Julia sighed, finishing her drink and asking for another.

"Reginald and I make few demands of one another. We care for each other, but alas, ours is no love story."

Julia snorted. "You, at least, have remained together. My parents, on the other hand…." She rolled her eyes as she sipped her new drink. "I turn my back and look at what happened."

Mick gave her an appraising gaze. "With both girls gone, your father chose to retire from the city. Your mother wanted her own freedom, and well...the arrangement appears to be working for them both. Lionel is content with the discreet company of Caroline Hill at the lake. He wants to see you, you know."

"I suppose I should be angry with that woman for destroying my parents' marriage, but my mother seems to bear her no ill will, and I have never seen my father so happy… As for visiting him, well I'm certain he only wants to warn me about the 'excess women' in the population. I can hear him now… 'It's unfitting to still be single at your age...you've seen the world, now it's time for you to settle down,'" she mocked in a deep voice.

"Yes, well, that's your father for you," Mick saluted and laughed.

"He certainly has a narrow idea of the world." Julia could not keep from smiling.

"Still, I imagine you found time to have fun in London? You hardly wrote at all in the years when you were away… what news I got from your mother was, I assume, heavily because you cut the better parts out."

She frowned, momentarily uncertain if she wanted to share her experiences. She had not told neither friends nor family any gory details - perhaps with Mick she did not need to go into details at all.

"Not really. By the time I finished my second year at medical school, influenza was raging. It was bad enough amongst the troops and I know it was bad here, but I tell you it was so much worse in France and England - or at least it seemed that way to me." She gulped down the bitter recollection, hoping she was not whining. "I think I had the hardest time with the ex-soldiers who made it through the war, the ones who had been gassed. They were hit the worst - their lungs couldn't take it." Her brain was seared by memories of those patients gasping and choking their last breaths when the only thing she could do was watch one patient die while dreading the next one to come in.

She saw Mick grow ashen, and nod sadly. "Here as well."

Julia clasped Mick's hand. "Even by the time I left, some people were still afraid of another epidemic."

Mick gave a reassuring smile. "Yes, I can understand that. But we cannot live in the past."

"Agreed!" Julia declared, needing to focus and shake the dour feelings. "Ruby begged me to come home. I think she expected me to get our parents to reconcile. I am as quite put out with her for misleading me, as she is with me for failing to achieve her ends." She got serious for a second, turning to her mentor. "I do appreciate you helping me get the job at the City Morgue, however after I receive my Ontario medical license, I will find a position more to my taste, something with less death."

Mick's lips curved in a rueful smile. "When do you expect your paperwork?"

"It can't be long now - I applied while I was still in England and I check the post every day. I haven't told Ruby or Mother, but I'm not sure I will stay in Canada. Please don't let on, will you? They are so excited for me to be home again...but, I will only give it a year here in Toronto." She tried to sound bon vivant.

"Julia, what is bothering you? More than your parents, I mean. You worked so hard to become a doctor...yet it seems to me you have lost some of your passion for it."

She hesitated. "I have been following Doctors Banting, Best and Macleod's work on diabetes at the University of Toronto. Imagine a cure for that dread affliction, no longer having a death sentence due to a disease!"

"It is exciting work, Julia. I am sure they'd be open to hearing from you."

"Yes, well... Unfortunately, it appears my medical experience with artillery wounds, mustard gas and amputations has rendered me fit only for combat or a posting full of infectious diseases like typhoid, typhus, trench fever, lice. Oh, don't forget gangrene. There is not a great call for any of that in Toronto. Imagine that."

"That's harsh. Surely it can't be as bad as all that." Mick's tone was worried.

"I suppose I can volunteer for the war between Greece and Turkey that is going on now or go south and hope the civil war in Paraguay remains an open conflict where I can get war and infections at the same time." She tried to make it sound like an adventure. Mick planted her face in her palm.

"Mick, I swear my passion remains medicine, but I need a purpose, like I had in the war. Like I had during the epidemic. If I haven't found one here by this time next year, to London I shall return. Perhaps I will teach or take another residency in psychiatry or surgery. Something where I can see the difference that I make." Mick's grey eyes searched her face and Julia felt the gaze penetrate. She wanted Mick to see how sincere she was, not her humiliation at just how many times she'd been turned down when applying for positions.

"I think I understand. A year is fair. For now, let's drink a toast to homecoming and achieving your most cherished desire - to Dr. Julia Ogden, M.D.!"

Julia accepted, raised her glass, allowing some of her anxiety to dissipate. "Now. How shall we satisfy my curiosity about what happened here last night?"

Mick downed her drink in a single swallow. "I discovered something for you already: until very recently Conrad Landswell had a paramour...and it didn't end particularly well."