CHAPTER THIRTEEN
5:00 pm, Monday afternoon
Station House No. 4
Inspector Brackenreid stalked in front of the evidence chalkboards in the bullpen, a tortoiseshell shoe horn in his hands like a baton, reviewing his troops. "Men, before I go home, I want an update on what we have been paying you lot overtime for." He enjoyed full command this afternoon with an extra swagger in his step since coming back from a successful meeting with Mayor Maguire. Murdoch and Crabtree automatically adopted an 'at ease' posture, a leftover from when they served under Captain Brackenreid. Higgins shuffled his feet, Worseley was rigid, and Hodge, old enough to have practically come with the station house when the walls were installed, let none of it bother him.
"Crabtree, tell us about the Jacksons," Brackenreid instructed with a jab of the shoehorn.
"Sirs. I combed ten years of records with an accountant. No unaccounted-for deposits or withdrawals, no financial problems. They had an upswing during the war, came out of it with no debt. No threats. No legal jeopardy. No one I can find with a strong enough motive, nor means, to poison them. No one came or left from their apartment. No suspects at all, in fact." Crabtree returned a perplexed glance when Murdoch smiled at him.
"Thank you, Constable." Murdoch nodded in Crabtree's direction. "I think we can officially declare the case closed. The first guess about cause of death was carbon monoxide. Today, I found evidence of calcium cyanide at their apartment, being used as a fumigator for vermin. Actually, Crabtree, you put me on to it. The manager, Mr. Crumb, eventually confessed the entire building had been treated, but the windows in the Jacksons' apartment had never been opened to air out the space. Dr. Ogden will verify time and cause of death when she completes her lab work." He went to his chalk board and erased the entire section regarding the Jacksons. "I will notify the Crown Prosecutor who may wish to file charges for negligence."
Brackenreid set his shoehorn down, retrieved an apple from his jacket pocket and bit down. "How are we doing on Henry Knox and Rocco Perri?"
Higgins stepped forward nervously, opening his notebook to read. "Mr. Knox hailed from Niagara Falls. He came to Toronto in '17 after he got one of his pins warped in the war. He had enough scratch to keep him going for a while, but he was a butter and egg man with his dough, ended up in a flop, crubbing smokes. Got in trouble for orphan paper."
The inspector rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, Higgins! Use the King's English. You are from Gaspé, not Botany Bay!" Brackenreid demanded.
Higgins looked rattled; Murdoch took pity on him and translated, not bothering to point out the irony of Thomas Brackenreid's own idioms peppering his every conversation. "Mr. Knox had cash when he came back from the war after his leg injury healed and spent his money frivolously on alcohol and gambling, ending up in a low rent rooming house unable to even buy cigarettes. He was picked up for passing a bad cheque." Murdoch gestured at Higgins to continue.
Higgins cleared his throat, getting time to choose words. "He drew a small pension, barely enough for his room. When he worked, it was as a driver. No family to speak of. No squeeze...er, no lady-friend. He did a stint at the House of Industry on Elizabeth and Elm Streets in the Ward, but was turfed...er, tossed out because he couldn't stay off the sauce."
"Hodge?" Brackenreid asked.
"I spent the morning in the neighborhood, and at Mr. Knox's haunts." Hodge brought out his own notes. "Knox was known by the locals to be someone who was pleasant enough when he was sober, and he had a penchant for wheeling and dealing. No one I spoke with knew he'd served in the war, which is odd because there is always some charity or other which will help a veteran, especially one who was wounded. Minor legal trouble when he was stupefied, always scrounging for money; used the City Baths on Wednesday or Saturday free days. Mostly kept to himself when he wasn't shooting dice. He'd lived in the last rooming house for seven months, was behind in his rent and his bookie was looking for him. I can trace his movements fairly well because he kept to his routine, only having trouble with one day last week." Hodge closed his notebook.
Hodge stepped in to rescue Higgins. "This afternoon I finally found an empty glass bottle in the trash next to Knox's rooming house. The new tenant confirmed he cleared out what Knox left and threw it away. No fingerprints, because the bottle has been handled and smudged repeatedly, but a little liquid in it, so I sent it along to Dr. Ogden for testing."
"Excellent!" Murdoch was relieved. It meant he had another piece of physical evidence. If only he could connect them to Rocco Perri. "We now know the order and location of the deaths and addresses of the deceased. Tomorrow you canvas this area," he pointed to his map with a neighborhood circled in red, "to determine when and where shipments of illegal alcohol are received and distributed. Constable Worseley, do you have the information on distilleries?"
"I do. Gooderham and Worts are the biggest, of course. During the war they produced cordite, ketone and acetone for explosives, along with alcohol. They are still allowed to produce spirits. I have a list of seven other smaller distilleries which remain in production. I have done four interviews of lead chemists, four more to go. Frankly sir, what I have learned is that the chemicals for denaturing their alcohol keeps changing, depending on what's cheapest or the government dictates, so there is no one standard formula a particular distillery always uses. Brucine is fairly common as is methyl alcohol."
"Something to consider though…" Hodge spoke up.
"What is that?" Brackenreid asked.
Murdoch was interested as well. John Hodge grew up in Toronto and the old cop's knowledge of the city was second to none, so when he offered a comment it was always worth listening to.
"These places are huge, sir. Factories acres in size. Hundreds of workers. If someone is redistilling alcohol to remove the poisons, they need a lot of room to do it. Someone like Rocco Perri must find land, equipment, and hide a big operation. I...er...I wonder who he is paying off…"
Brackenreid turned his glare in Murdoch's direction, sending a silent warning about keeping a lid on the threat one of Perri's minions made. Murdoch just shook his head. Nothing the lads need to know.
Higgins seemed excited. "I thought anyone could make bathtub gin."
"No... We are talking about separating distilled spirits from the adulterants used to denature it. Methyl alcohol has a boiling point so close to ethyl alcohol it is extremely hard to separate via re-distilling, so the operation cannot be fly-by-night," Murdoch explained to the group. He picked up his chalk, changing the subject quickly. "Now, we are still working on our other case, Mr. Landswell. We have almost all the necessary information." He snuck a glance at his chalkboard. "Higgins, how did you do on motive today? You were to dig into Landswell's finances."
Higgins looked slightly more sure of himself for this part of his report. "Mr. Landswell's books work out to be copacetic...I... I mean in order. His business is barely five years old. He wasn't exactly skint, but he wasn't flush either and he may have lied to his bankers, using one loan to pay another, and lied on his bid for the Toronto Transportation Commission about his ability to complete the work. But nothing more serious."
"So, no money motive to do him in? Too bad. So, a woman and poison is it?" Brackenreid sounded disappointed
Murdoch understood: at least with money there was often a paper trail of some kind to follow. "Yes. We are considering a jilted lover theory."
Higgins spoke up. "His gal, or I guess it is his ex-gal, Edwina Virgil, is here to identify the body. She's waiting for you in the interview room."
"Good work!" Brackenreid praised the young constable.
Rightly so, Murdoch believed, but he was still exasperated. "Higgins! And you did not think to mention Miss Virgil first?" He was halfway out the door before he ever finished the sentence, calling over his shoulder to Crabtree: "Bring your notepad."
"Miss Virgil. Thank you for coming in. My condolences for your loss." Murdoch sat in the opposite chair, offering her a glass of water, which she sipped delicately, allowing him a moment to study her, his opening gambit accomplished - getting her to accept something he gave her - to make her feel obligated to give him something. Crabtree stayed discreetly out of the way, taking notes.
"Thank you, Detective, most kind." Her voice was deliberately flat.
The woman was conservatively dressed, he'd almost say old-fashioned, with a fusty hat and none of a modern woman's cosmetics. He estimated she was the wrong side of thirty with long, thin features and grim lips. Her hands held the purse in her lap as if she was strangling something. It might have been grief which made her appear ugly - or guilt. He knew time, and his interrogation, would tell.
She continued. "I am only here to do my Christian Duty. I cannot in good conscience deny knowing him and I am prepared to identify him for the record. But save your condolences. I am sorry he is dead, but Conrad is the one who lost when he betrayed me."
So - no grief? He was interested in that. Was there a motive for murder in there? He examined the woman more closely, taking out his notebook to jot down any particulars. That grim mouth of hers could mean so many things. "I see. Would you care to explain?"
"He lied to me."
Murdoch sighed inwardly. As if 'he lied to me' explained everything - or anything at all. She was just as likely to lie to him if it suited her interests. "About what, Miss Virgil?" he prompted, knowing he'd have to patiently unwind this tight woman's story.
"I caught him cheating." She bit this off as she said it.
"How do you know he was cheating?"
"She sent him letters. Letters he did not want me to see."
"And?"
"I heard phone calls at his office."
He waited, deliberately letting her grow more anxious.
"Then she showed up! Oh, he tried to say it was nothing, but I saw the way she looked at him, all pleading with her eyes, and how desperate he was to hide her from me, how quickly he wanted her to leave when I arrived…"
"When was this?" A recent break up is more of a motive than a romance which cooled a while ago.
"A week ago. Monday, the nineteenth. I came around to have luncheon with Conrad. It was a surprise..."
There was a slight hitch in her voice, the first indication Murdoch had of a heart inside her armour. She had cared for him. Enough to kill? He saw her jaw clamp shut in a great effort to control her emotions, cutting off any more conversation. He needed to get her talking again, so he poked at her feelings for the man. "It must have hurt to break it off with him." He saw her posture change and got a short nod from her. Her eyes moistened now. He'd have to ascertain her whereabouts and if she had access to poisons. Higgins' notes said she was a typist for a law office - probably not too many chemicals there, but plenty in most households, as his investigation of the Jacksons' apartment revealed.
"What else was there to do, Detective? It was a matter of principle. I knew Conrad was not always on the up and up in business, but I thought…" She reached for the water and took another sip to help her composure. "I thought he was honest with me. I knew something was wrong, but I… When he could not come up with a believable explanation for her, I knew my instincts were right. There was something between them."
"Did you overhear any of their conversation, Miss Virgil?"
The woman bared her teeth. "I will never forget, Detective. She said, 'You promised me. You cannot deny me now'…" Miss Virgil sat board-straight and her voice was hoarse. "Then Conrad said to her: 'You silly girl, I owe you nothing'."
A betrayal. Murdoch's instincts were stirred. Miss Virgil confirmed what Higgins discovered about Landswell's business acumen, but the presence of another suspect was most intriguing.
"Can you describe her for me?" he asked as casually as possible. Her eyes widened and he hoped he had not spooked her.
She exhaled. "Twenty, twenty-one perhaps. Red hair." She sucked her teeth. "Looked like a farm girl to me. And before you ask, no, I don't know the hussy's name."
He'd have to check, of course, but by the look of her, Murdoch thought if Edwina Virgil was going to do away with someone it would have been her rival, not Conrad Landswell. "Thank you, Miss Virgil. When you are ready, I will take you across to identify him," he said gently.
He scribbled a note to give to Higgins while she collected herself: 'Get all the rest of Landswell's mail.'
As soon as she did her duty, Murdoch was going to ask about searching her house for poison. He was not looking forward to that.
