Booking In Page 24

  “Humble stuff, you’re right,” I said, answering Archie’s comment. “But they’re evidence of murder in the kind of drama you get a kick out of.”

  “Tell you the truth, Crang,” Archie said, “it’s the screwball part I like about your cases.”

  I nodded. “Some of what I’m going to tell you falls into the screwball category, but nobody’s laughing about the dead body.”

  It took me twenty minutes to cover the whole tale, beginning with Fletcher’s first early morning phone call all the way to the scene in the Blue Room at Meg Grantham’s building just before I’d come up to Archie’s lab. As I talked, Archie never once interrupted with a question, and at the end of the twenty minutes, he wore a large smile.

  “Son of a bitch, Crang,” he said, “you’re going to get the richest woman in Canada royally pissed off at you. “

  “You think Brent Grantham’s the killer?” I said.

  “It’s not my opinion that counts,” Archie said. “It’s yours, and from the slant of things in the way you just told the story, you’re sold on this guy Brent.”

  “That’s just one interpretation,” Maury said, sounding sour.

  “I’ve met Brent,” Archie said. “He’s a true horse’s ass.”

  “How did you happen to meet the horse’s ass?” I said.

  “It was at the Concord Club. A guy high up in the federal Crown office took me to lunch there. This Brent person horned in on the conversation I was having with the Crown guy when we were drinking our post-lunch coffee in the library.”

  “A library? Concord members read books?”

  “The collected works of Conrad Black were on display that day.”

  “If you guys let me get a word in,” Maury said in an irritated tone, “I can speed up the whole thing we’re here for.”

  “What’s happening, Maury?” Archie said.

  “This morning,” Maury said, “I was getting all the different things Crang wanted from Biscuit’s place for you to test. The hairs with the roots, the toothbrush, bunch of other shit.”

  “All of it’s presumably on the desk right here,” Archie said.

  “Plus, get this, in the wastepaper basket in Biscuit’s bathroom, I found two pieces of Kleenex with some blood on them, a shaving cut probably.”

  Maury paused and looked at Archie and me. “Gotta be Biscuit’s blood,” he said. “Right?”

  “That’s a very nice find, Maury,” I said.

  “Biscuit lived alone?” Archie said. He was sorting through the items in plastic bags on his desk. “He didn’t have frequent guests of any sort, temporary or otherwise?”

  “The man’s home life was like a monk’s,” Maury said.

  Archie nodded. “So,” he said, “do I gather what you guys want is for my people to compare the blood on the Kleenex with the blood on the sheet of paper from the fake Reading Sonnets?”

  “Compare the blood, the DNA,” I said. “Do whatever other tests you recommend. Is it Biscuit’s blood on the Reading Sonnets? It should be.”

  Archie finished checking the plastic bags and was holding the bag with the pieces of Kleenex in it. He gave the pieces a close study without taking them out of the bag. Then he got up, walked to his office door, and shouted down the hall.

  “Hey, Wally, you want to come in here for a minute,” he called out.

  Wally turned out to be a tall young woman with red hair cut short. She was wearing a white doctor’s coat and white gloves.

  “Give me blood types off these two samples, Wally,” Archie said. He handed the woman the bag with the Kleenex and the other bag with the page from the fake Reading Sonnets. “These important gentlemen and I need the types toot sweet, if you don’t mind.”

  Wally smiled at Maury and me. She had a handsome face and a playful expression. “Important gentlemen?” she said. “Wow, you’re terrifying me, Archie.”

  She took the two samples and went back down the hall.

  “Wally doesn’t get all serious about the lab work the way the other kids around here do,” Archie said. “But she’s fast and accurate.”

  “What’s with her name?” Maury said.

  “Short for Wallis,” Archie said. “She once told me her grandmother was a big admirer of the woman Edward VIII left his throne for.”

  “Wallis Simpson,” I said.

  “Quite the fashionista for her time, I understand,” Archie said.

  “What kind of crap are you guys talking about?” Maury said.

  “Maury, you don’t mind me asking,” Archie said, “but what is it you’ve got a fly up your ass about?”

  “You think I sound grumpy?”

  “That’s what I’m asking. How come?”

  “Because in my opinion Crang’s figured it all wrong. It wasn’t the Grantham jerk that smashed Biscuit’s face in. It was Fletcher.”

  “The bookstore owner?” Archie said.

  “The stuff I had on with the guy close up the last couple weeks,” Maury said, “he’s the kind of superior asshole who wouldn’t mind swinging the stapler at anybody who crossed him. Which happened to be Biscuit.”

  Archie looked at me. “Any rebuttal from the counsel for the opposite view?”

  “There’s the blood factor,” I said.

  “Which frigging blood are you talking about now?” Maury said.

  “The blood Fletcher didn’t have on his clothes on the night Biscuit got killed,” I said. “I met him at the murder scene only a few minutes after the actual killing. The guy was wearing a nice outfit, dressed to the nines, and not a speck of blood on him.”

  “Whoever killed this Biscuit pal of yours would’ve been showing some blood on his person,” Archie said. “That’s your point?”

  “Fletcher could’ve changed his clothes,” Maury said. “There would have been enough time between when he smashed Biscuit and when he met you.”

  “Just barely possible,” I said. “But unlikely in my opinion. Besides, why would he change into clothes he must have been wearing on a date or to some formal event? He probably had those clothes on all evening.”

  “That’s the kind of information a slick investigator like you could find out, isn’t it?” Archie said.

  “Yeah. I probably could.”

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Archie said.

  “The reason,” Maury said, “is because Crang thinks the Grantham guy did the murder.”

  “Well …” I said but didn’t get any further.

  “Hey, Archie,” Wally said from the doorway. She had a big grin. “You’re going to love this.”

  “The reading of the blood on the Kleenex?” Archie said.

  “First one of these blood types I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “What?”

  “AB Rh Negative.”

  “That narrows the odds,” Archie said.

  “It’s rare?” I said. “The AB Rh Negative?”

  “It is,” Archie said to me. “But just hold on a minute.”

  He turned back to Wally. “You’re also running the tests for the blood on the piece of paper from the poetry collection?” he said.

  “There’s something phony about that paper,” Wally said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “The date on it says 1896. That paper’s no more 1896 than my birth certificate is. It’s way younger than that.”

  “Nice eye, Wally,” Archie said. “These gentlemen already know about the phony date. Good for you picking up on it, but at the moment, we need the type of the blood on the paper. You’re on it?”

  “The new girl’s doing it, Esther,” Wally said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  She left the room, wearing the big grin.

  “The blood type from the Kleenex,” I said, “it’s really rare?”

  “AB Rh Negative,” Archie
said. “Only one percent of Canadians have that type.”

  “So if the same type turns up on the bloodstains on the title page, we’re almost all the way to saying it’s Biscuit’s blood we’re talking about?”

  “We’ll go ahead with DNA testing too,” Archie said. “Get the results on that to you by tomorrow afternoon. But for all practical purposes, the rare blood type pretty much clinches the identification.”

  “That’s aces, Archie,” I said.

  “If I’m following where all this gets you,” Archie said, “the title page came to you from Brent Grantham’s house. His possession of it plus all the rest of the fake Reading Sonnets, which you last saw in the murdered man’s hands, all of it makes Brent a likely choice for the killer’s role.”

  “That’s my thinking,” I said.

  “But not mine,” Maury said. “There must be some other way of explaining this blood stuff that seems to point to Grantham. My view, like I said, Fletcher’s the killer.”

  I leaned over and lifted the cloth bag into my lap. It was time to lighten up the mood in the room. Maury’s irritated state was making a dent in the good humour I was developing over the latest revelations about blood type.

  “Archie,” I said, handing him the cloth bag across the desk, “here’s a small token of appreciation for your speedy work in the cause of justice.”

  “Don’t bother with the flowery speech, Crang,” Archie said, pulling open the string that tied the cloth bag. “But I’ll accept the wine any time.”

  He lifted the two bottles of Bagnols-sur-Cèze from the bag and studied them intently. “If I’m not mistaken, these are what I’d call impeccably chosen,” he said. He turned to the bookshelf behind his desk, took down a bound collection of loose sheets of paper, and began flipping through the pages.

  “Ah, yes,” Archie said, looking up at me from the page he had stopped at. “According to the wine guide I pay serious money to subscribe to, you got the two best years for this particular Côtes du Rhône, 1985 and 2005.”

  “Those are the years my wine expert praised,” I said.

  “You’ve made my wife a very happy woman, Crang. Above all things, she adores her Côtes du Rhône.”

  Staring at the two bottles in his hands, Archie seemed to drift off in a reverie.

  “Archie,” Wally said from the doorway. “Yo, Archie.”

  Archie’s head snapped up.

  “The reading on that title page? Wally said. “You listening to me, Archie?”

  Archie nodded, though his thoughts seemed still locked on the wine.

  “It’s the same for the blood on the paper,” Wally said. “AB Rh Negative.”

  Archie looked at me, then at Maury. “Well, then,” he said, “I guess everybody got what they wanted today.”

  Archie’s attention turned back to the two bottles.

  I shrugged at Maury and Wally, and the three of us left the room. Archie didn’t seem to notice.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Annie and I had takeout from the place on Bloor that featured ramen noodles.

  “I think you’re nuts, Crang,” Annie said. “But that’s what I’ve called you a bunch of times before when you announced you were on the verge of winding up a case all by yourself.”

  “The particular thing about this case,” I said, “I can hardly call in the cops. Tell them to put the cuffs on Brent.”

  “Not unless you want to get your own self in trouble up to your neck,” Annie said. “I appreciate the conundrum.”

  “Accessory before and after the fact,” I said. “That’s what I might be charged with, just because I was Biscuit’s wheelman on the break-in job that got him killed.”

  “But why would the cops want to bust you if you’re telling them how to solve the murder?”

  “One simple reason is just what we’re talking about, namely that I’ve left myself open to a charge of the kind I said.”

  “Come on, sweetie, the cops can’t be that callous. Not to mention it probably isn’t in their best interests anyway.”

  “What would happen,” I said, “they’d lay the charge, then keep me dangling long enough that I could testify at Brent’s trial. If he’s convicted, as I think he should be, they’d drop the charges against me. But in the meantime I’d be virtually out of professional commission for a long run.”

  “Plus the whole thing would besmirch your reputation.”

  “Besmirch?”

  “You’re thinking criminal lawyers as a group are so lightly regarded there’s nothing much to besmirch?”

  “That’s one interpretation.”

  We were drinking water with the noodles, and Annie had fixed a salad to follow. I didn’t particularly feel like an alcoholic drink. The idea was to keep a clear head and confront Brent at his house later that night.

  The doorbell rang.

  Annie stood up. “I’ll get rid of whoever this is,” she said.

  I finished off the noodles and served myself some salad.

  Annie was taking her time at the door. I couldn’t make out who she was talking to until she and the guy at the door started down the hall on their way to the dining room.

  “My goodness,” Annie was saying, “something smells awfully nice.”

  “Thank you,” the guy said. “I believe the mouthwash and other potions were your idea.”

  Damn, it was frigging Fletcher.

  “Sorry, Fletcher,” I said, standing up as he and Annie came down to the dining room. “We’ve almost polished off the ramen noodles.”

  Fletcher made a face.

  “You don’t care for noodles?” I said. “But a glass of wine maybe?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “A business meeting, Crang,” he said. “Very brief, I promise, and I’d prefer it to be private.”

  “Oh, guys’ stuff,” Annie said. “I’ll make myself busy in the office.”

  I knew that, from her office, Annie could hear every word spok­en in the dining room.

  “Take a seat, Fletcher,” I said.

  Both of us sat down.

  “I’ll not beat around the bush, Crang,” Fletcher said. “The dead man in my store was a burglar called Biscuit.”

  “Freddie Biscuit, correct.”

  “You admit his identity?”

  “Why deny it?”

  “Biscuit was also the man you and your burglar friend referred to on your trip to my store. You said he was the best safecracker in the business.”

  “Maury and I did. And Biscuit was what we said. The best.”

  “You admit that too.”

  “I’m in an admitting frame of mind.”

  “Ah-ha, yes,” Fletcher said, sounding crazily gleeful. “But it’s not something the police are aware of.”

  “That Biscuit was a burglar?”

  “No, you fool,” Fletcher said, tipping on the edge of sudden rage. “They’re not aware that you, Crang, were closely acquainted with the dead man. With this person who went by the odd name of Biscuit.”

  “It was Freddie’s real name, Fletcher.”

  Fletcher slammed his fist on the dining room table. “Goddamn it, Crang! Don’t be so bloody obtuse!”

  “Am I missing something?”

  Fletcher took a deep breath, apparently gathering himself for a pronouncement. Apart from his temper outbursts, he was exhibiting a couple of other signs that he was far from his usual calm and collected state. A thin line of sweat ran along his upper lip, and his right leg was bouncing at a pistonlike pace.

  “I have a proposition to make to you,” Fletcher said. “One you’re in no position to turn down.”

  “Let’s hear it,” I said. “I promise to give whatever you say my deepest consideration.”

  “Very well.”

  “Let it rip.”

  Fletcher frowned at
me. “You’d better take this seriously.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “For my part, I guarantee not to reveal to the police or any other authority your connection to the deceased Biscuit,” Fletcher said, speaking slowly for emphasis. “In turn, you will cease immediately your campaign to denigrate the validity and worth of my copy of the Reading Sonnets.”

  “You mean I won’t spread the word that Christopher Thorne-Wainwright created the Reading Sonnets in question in his very own working quarters on Sullivan Street?”

  “Do we have an agreement, or do we not?” Fletcher’s voice sounded shrill.

  “We do, Fletcher,” I said. “We have an agreement.”

  Fletcher stared at me for a moment.

  “I’m relieved you’ve seen the reality of your position, Crang,” Fletcher said. He got to his feet. “That being the case, I’ll excuse myself.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give Annie my regards.”

  Fletcher turned and started up the stairs from the dining room.

  “But listen, Fletcher,” I said. “About our agreement. Check with me in a couple of days. I may have reason by then to rescind my half of the deal.”

  Fletcher turned back to me. “You utter fool!” he said. “You have no idea the trouble you can get yourself in if you don’t keep your word. This is a warning, Crang. Either you continue into the unlimited future to observe the letter of the exchange of promises we’ve made today, or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  “Which are what?”

  Fletcher gave me one last hard look, more deranged than angry, before he stomped down the hall to the front door, opened it, and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

  For a minute or two all was quiet. I stayed in the dining room chair, taking sips from my glass of water. Not a sound came from Annie’s office. I stared at the garden. All was serene out there. Then I heard Annie’s quiet footsteps as she emerged from her office.

  “My,” she said in a soft voice, “I’ve never heard a temper blowout like that one since I was in kindergarten.”

  “Fletcher seems desperate.”

  Annie put her arms around my shoulders from behind. “Just make sure you’re nowhere close to him,” she said, “if he goes off like that again.”