The body on the beach, p.6
The Body on the Beach, page 6
“Dammit. He’d better make it snappy,” he muttered quietly to himself as he walked over to Roberts’s office. He had no intention of sitting.
Roberts shoved his chair back to the wall and, hoisting his legs up on the desk, crossed his ankles and stretched out, placing his hands behind his head. It was a sign that the boss was readying for a lengthy discussion. “There’s no doubting the type of drug she used. Lambert was right. I wonder how in the name of God she got cocaine here in Harbour Grace?”
Frank, still standing, with crossed arms and his chin resting on one hand, feigned deep thought with his eyes fixed on the floor and remained silent. Not wanting another restless night, Frank just sought to end the shift, go home, grab a drink, and forget about work. Although it wasn’t a chore he desired, tomorrow he would earnestly begin making some strategic reacquaintances.
“Well, where do we go from here, Frank?”
Frank finally gave in and engaged with Roberts.
“Well, sir, that will be a challenge. I will look at her contacts: her friends, business associates, and her social connections. You know the routine. How such a drug even made it to Newfoundland, especially to Harbour Grace, must be well hidden.” Frank had a plan, but he had no intention of laying out all his cards now.
Roberts turned and stared out his window. Only noticeable at times like this, the sounds of men at work on the waterfront invaded the office. The muffled voices of workers were interspersed with the noises of a busy port. A loud engine steadily revved up and then slowed down. Frank thought it was likely the motorized steam lift at the dock lifting and off-loading cargo.
Not wanting to seem impolite, Frank waited for a minute before making his move. To pretend a sense of urgency, he peeled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. Explicitly so that Roberts could see it, he tapped its face with a finger, saying, “It’s time, boss. I need to get home to do a couple of jobs around the house. I’ve got to get moving on that old place before winter.” Frank mused that a white lie was sometimes justified. In reality, he couldn’t drive a nail if his life depended on it. He just needed to get away.
“I will make a couple of visits to some old friends tomorrow, sir. I’ll bring you up to speed then.”
“Sure thing, Frank. I’ve contacted head office and spoken to the brass. It’s all good.”
“That’s great, sir.” Realistically, though, he didn’t give a damn what the brass thought, especially Sullivan. “See you tomorrow, sir.”
His own personal vehicle was a little newer than the one at the station. It was a 1915 Model T touring hardtop purchased second-hand. Using some of the modest inheritance from his father, he was able to put together enough savings to come up with $200 for a reasonably good car. Considering the hard winter conditions, when the snow flew, he would have to store it in the police station’s garage, as he was accustomed to doing in the city.
One thing he appreciated about the Model T was its easy start. A single twist of the crank and she fired up. Water Street was still busy as he negotiated around cars, trucks, horse carts, and boys rolling trolleys of materials with deliveries. Many of the carts were stacked with burlap bags stuffed with chaff from the mill and others with bags of coal from Munden’s coal pound. In this town, few people knew him, so there were no waves or greetings from other passersby.
Before heading up Cochrane Street to Kitchen’s Hill, he made a snap decision to drop by the Cochrane House for a little something from the menu. It would be a welcome treat not to cook tonight. Perhaps he would order the steak he saw advertised as their speciality on the sign outside their entrance. Folks, all strangers to him, would be there, of course. Just as he liked it. No one to bother him. Normally, it would be great to sit at the bar and have a mug of beer before the meal. But this damn Prohibition prevented such little pleasures. Prime Minister Squires hinted during last year’s election that he might abolish that, but as of yet, he had chickened out and given in to the Protestant majority.
Turning off Water Street and parking behind the hotel would give him the privacy he desired. At least Roberts and Peters wouldn’t see that he had taken a break at the Cochrane. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Cochrane House was once a grand hotel by any standard. Nearly a century old, it needed some work. On the outside, it was architecturally similar to many of the other buildings on Water Street, having a box-like shape and standing three storeys high. Yet inside it retained its vintage character. Lavishly decorated, its interior gave the Cochrane a reputation for being one of the classiest inns in the Dominion. Its grand entrance had a well-worn but recently waxed hardwood floor that began in the vestibule and continued throughout the lobby. A highly glossed hardwood floor covered the lounge and spilled into the adjoining dining room. Its sixteen-foot ceilings, tall picture windows, thick oak doors, and wide mouldings created a spacious ambience. A quaint but elegant winding staircase ascended from the lobby, disappearing into the upper floors. A tiny well-crafted rolltop desk marked the reception area. Since the desk was unattended, Frank just strolled through the lobby.
Entering the charming dining room, Frank could tell that the proprietor, Louise Cochrane, still took consummate care of the establishment. The Cochrane House had a great reputation throughout all of Newfoundland. He would be surprised to find her place of business any other way. He fully expected to see Louise around the lobby or dining room, but she must have been busy elsewhere. Several petite, round tables, each having its own lamp, were decorated with white embroidered cloths. Neatly placed silver cutlery glistened, reflecting the light from ornate ceiling fixtures. The huge windows in the front gave way to a panoramic scene of the harbourfront. A few diners had already begun their meal.
“Will you be joining us, sir?” asked a navy-clad waitress. The young server smiled. Having grown up in the town, Frank always looked to see if folks he met, especially those younger, resembled people he once knew. Perhaps he would discover their brothers or sisters were old acquaintances. The waitress didn’t appear at all familiar to any of the faces from his past.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied. He followed her to a window seat, where he could see Munden’s Trading Company and Shipyard, as well as Crawford and Murray’s Sealing Premises. The workers at both sites were busy off-loading two giant vessels, likely, he mused, packed with goods from Upper Canada, perhaps Montreal. Seeing the tall crane, he knew that it had to be the motor he had heard from Roberts’s office earlier.
A distinguished-looking gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit sat at a corner table almost hidden from other guests. Engrossed in a newspaper, his face was nearly concealed. A briefcase was tucked closely by his feet. From what Frank could see, the man seemed young, clean-cut, and trim. If it were still the war years, Frank thought the man could easily have been military or even police. He wondered what his business would be in this area. Harbour Grace had many enterprises, many of which were connected with both foreign interests and enterprises located in the capital city. This chap could have hailed from anywhere.
Next to his table, closer to another window, he spied a young lady wearing a trim, waist-length jacket and matching skirt. She sat close to her table, legs crossed, steadily writing into a notebook without once lifting her head. Clearly she had already ordered.
Multiple conversations were happening throughout the room but were smothered by the familiar jazz sound of “Way Down Upon the Swannee River” playing on a gramophone situated near the bar. Frank loved that song. It brought back memories of celebrating the end of the Great War on the St. John’s waterfront several years earlier. He gazed across the harbour to view the Feather Point Hills. He recalled going there to visit his aged aunt and uncle. Now fully grown over, Fitzgerald’s Grove had encroached upon their abandoned small saltbox house and barn. Long since, Uncle Joe’s old wharf and fishing stages had been given up to the sea.
“Excuse me, sir? May I bother you for a light?” Her voice startled him. It was the attractive lady. She had poked her pen behind her ear, pinning her long, shoulder-length hair partially to one side, swinging the rest to her opposite shoulder. Waving the unlit cigarette, she stared directly at Frank. He picked up an accent but wasn’t certain of its origin. Probably British or Irish. The doctor who turned him down from active service overseas had spoken with a similar inflection.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” replied Frank, “but I’m certain the guest over there can accommodate you. I’ll check.” Doing what any gentleman would, he rose from his seat to request a lighter from a man at a neighbouring table, who obliged to give the woman a light.
“Thanks. Much appreciated.” Inhaling a long draw, she pulled the pen from behind her ear and began to write once again, completely oblivious to Frank. The message was clear, he thought. She didn’t want to be bothered. Neither did he.
Frank was just as pleased to be alone, uninterrupted in thought. Finally, he found some time to reflect. Waiting for his fresh fried cod, a late decision instead of the steak, he looked toward the docks, where work was winding down for the day. His mind was becoming a little more settled. The rest of the mickey he had snuck into his soda was helping. The distinguished lady at the next table finished her meal and closed her notebook. Frank wondered if she was an author, or was she one of these modern career-driven women, attempting to invade the ranks of the male-dominated world of business? He chuckled to himself at his own silly thought. The fish was delicious. Not having enough room for dessert, he figured it was time to head back over the hill for a much-needed rest.
“Excuse me again, sir.”
It was the same woman, standing behind him. This time she was holding a well-worn leather satchel. She held out her hand toward Frank. “I realize that I may have been a tad discourteous back there. Sorry about that. Again, thanks for coming to my rescue. I really needed that cigarette. Deadlines, you know.” She raised her bag and gestured with a pointed finger, clearly referring to an item of business within. He shook her hand, making certain not to be overly firm. She smiled, turned, and began to walk away. Frank thought her to be a little more relaxed but still confident.
“I know this will sound like a line you’d hear from some interested guy at a bar. I’ll say it anyway. Are you from this area?”
She swung around to meet his gaze. “No. I wouldn’t consider it a line at all. I am originally from Cork, Ireland.” Whenever she turned away, he took the opportunity to study her appearance. Besides admiring her natural beauty, the cop in him always went beyond the obvious, searching for some revealing detail. Frank had to remind himself that he needn’t always be this way.
“Welcome to our rugged land. May I buy you a tea?”
“Well, I do have a little time. I have to get back to work as soon as possible, though,” she said.
He was about to pull out a chair for her to sit. It wasn’t necessary. Ignoring his attempt, she proceeded to do so for herself.
The man behind the newspaper was jotting some notes. Frank saw him take a quick glance over his spectacles. At one point, they caught each other eyes and he quickly turned away. The visitor rose from his table, grabbed his briefcase, and headed to the lobby.
“So, you are in the police force right here in Harbour Grace? I ask because I have seen that uniform in neighbouring towns. The Constabulary?” She leaned in closely to look at his badge.
“Yes, indeed. Our station is just down the street. I am from here originally. Just got appointed back here, in fact. I still feel like a stranger, perhaps like yourself.” He leaned back in his chair, feeling relaxed.
“I was born and raised in Ireland, studied journalism in London, England, and emigrated to Boston after the war. I am a travel writer for the Boston Journal Gazette. Sorry, so rude of me again. My name is Grace. Grace Murphy. And yours?”
“Frank Fallon. So, what are you writing about, if I may ask, and why come to Harbour Grace?”
“There’s much to write about here, Frank. It’s okay to call you Frank? I have been sent here at my editor’s request. D. W. Reid, a director with Reid Railway, has asked our magazine to do a series on tourism here in Newfoundland. I am to do a series of in-depth articles. Our paper is part of a wider syndicate, so my hope is this piece will gain enough interest to get picked up across the States.”
The young woman appeared a little friendlier now, thought Frank.
She went on. “I came across your wonderful country by rail. The terrain is stunning.”
“But why this old town?” he persisted.
The young waitress interrupted. Before she had time to reply, Frank requested two teas.
Grace continued. “First, this whole area has great viewing potential. Yes, I know that other American tourism journals and writers dealt with your inland nature and wilderness, involving hunting and fishing. Of course, that went over extremely well. But additionally, you have great potential right here in this area. There’s an unbelievable history, with the likes of Sir Henry Pynn being born in Mosquito Cove; Governor Robert Hayman, the author of the first published book in North America; Bryant’s Cove at Cupids; and famous pirates like Peter Easton. Europeans actually put their feet on this soil long before the pilgrims ever did.” She stopped to take a breath. “I think you folks are sitting on a gold mine here. Americans have a great yearning for history. They can’t get enough.”
Frank smiled as the writer bubbled with excitement. She went on. “Then you have the American-Newfoundland connection. Many families migrated to the US from this very area and still do. There’s a growing interest in that as well, not to mention your famous regatta. It’s very well-known, you know. Competitive rowing is a big sport both in the US and Europe and very popular now. That event in itself might warrant me to do a piece.”
“So, you have much to write about.”
“True. I have a great deal more research to do. I have been given a list of families and people who might help. Mr. Reid provided these names to our paper.” Reaching down, she pulled her notebook from the satchel. She read out several names, some Frank recognized from the upper class in the town. “William Parsons, Member of the General Assembly and business partner with the Archibald Enterprises; Magistrate Thomas Austin Oke; Robert S. Munn, businessman; Arthur and Edmund Munden. But there are others,” she added. “As I do more research, of course, I’ll just supplement my list.”
“You’ll be a busy woman,” Frank replied.
“Yes,” she agreed. Looking at the clock on the wall, she said, “I’d better get going.” Taking a sip from her cup, she stood, indicating her departure.
“Need a lift? I know that sounds like another line.”
“No, thanks. I don’t have far to go.” She laughed. “I have a bed-sitting room right here at the Cochrane. It’s wonderful. Again, thanks for your kindness, but I have to get back at it, you know, more writing. My first draft has to be sent by next Monday. My articles are published seasonally with month-end deadlines. The editors want advance copies. They are very particular.”
“I get it.” He hesitated. “I’m off on Friday if you want a tour by a real amateur,” Frank offered. He had no idea if she was attached, married, committed, or not interested.
“If that would help me collect enough information to meet my deadline, I would like that,” she replied.
“Perhaps I can assist you with that list, then. Recommend some contacts.”
Picking up her case, Grace began to make her exit. While leaving the room, she said to the waitress, “Put those teas on my tab, please.” Frank was impressed by her independence. She rushed out of the dining room, clearly in a hurry to get back to her room.
As Frank drove up Harvey Street, he considered his invitation to Grace Murphy. Having had two failed relationships, even though he was still relatively young, he had settled on being an uncommitted bachelor. Of course, taking a woman for a drive didn’t mean that he had to make any commitments.
8
Grace closed the door of her hotel room and fell back against the door. “Christ,” she swore. “How could this have happened so quickly?”
In Harbour Grace for a couple of hours, she had met the very person her father had recently demoted. The policeman at the heart of the investigation. It was a rush, for sure. She wasn’t certain if her heart was racing from her quick escape up the steps or from the anxiety of having to get into character so quickly. She felt somewhat pleased, even a little bit smug, for carrying it off so well. A great beginning to what she anticipated would be more exciting than she originally thought.
She felt sure that Friday would present an opportunity to get up to scratch on where to go from there. Perhaps kill two birds with one stone. Given Officer Fallon’s familiarity with the town, he would be able to recommend key individuals she needed to work her own case. He would certainly know many people and maybe provide helpful knowledge about them. As well, she might get close enough to this guy in order to gain his trust, allowing her access to inside police information. From her father’s assessment, that shouldn’t be too much of a challenge.
Grace had had a long day and was ready for a good night’s rest. Her suite would be her home for the foreseeable future, and her father had seen to it that she had all the necessities. The Cochrane House supplied some basics: a kettle, tea, a supply of sugar, and even complimentary shortbread cookies. Her typewriter was old-fashioned but functional. After picking a single sheet off the stack of paper, she rolled it into the carriage and began tapping away at the keys, beginning the first page of her journal.
After she had typed the first sheet of notes, she reflected on the man she had just met. If Frank were as smart as he was handsome, her father would be proven wrong. Grace Murphy hadn’t been with a man for well over a year. Certainly there wouldn’t be anything wrong or unethical about being sociable.
