Free Good Year For Murder by A.E. Eddenden

Harold?”
    â€œMiss Tommerup’s summer place. I know where it is.”
    â€œEh?”
    â€œI remember it quite plainly now. She had a summer party for the Council. Lovely little spot. Quite picturesque. There’s a creek …”
    â€œCould you take us there?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œNow?” Ammerman frowned. “I think so. Yes.”
    â€œI told the boys to call the local police out there,” Jake said.
    â€œRed Rounders?” Tretheway asked.
    Jake nodded.
    Wellington Square was a sleepy village on the North Shore across from Fort York. It had grown to its present situation from a grant of 3500 acres, given to an Iroquois Indian Chief (Thayendanegea) for his loyalty to the Crown during the American Revolution.
    Wellington Square had, among other things, a tree-shaded main street, desirable summer homes, a magnificent sandy beach, two hardware stores, a museum full of arrowheads, and three policemen. Two of the policemen were part-time—Saturday night and special occasions.
    The only full-time officer was Chief Leonard ‘Red’ Rounders, a big, outgoing, bucktoothed, thirty-year-old native raised on a local farm. He was well liked by the merchants and did a passable job in the quiet hamlet.
    In what could have been his moment of glory, Chief Rounders shot the siren from the fender of the Wellington Square’s 1936 Nash police cruiser while in pursuit of a bank robbery getaway car. To be fair, the niggardly village council discouraged revolver practice and actually charged seven cents for each bullet fired by a law officer. The bank robbers were eventually stopped by a road block set up by the Fort York police. Unfortunately,
The FY Expositor
printed the episode of the siren shooting, which was picked up by the wire services across the country. Chief Red Rounders had no love for Fort York, the
Expositor
or the FYPD.
    â€œI hope we get there first,” Tretheway said.
    â€œI’ll warm the car up.” As Jake went out the front door he heard the Inspector ask Ammerman if he knew how to drive. He thought about the seating arrangements with the Alderman at the wheel and sighed. “At least the rain’s off,” he said, looking at the sky.
    Ammerman weaved the car backwards out of the driveway under Jake’s nervous guidance from the rumble seat. Tretheway stared straight ahead from the passenger seat. The phone rang inside the house.
    â€œJust a minute,” Addie shouted from the verandah. “It might be for you.” She disappeared.
    The trio stayed in the car. Jake leaned through the small aperture in the back curtain, pushing his arm between the two in the front seat to point out the unfamiliar instruments to the seventy-three-year-old Alderman.
    Addie came back. “It’s Chief Zulp, Albert. He wants to speak to you. And he doesn’t sound very friendly.”
    Tretheway turned as far as he could toward her. “Tell him we’ve gone,” he shouted. “Let’s go, Harold.”
    The car jerked away over the centre line, then back again, scuffing the curb. Addie waited and watched until the car turned the last corner, bumped over another curb and went out of sight. She went back into the house and picked up the phone.
    â€œI’m sorry, Chief Zulp, but Albert’s gone to work.”
    It took Ammerman a full hour to find the street. At first they had driven, sure of their geography, down the big hill that skirts Coote’s Paradise to the city limits, then along Highway #2 passing miles of farmland, LaSalle Park, the venerable Wellington Square Golf and Country Club and some summer homes, until they reached Beach Boulevard. Here, at Ammerman’s insistence, they turned right (the wrong way) and drove for a mile along the strip that separates Fort York Harbour from Lake Ontario. Then, at Tretheway’s insistence, Ammerman made an illegal U-turn and drove back into the village. After several other false