Free Murder on the Thirteenth by A.E. Eddenden Page B

Policemen’s Ball?” Jake asked.
    â€œThat’s right. It should be in tonight.” Tretheway started leafing through the paper.
    â€œIt’s not there,” Addie bit her tongue.
    â€œEh?”
    â€œThere’s no report from Mary Dearlove.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œSomeone told me,” Addie lied. “I forget who.” She knew Tretheway didn’t like anyone opening the paper before he did.
    â€œOh?” Tretheway looked at Addie.
    â€œMaybe we should call the
Expositor”
Jake said hastily.
    â€œGood idea.” Tretheway thought for a moment. “First thing tomorrow.” He turned to the comics.
    They found Mary Dearlove the next morning.
    True to his word, Tretheway was on the phone to the editor of the newspaper when the commotion started. He had just found out that Mary Dearlove hadn’t handed in her column Monday morning, and hadn’t phoned in with any excuse, which was unusual, the editor and Tretheway agreed, because she was just as fussy about punctuality as she was about her appearance.
    â€œThere’s something going on out there,” Jake shouted from the front of the office.
    Tretheway thanked the editor hurriedly and joined Jake at the window almost before Beezul and Zoë did. He looked over the heads of the trio as all four craned to the right. A small crowd had gathered in a ragged circle around someone on the sidewalk close to the main hotel entrance.
    â€œSomeone’s down,” Jake said.
    â€œA fall?” Beezul asked.
    â€œI think it’s Luke Dimson,” Zoë said.
    â€œLet’s get out there.” Tretheway pressed forward. Jake was forced to open the door to relieve the pressure. Outside, although the temperature was rising under a warming sun, a bitter wind made them uncomfortable without their coats. At the scene, Tretheway pushed through the ring of onlookers and squatted down beside the prostrate doorman. He was semi-conscious, arms and legs twitching, eyes rolled back in his head, but breathing.Anything he said, or tried to say, was unintelligible.
    â€œIs he okay?” Jake peered over Tretheway’s shoulder.
    â€œI don’t know,” Tretheway said. “Anybody see what happened?”
    â€œI did, Inspector.” Frank the barber, who used to be called Francisco but had changed his name because of the war, squatted on the other side of Luke. He wore the white short-sleeved coat of his trade.
    â€œI was looking out of my window,” Frank pointed over his shoulder unnecessarily—Tretheway and most of his friends were regular customers—“when Luke became upset. Excited. Jumping up and down. Blowing his whistle. And pointing.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œUp. At the sky. Or the hotel.”
    â€œAt what?”
    â€œI couldn’t tell from where I was. I ran right out. Tried to settle him down. Couldn’t. Then he just went down.”
    â€œDid he say anything?”
    â€œYes.”
    There was a pause.
    â€œWell?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œI’m trying to remember,” Frank said. “I want to get it right.”
    Sirens sounded in the distance. A beat constable arrived.
    â€œâ€˜She didn’t do it’,” Frank said.
    â€œThat’s it?” Tretheway said.
    â€œWhat’s it mean?” Jake asked.
    â€œâ€˜There’s one too many’,” Frank said.
    â€œOne too many what?” Tretheway became impatient.
    â€œNo,” Frank said. “Luke said that too.”
    â€œJust a minute.” Tretheway settled down. “Let’s get this straight. Luke said. ‘She didn’t do it’, then, ‘There’s one too many’?”
    Frank nodded. “Then he fell.”
    Tretheway stood up, relieving his leg cramps and moving aside for the ambulance attendants. They checked Luke over quickly, determined no immediate danger and whisked him professionally off to Fort York General.