of libel.”
I decline his invitation for a legal opinion and lower myself a few inches in my chair.
“Oh, sure, you havehimall snuggled up in bed with you, too.”
Zoller now launches into a shrill condemnation of the enemies of progress. I am somewhat alarmed, and conjure an image of theFuhrerin his bunker, railing against his many conspirators. After several minutes of this he recovers a semblance of dignity, and retakeshis seat. The developer, whose patch-on smile has become a strainedrisus sardonicus,clears his throat and says, “Does anyone have any more questions?”
Benumbed, no one rises, so Zoller hammers his gavel and adjourns the meeting.
I follow George outside, fumbling for my cigarettes. “Good God” I say. “Poor Zoller”
“A superb performance tonight,” says George. “Must be off his medication.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, I wonder if I can get a reaction from you” It is, of course, the man in the porkpie hat, Forbish of theEcho. “Not now, Norman.”
I am looking about for Mrs. Blake, hoping to satisfy her that I am not Kurt Zoller’s bed companion, but the pesky, rotund reporter doesn’t let up, and wants to know “my attitude” about the subdivision.
“Let’s say I’m antipathetic.”
Spotting my quarry, I bolt from him. Margaret Blake is already in her truck, but sees me approaching, and studies me with an expression of either pity or disgust.
“Very interesting meeting, Mrs. Blake.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“In case you had the wrong impression, I am one with the chocolate lilies.”
“You seemed awfully chummy with Kurt Zoller.”
“Kurt is like a brother to me.”
She doesn’t join with me in smiling. Perhaps she believes I am serious. I wonder: Why have I become so concerned that she think well of me? Truly, she is a pain in the behind, and lacks the redeeming grace of a sense of humour. Yet. . I am growing to admire her spunk.
“Though we are neighbours, Mrs. Blake, I never seem to bump into you — ”
“That’s probably because I work from six in the morning until sunset.”
The implication: I am a layabout with my amateur’s garden and my many hirelings. “I wanted to talk to you about eliminating one of the small frictions that seem to hound our relationship. As you know, Blake versus Beauchamp is set for Small Claims Court this month.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, I am only asking a hundred dollars for that animal. If I put in for all the hours I spent feeding, giving shots, building pens, and generally mucking about, I could be asking for about five times that.”
“Now, look, I’ve done some research. Betsy is worth sixty dollars on the hoof at fair market value. I’m prepared to dicker.”
“There’s emotional pain and suffering. Betsy was like a pet.”
“Emotional …” I am lost for words. This woman will not be reasoned with. Again I feel my heart harden and my spine stiffen. It is becoming a matter of principle — I will not let this fierce farmer walk all over me in her mud-caked gumboots.
“Well, let’s sort it out in court then, Mrs. Blake.”
“Okay, well, bye-bye then. Have a pleasant evening.”
I give her a resigned salute and she drives off. Very well, I will have some sport with this stubborn plaintiff. The judge will apportion blame fifty-fifty, but with a magnanimous gesture intended to shame her, I shall pick up the entire tab, including court costs.
Dear Mr. Brown,
It was a pleasure to meet you, and I will try to carry out your wishes the best I can. The fee we discussed is agreeable.
May I confirm my instructions, so there will be no misunderstandings.I. Never are you and I to meet while the investigation is in progress. 2. Our only contact will be through a post-office box for which both of us havekeys. 3. I will gather information on Professor Jonathan O’Donnell to aid in his conviction of the rape of your fiance, Miss Kimberley Martin. 4. Miss Martin must not be made aware that I am making these inquiries on your behalf.
However, I must advise you that without access to the central figure in this case I will be working at some disadvantage. I will try to be discreet, but I am well known to the police and to many lawyers.
I would much prefer that you consulted with Miss Martin about my role. However, you are the client, and mine is not to reason why.
My activities to date may be summarized as follows:
Having read the complete newspaper files about the case, I drove Wednesday morning to Professor O’Donnell’s home in West Vancouver.
Watching from my car, I observed Professor O’Donnell leave the house in shorts and sweatshirt, and begin running down the street. He returned half an hour later and went into the house.
It was not long before he reappeared, dressed in a shirt and slacks, and he backed his Jaguar car from the garage and drove past me while I hid below the dashboard. I then pulled out and followed him over the Lions Gate Bridge, into downtown, and ultimately to the False Creek area, where he parked beside a three-storey medical office building. I saw him standing at the building’s door, checking his watch. I observed his hands were shaking. (The time was 1:50 p.m.) I deduced he had an appointment or meeting of some kind, but he seemed to lack courage, for he did not go directly into the building but into a cocktail bar down the street. However, he only consumed a tomato juice.
He then proceeded outside and returned to the medical building, taking the elevator to the top floor, which houses a dentist, a physiotherapist, an ophthalmologist, and a psychiatrist, Dr. J. M. Dix. It was in the waiting room of this office that I saw him talking to the receptionist. I do not know what the problem was, but he did not wait to see Dr. Dix, and almost immediately left. I sense the subject is trying to come to grips with a drinking problem and perhaps has enlisted a psychiatrist to help him.
I then followed his car to the University of British Columbia, where he went to his office, remaining until evening, when he returned to his home.
My next task will be to seek out among Mr. O’Donnell’s acquaintances someone not fond of him. I find that enemies are often productive sources.
I remain yours truly,
Francisco (Frank) Sierra,
Licensed Private Investigator.
I rise this Tuesday morning after another dream of impotence, myself on bended knee before the Roman magistrates,in puris naturalibus — stripped bare, humiliated, begging them to censure me. Somewhere in the shadows of this dream a woman lurks, probably Annabelle — but I am not sure.
After I bathe, I study in my bathroom mirror the naked hero who plays the starring role of my dreams. The news is not so bad. Clearly I am trimmer — the exercise and the fresh salads are working well. Here we see evidence of outdoorsmanship: the stark outlines of a farmer’s tan. Truly, I have become a redneck — though the nape ofthat neck is hidden by an untended garden of unruly hair. Roberto, my barber, who is waiting in Vancouver with his clippers, will have a fit that will rival the tantrums of Kurt Zoller. But Judge Pickles must not think he is dealing with some old hippie lawyer.
It’s eight o’clock. Outside, I hear an aircraft throttling down, gliding into Beauchamp Bay.Alea iacta est.The die is cast. Today I shall cross the Rubicon — or at least the Strait of Georgia, beyond whose swirling waters lie the brutish city, its predators, its victims, its ruthless courts of law.
But my visit will be short, time enough to be reminded of the useless things I left behind.
I attend at my bedroom closet, seek out underclothes and matching socks. I have but one suit here, the one I wore when I arrived, though fifteen others grace my massive closet in Vancouver.
As I don my suit, I am overcome for a moment by a mental picture of Kimberley Martin: Joan of Arc in male armour. Maybe I should buy a garish tie for today’s hearing. That would certainly set a nervous tone.