Quarrel with the Foe

  QUARREL

  WITH THE

  FOE

  Mel Bradshaw

  Text © 2005 by Mel Bradshaw

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover art: Franklin Carmichael / Library and Archives Canada C-130431

  RendezVous Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for our publishing program.

  Published by Napoleon Publishing / RendezVous Press

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  www.rendezvouspress.com

  09 08 07 06 05 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bradshaw, Mel, date

  Quarrel with the foe / Mel Bradshaw.

  ISBN 1-894917-28-6

  I. Title.

  PS8603.R332Q37 2005

  C813'.6

  C2005-903470-X

  For my brothers Bill and Jim

  &

  To the memory of our parents

  Ruth Anne Harris (1903-1968) and

  Melville Alexander Bradshaw (1898-1974)

  Take up our quarrel with the foe:

  To you from failing hands we throw

  The torch; be yours to hold it high.

  If ye break faith with us who die

  We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

  In Flanders fields.

  —John McCrae

  Curtain-Raiser

  Yeah, I was at the battery that May afternoon when Horny Ingersoll had everything between his legs cut away by a piece of exploding field gun. When he hooked on the lanyard and gave it a pull, the breech block just flew apart. Even the gunners were stunned by the noise. The officer had telephoned for high explosive shells, and it was beyond miraculous none of the rest of us was hurt.

  I was just a tourist, come over to see what Horny and his pals thought they were doing for us foot soldiers. Horny and I had been back and forth all the summer before as to which service we’d enlist in. Horny’s dad was all for the guns, thought they were more manly, and he bullied us both hard. He was a rough-tongued, angry man, who kept harking back to something he’d read about “C” Battery and the Relief of Mafeking. In the end, Horny saw things his way, and I—for reasons no better and now forgotten—was stubborn enough to choose a highland regiment of infantry.

  I’d have felt the breeze if I’d been wearing my kilt that day.

  I was out of the line, but I’d just been through a hot time in the Salient, and my nerves were still pretty taut. Almost before the 18-pounder exploded, I’d dived into the gunners’ dug-out and was looking for a stretcher. Nothing doing—but the table was an old door lying unsecured on top of various crates. Sending ration tins flying, I hauled this door up and out to where the bombardier was trying to make the small first aid dressing we all carried stop the bleeding from a very big wound. I passed him the dressing from my kit as well. Unwinding Horny’s puttees from around his shins, I handed one to the other fellow and together we tied the dressings on as best we could. Then we lifted Horny onto the door and tied him to that.

  It was a long two thousand yards back to the wagon lines. I was short of breath and still coughing quite a bit from the gassing I’d got. The combined weight of Horny and those planks must have been considerable, but what you noticed most was the difficulty of keeping the door level. I was carrying the back, so that responsibility fell mostly to me. A big gunner, six foot four if an inch, was on the front, where he didn’t have to look. Whatever thoughts I could spare from the balancing act, as I watched Horny’s blood soak through the khaki cloth bindings, were for how I’d known Horny since before he’d debauched his first maiden and how we’d now have to find him another nickname.

  We didn’t though. He had lost too much blood. We buried him at the dressing station, and Horner C. Ingersoll is what the War Graves Commission eventually carved on his headstone beneath the maple leaf. He was holding my hand when he died. I think I’d meant just to shake hands, but he didn’t want to let go, and when I felt the pressure—panicky hard at first, but weakening with every passing second, damned if I wanted to let go either. In less than another minute, it was all over.

  I hadn’t much stomach for going back up to the gun pits after that, but it seemed unfriendly to let the big gunner go alone. So off we trudged. Horny’s crew no longer had a gun to fire, and we found them cleaning up as best they could before some brass hat put them to work elsewhere.

  I didn’t know their surnames, then. They’d been introduced to me as Sam, the bombardier, Ivan, and Tinker, also called Bobbie—my fellow stretcher-bearer. There should have been one more private, but he had been decapitated by a German whizz-bang the night before and hadn’t yet been replaced. When Tinker and I got back, Ivan was reading out what was stamped on one of the H. E. shell casings—Peerless Armaments, Hamilton.

  “Let me see that round,” said Sam. “Hamilton, no guff. Whosoever’s company that is, I bet he’s making a fortune sending us these darlings.”

  “Think I’ll look him up,” said Ivan, “if I get out of this alive.”

  “If the Boche win the war,” said Tinker, “they’ll be giving him a sodding medal.”

  “I’ll give him something to pin on his chest,” said Ivan. He had his clasp knife out and was flicking it open and closed.

  “On his chest or a little lower down,” said Sam. “Look at this, would you?” He was poking a needle or straight pin into the casing of the eighteen-pound shell. “This metal is full of holes. The bastards just filled them in with paint so the rounds would pass inspection.”

  “That’s a new one.” Ivan caught one of the crumbs of pigment on the end of a finger and studied it closely. “Christ,” he said, pressing down on every word, “are all the circles of hell taken?”

  I felt a cough coming, which I tried to squelch so as not to draw any questions my way.

  “Ha—ah—hack! hack!”

  “What about you, Paul?” asked Tinker. “You knew Horny longer than any of us. Bet you wouldn’t mind getting Mr. Peerless in a dark alley.”

  “No,” I said, “I wouldn’t.”

  I could hear my voice sounded strained. And to be frank, I felt put in a false position. Yes, I had been to school with Horny, and to his home for that matter, but we hadn’t been truly close. As I say, I came to see him mainly to watch the guns at work. Length of acquaintance didn’t seem to matter that much compared to what Horny and these men had been through together. To face death beside another for as little as a week means more than sitting in the same schoolroom for five years.

  I liked Horny well enough, and we’d roughhoused together, but I hadn’t kept up with him once girls entered the picture. I had been a late developer, not one of the fast set.

  Still, I didn’t want to tell the gunners any of this. It would have been disloyal. Horny had been a good soldier, as far as I knew, and had met a rotten fate at the hands of his own country’s arms-makers. At the time, I didn’t even know if there was a single owner behind Peerless Armaments. One thing for sure: if there was one, he had not deliberately blown Horny apart. He might not even have given the order to paint over the holes in the metal. On the other hand, he was employing and letting himself be enriched by fraud artists of the most despicable stripe. On that spring day in 1915 outside Ypres, while I listened to Sam, Tinker and Ivan bragging about settling scores, there was one word I couldn’t get out of my head—manslaughter. The slaughter of men as if they were cattle, with no malice—without even the limited malice combatants reserved for opposing armies—but carelessly, wantonly.

  I
knew that the peacetime criminal code did not prescribe capital punishment for that offence—but since coming to Europe, I’d seen too many soldiers let down by Canadian suppliers, cheated by compatriots who risked nothing. Under the circumstances, I thought executing the bosses—a quick and merciful execution by firing squad—sounded pretty reasonable.

  Chapter One

  I wasn’t on duty the night Digby Watt was found lying “in the gutter” in front of his office with a fatal dose of lead in his chest. He was found by a journalist who claimed to have been tipped off by an anonymous phone call at around one forty-five a.m. The journalist’s name was Ivan MacAllister. The date was April 20, 1926.

  I first read about it in the newspaper when I got to police headquarters later that morning. The article ended jarringly with the words, “Who’s next?” I accompanied my reading with a cup of coffee and a handful of Aspirins. I had a rather severe morning-after headache, something an enforcer of the Ontario Temperance Act could scarcely admit to.

  Especially not with Detective Inspector Sanderson looming over my desk.

  “Shameful journalism,” said Sanderson. “What business has that rag asking who’s next as if this were the start of a bloodbath?”

  It was easy to imagine the inspector in a clerical collar, fixing a congregation with that blue glare under a straight-across hedge of black eyebrow. The high, broad forehead above only added weight to the disapproval. I knew, though, there was something more. A connection by marriage to the publisher of the Toronto Examiner had made the two men dogged rivals.

  “All that fear-mongering does is put my detectives under pressure to do a rush job.” Sanderson papered over the newsprint on my desk with official documents as he spoke. “Get busy, Paul. I want you to read the reports of the investigating constable and the medical examiner. Then go round to the house and interview the family. There’s the son Morris who worked with Watt, and Morris’s wife. Also an unmarried daughter, Edith.”

  “Sure thing. But won’t Mr. Fergus’s nose be put out of joint if a whipper-snapper like me gets first crack at the genteel folk?” Wilf Fergus at age sixty-three was the city’s senior detective sergeant and let no one, including the slightly younger inspector, forget it.

  “Fergus is indisposed.” A twitch of the eyebrow hedge warned me off asking for specifics. “So—I’m giving youth a chance. I assume in your officers’ mess they taught you something of polite society.”

  “I’ll try to keep my boots off the furniture.”

  “Never mind Watt’s business associates: Knight and one of the acting detectives are talking to them—lad named Cruickshank from Station Number One if you need him for anything. And never mind looking for eyewitnesses. I’ve a couple more men doing that thankless job. Better see Watt’s fiancée, though, if that’s what she was.”

  “Fiancée?” I hadn’t come across that in my reading. “Digby’s?”

  “The children’s mother died two years ago. My wife tells me there’s gossip about a younger woman, much younger. Get her name from that journalist MacAllister. You should speak to him anyway. On your way now, and, Paul . . .”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “I don’t like my men drinking, even on their own time. You don’t have to be angelic, but you do have to be alert.”

  “I’ll be both, sir.”

  I sorted the documents I’d been given into piles. I continued sorting even after Sanderson had withdrawn and had turned his searching gaze on some other sinner. While this wasn’t my first homicide assignment, it was the first time I’d been asked to interview the principals on my own. It was an occasion, if hardly one for butterflies in the stomach. Despite my inspector’s reference to giving youth a chance, I was well into my thirties and past all that.

  I tackled the constable’s report first. He had arrived at 96 Adelaide Street West at 2:33 a.m. in response to a telephone call from Ivan MacAllister, of Broadview Avenue, who remained on the scene. Also present when the police arrived was Morris Watt of Glen Road. There, in front of a six-storey office block, had been found the body of a grey-haired male in his sixties lying face up on the sidewalk. Not, as MacAllister reported, in the gutter, but with his head pointed that way, which suggested he had been facing the building when he fell. The constable had neglected to include a sketch with his report. The deceased was identified by Morris as his father Digby Watt. There was wet blood on the jacket and vest, apparently proceeding from three separate gunshot wounds. On closer inspection, it was found that only two bullets had penetrated the deceased’s chest, the third lodging harmlessly in Daily Strength for Daily Needs, a leather-bound volume nestled in his left inside jacket pocket. This bullet, although deformed by the impact, was judged to be point two-five calibre. No firearm was found at the scene, nor any cartridge cases. The deceased’s wallet was in his pocket and contained ninety-seven dollars. The deceased’s fly was open, and the penis and testicles pulled out in full view.

  I sat up when I read that. The Examiner stated only that Watt’s clothing had been “disarranged” and that he had been left “partially naked”.

  At 2:45 a.m., the constable used the pay phone at Sheppard Street and Adelaide to summon the medical examiner, who arrived at 3:28 a.m. Based on a temperature reading, the medical examiner estimated the body had been cooling for between one and two hours, placing the time of death between 1:30 and 2:30 a.m. He gave the opinion that the two wounds were most consistent with small calibre bullets fired from the front. Death would have resulted immediately. No other marks of violence were discovered. There were no apparent exit wounds, so an autopsy ought to be able to recover the two unaccounted-for projectiles. In accordance with police practice, these would be sent over to the University of Toronto for ballistic analysis. The deceased had been taken to Grace Hospital at College and Huron Streets for further post-mortem examination.

  I rubbed my temples, then picked a nickel from my right side trouser pocket. Heads I’d go to Glen Road first, tails to the newspaper offices. It was a good throw, the coin rocketing straight and high and executing many revolutions before plopping comfortably into the palm of my hand. I slapped it onto the back of my left wrist.

  The king’s bearded profile.

  I picked up the telephone and asked for the number of the Toronto Examiner. I’d never let chance rule my life more than was necessary and wasn’t about to start. Ivan MacAllister was the first person on the scene and that made him the person to start with. As luck would have it, he was still in the office.

  “Wait till I get there,” I told him.

  I unlocked the right top drawer of my desk. There, wrapped in its shoulder strap, lay my slate-grey service revolver. The Webley Mark IV, while smaller than the bulky Mark VI lugged about by British officers during the war, was a weight all the same and helped not at all with most detective work. I closed the drawer again and locked the pistol inside. Having already endured my morning visit from the inspector, I decided that today—in defiance of regulations—I’d chance going without.

  Headquarters of the Toronto Police Department occupied a cramped suite on the ground floor of City Hall, so cramped that a couple of desks had been pushed out into the wide hall. There a pair of self-conscious clerks drew up their reports in guiltless exile. I envied them, especially on head-sore mornings, and renewed my standing offer of a desk swap when the click of my heels made them look up. The dim corridors with their cool tiles made for a soothing middle ground between the chaos of the office and the chaos of the town. When I got out, too soon, onto the soot-darkened rose sandstone front steps and looked down Bay Street, I couldn’t see Lake Ontario for the new elevated railway tracks feeding into the perpetually under-construction new Union Station. The street teemed with billboards, shop signs, streetcar wires, square black Ford motor cars, jaywalkers in flapping spring overcoats, and a lone traffic cop, straight and tall in his English-bobby style helmet. Him I did not envy.

  In sympathy, I took my own hat off and carried it. The morning was o
vercast, but mild and dry. Truth to tell, there wasn’t a lot of difference between outdoors and the office. The street smelled of traffic, not spring flowers. Doubtless it was the sort of day Digby Watt would have liked. A good day for business in that it did not immediately distract the susceptible with memories of springtime romance, or the more prosaic with thoughts of the golf course.

  Digby Watt had rarely been distracted by any sort of weather or any normal notion of quitting time. At age sixty-seven, he had been notorious for staying at his office past midnight. It would not have been difficult for anyone who wanted him dead to find him on a dark and lonely street, empty as only a street in the financial district can be at that hour.

  Despite the traffic, it took me no more than five minutes to walk from Queen and Bay to the Examiner Building, a squat four-storey block on King Street West. The commissionaire told me I’d find MacAllister on the second floor, turn right at the first landing and ask anyone in the city room.

  The room contained a scattering of eight or ten reporters working candlestick phones rather than pounding the pavement. Some were bleary-eyed veterans who looked even more hung over than I felt, some teenaged cubs in their first pair of long pants. I overheard one of the latter commiserating with a man over the death of his pet monkey and asking for the juicy particulars that might pump readers’ tear ducts or jiggle their funny bone.

  They all looked far too industrious to interrupt, but in the end I didn’t have to ask. I recognized my man across the room as the Ivan who had worked the same field gun in Flanders as my former classmate Horny Ingersoll.

  Ivan had remained long and thin, with small thin hands I could still see flicking a clasp knife open and shut. Right at this moment, he was playing rummy for cigarettes with one of the women reporters. He had apparently made it through the war and into gainful employment with four limbs and two eyes intact. He had grown a thin, mud-coloured moustache that somehow went with the sneering expression successful newsmen are supposed to have. His brown tweeds could have leaped from the day’s fashion page—loose in the trousers, tight in the sleeves, with four buttons at each cuff. He was easily the best-dressed person in sight.