Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(95)

But I was busy being invisible, strolling about, listening to the excited chatter of neighbours, putting the pieces together.

Lou Sabatino was inside Dr. Jerrison’s home at the time, and when he was led out, his arm in a sling, and then got into his car to follow his host, it seemed likely they were en route to the Calgary General Hospital, only a few minutes away.

Fortunately I was able to wiggle my car out of the logjam of the curious. I rang Celeste as soon as I was underway, briefing her so hurriedly that I feared I was garbling my words.

Luck was with me, for I arrived at the sprawling hospital grounds in time to glimpse Dr. Jerrison walking Lou to the emergency wing.

I hate myself every time I do this, but I nestled into reserved parking, stuck my handicapped decal on the windshield, armed myself with a cane, and limped expeditiously after them, catching up as they arrived at the imaging section.

In the waiting room, I picked up a magazine — Horse and Rider, as I recall, “Stampede Edition” — and sat among several of my fellow injured. Jerrison had no trouble pulling rank and got Lou in immediately.

Several minutes later, the two returned, Dr. Jerrison jovially reassuring Lou the sprain would only take a few days to heal and cautioning that he must avoid punching anyone for at least ten days.

Down the corridor they went, and I hobbled along behind. Lou was deposited inside a private “Recovery Room,” as it was labelled, and upon leaving him there, the good doctor paused to say, “They’ll be along soon.” I heard only a mumbled response. Then Jerrison: “Not at all, Rob. It was entirely my pleasure.”

Someone must have given Lou a pen and some writing paper, because as I entered he was sitting on a chair making notes — not surprisingly, because this experienced journalist knew he had a highly bankable story to tell.

He may have thought I was a doctor — I have the manner and the overpriced suit, and I didn’t introduce myself. I merely passed him my phone and told him to tap the Call button. “That’s your wife’s cell number. Celeste is waiting for you.”

My hope was to spirit Lou from the hospital before investigators showed up. But four or five agonizing minutes passed in fervent conversation between them, dominated by Celeste. Her husband squeezed in an occasional gasping declaration of his affection, all the while shaking with shock or excitement or joy or all of the above.

I finally took the phone and told Celeste we were on our way. Lou followed me like an eager puppy as we quickly went out a side door to a driveway where he took cover behind a laundry van while I retrieved my car.

In less than the minute it took me to rouse you at your hotel — and drag you away from the five o’clock local news — he was in the Fiat, and we were on our way to the aptly named Hope Street.

The scene inside the Wong house was tumultuous — they’d been huddled around the TV screen, but all jumped up, and Lou was buried in enfolding arms.

You showed up in a taxi ten minutes later, and your spent lieutenant was grateful to turn over operations to his field marshal (Monty, as dubbed by your barber?) for a campaign to breach the enemy lines.

Let me reiterate my admiration for the array of weaponry you brought to bear on Lou: your good-natured bantering, your soothing reassurances, your basic kindness. However, he was in such an unusual state of euphoria, besotted with life and love recovered, that he seemed in a hypnotic trance. So please be warned he may not have caught it all. Smiling and nodding one’s head like a puppet does not imply comprehension.

Later, if I may say so, you were at your eloquent best in taking on what seemed the entire Calgary Police Department: an exhibition of both charm and firmness as you worked the phone, making your way up the ranks of the hierarchy, finally speaking to the deputy chief and the chief himself.

I was not present at the two-hour tete-a-tete with them at your hotel, but that broad smile as you returned to the war room revealed your triumph even before you spoke of it.

The negotiated terms of surrender seem fair and wise. The national hero, your valued new client (secreted in the suite adjoining mine here at the Fairmont Palliser), is prepared to fully cooperate, but only two days hence. Until then, the cops will keep the lid on and screw it tight.

Altogether, a demonstration of forensic skill that will never garner headlines (though you’ve had those). But not all great art goes on public display.

I was glad to be of help assembling your team of experts. Professor Deore is reputed to be quite a bright young woman. The voice identifier — that was a coup, the very gentleman Farquist had hired to identify Margaret’s voice on the Freak Out recording.

It’s nearing three. I shall slide these pages under your door, then enjoy another sip of whisky before heading to bed.

Will you want me at the law courts building today? I’d love to be there.

With best wishes for the new year,

Francisco Sierra





SUCKER PUNCH

It was 10 a.m. on the last day of the year. Tonight, some would celebrate the arrival of the new one. Others would mourn. Arthur aspired to be in the former camp, but now was nagged by doubt and was struggling against the cynical grump within: the doomster whose wife could barely abide his dismal scenarios.

They’d been uncomfortable with each another ever since he proposed they take separate rooms. He couldn’t even bring himself to hug his client, except in private, and then awkwardly. Margaret followed his cue, refraining from touching him in public.