Under the Dragon’s Tail

Constable Crabtree tapped on the wall outside Murdoch’s cubicle, then popped his head through the reed curtain.

“Inspector would like to see you in his office, sir.”

“This minute?” Murdoch was writing out his notes on what had happened so far with the Shaw case, and he was irritated at being interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s he want?”

“He didn’t say, sir.” The constable answered the unspoken question. “He’s a bit liverish this morning.”

With a sigh, Murdoch got up and went upstairs to the inspector’s office.

Brackenreid was standing at his window looking into the street below. He didn’t turn around.

“I swear that was Colonel Grasett’s carriage going by. He told me he’d just bought a pair of fine greys.”

“Really, sir? How splendid.”

Brackenreid swung around, trying to see if he could pin down the offence he sensed in Murdoch’s tone but not quite able to. Seeing his bewilderment, Murdoch felt a twinge of shame that he was baiting the man. Even though Brackenreid’s snobbery galled him, it was like teasing a simpleton.

“You wanted to see me?” He forced himself to speak in a neutral voice.

The inspector sat down behind his desk. He’d removed his serge jacket and was wearing a short-sleeved fishnet undershirt. The thick hair on his chest poked through the holes. Murdoch thought he resembled a worn-down scrub brush. Omnipresent flies buzzed around the window and crawled across the big wooden desk. Murdoch was tempted to grab the swatter and send off a couple but he resisted. Why should he do Brackenreid’s work? Last summer the inspector had assigned two of the youngest constables in the station to killing off all the flies. He’d fined them one cent for every fly he found alive.

Brackenreid squinted his eyes in a strange, leering way, and leaning forward in his seat, he said, “We have a spy and a saboteur in our midst and we must root him out at once.”

Murdoch was taken aback.

“Sir?”

“Have you been paying attention to Crabtree’s condition lately?”

“I beg your pardon, sir–”

“He doesn’t look good. He’s pasty, sluggish. When I asked him if anything was the matter, he said he’s been having a touch of gastritis. Like hell he is.”

He was trying so hard not to be overheard his voice was garbled and Murdoch could barely understand a word he said.

“Somebody is trying to poison him. Queer our chances in the pull. I’m convinced of it.”

Murdoch stared at him. “Maybe he just has an upset stomach. Ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

“No. We went over everything that’s gone into his mouth. Good wholesome food that his wife prepares. What he’s always had.”

“Why do you suspect poison?”

“Because a big, healthy man like him shouldn’t be having bellyaches every day. Not like that. Somebody has made a wager against him and they want to make sure they win.”

Brackenreid pulled at his moustache, putting the end in his mouth and sucking on it. “What’s your opinion of Seymour? He’s a sour puss. I’ve never trusted the man.”

“I can’t imagine it, sir. Sergeant Seymour is a thoroughly decent man.”

“Even the best can be tempted, Murdoch. Even the best.”

“If I may say, Inspector, the evidence is not conclusive that Crabtree is being administered poison. Perhaps we should determine that before we look for a culprit.”

Surprisingly, Brackenreid didn’t lose his temper. “That’s what I’m talking about, Murdoch. I want you to keep a close eye on him. I’ve instructed him not to eat or drink anything that his wife or you and me don’t see first.”

“All right.”

“And I want you to taste everything before it goes into his mouth while he’s here on duty.”

“Sir?”

“Like Roman times. The emperors always had some slave sample their food first in case of poison.”

“A slave!”

“Nothing wrong with that. They got to eat better than they would have normally.”

“Unless they died first.”

Brackenreid chuckled. “You’ll be all right, Murdoch. You’re clearly skeptical of the idea anyway. This’ll put it to the test.”

“I suppose it will.”

“There’s not a lot of time ’til the tournament. He’s got to be in top shape.”

Murdoch knew it was useless to try to reason with him. Once he had a bee in his bonnet, it would stay and buzz around there until it died of exhaustion.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No. You’re proceeding with the River Street case, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

Murdoch had not yet told Brackenreid about his interview with Mrs. Walter Pedlow. The inspector was jittery where Toronto’s best society were concerned. If anything significant happened, Murdoch would tell him later.

“Have you nabbed the culprit yet?”

“Not yet, sir. The inquest was postponed until Friday because Mr. Johnson has the mumps.”

“Does he? Poor fellow. That can do your member in forever. You can’t get it up.”

Murdoch thought he was wrong about that. He’d heard mumps could make you sterile but not impotent. However he let it go. Brackenreid didn’t like to stand corrected about anything.

“Find the daughter,” the inspector continued. “She’s the guilty party. Those cripples are like savages. No morals at all.”

“She’s not a cripple, sir. Just deaf.”

“Same thing. Anyway, Murdoch, don’t dawdle. Get to it. And by the by, don’t mention a word to Crabtree. Don’t want to make him jumpy. Just watch him the way a tigress watches her cub.”