Step Softly Ere You Go from H. Paul Doucette

 Excerpt of first three chapters from this new release

 

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Step Softly; Ere You Go

A Matt Murphy Mystery #1

 

H. Paul Doucette

Chapter One

 

 

The small studio was cloaked in semi-darkness, except for the stream of moonlight coming through the skylight; some of the light spilling over the polished hard wood floor. A large full length mirror, with a long hand rail attached to it, filled one entire wall. There was a baby grand piano sitting in one corner. The room had an almost ethereal feel which, to one attuned to such things, seemed to have faint echoes of dreams and hopes emanating from the old wooden walls.

The young woman dressed in black clothing, quietly walked across the open area to the door that led to the locker rooms on the other side. She opened the door and passed through, closing the door behind her. Taking out a flashlight, she made her way to the dressing rooms and, finding the one she was looking for, opened the door and went in. Going directly to a locker, she opened it and extracted a pair of well worn pointe shoes, ballet slippers, then went to the small make-up table and sat down, setting the shoes on the table.

She reached inside the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small cardboard box, about the size of a box of matches. She opened it and carefully took out three sewing needles that had been nipped in half and began to insert them into the toes of each shoe with the pin points protruding just enough to ensure they broke the skin but not so much as to cause permanent damage.

Once she was satisfied with her work, she returned the shoes to the locker then, after a quick look around, left the room and headed out of the studio.

 

* * *

 

 

It was one of those really great spring days, you know the ones, filled with the promise of the coming summer that lay just around the corner with its heat rising from baked pavement trapped between the buildings. Until then, warm air gently blew in the open window behind my desk carrying with it the smells and sounds of the Village: an old familiar melody I never grew tired of hearing.

My name is Matt Murphy. I run a one man detective agency with my girl Friday, Maddie Cox, out of a small office on Belmuto Street, not far from the Village. I know what you're thinking; a private eye, wow. Late nights in smoke filled bars rubbing elbows with wise guys, hoods, loose dames, a cigarette in the corner of my mouth and a glass of whiskey, straight up of course, with a look of menace and disdain on my face. Not even close.

My main business comes from a couple of insurance companies that have me on retainer to look into certain claims. I also work for two law firms on a regular basis when they need background or alibi checks done. The riskiest work I do is when some visiting ‘somebody’ visits the Village and needs protection. These assignments come in from a contact, Saul Rubinek, a theatrical agent, who needs someone like me to play babysitter. It isn't the most glamorous work, but it pays the bills and puts something in the bank. I almost never have to use my gun.

I recently married the long time love of my life, Jane Caldwell, and live in a cozy flat in a quaint one bedroom renovated Victorian house on Bellair Street just down from Critchley and Bloor. It is owned by an equally old, but motherly widow, who thinks I should get a real job. She dotes on Jane like she was her daughter, which is okay with me.

I love Yorkville Village and have done so since I first came to Toronto from Manitoba back in ‘54. By day, it’s like any other place; people going about their daily lives; working, eating, making love; the usual stuff. But after dark! Now, that’s when it awakens with its clubs and bars and the streets crawling with gawkers, thrill seekers, music lovers and nowadays, hippies, dopers, and runaways, all searching for...whatever. The papers compare it to Greenwich Village in New York and Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco; three pillars of what they call the counterculture movement.

On this particular day, Friday to be exact, I was happy to just sit back and enjoy the day thinking about the love of my life.

I was sitting in my office with my feet up on the corner of the desk listening to a song on the radio by a couple of kids named Simon and Garfunkel. They sang well together with really nice harmonies.

Most of the news in the Globe and Mail seemed to be focused on the tensions between the Soviets and the U.S.; the States’ growing involvement in a place called Vietnam and the situation in Cuba. I couldn't help wondering why they felt the need to become involved in the affairs of other countries, especially ones where there didn’t seem to be any apparent economic interests. I mean, didn't they have enough going on right here at home with the growing unrest and protests.

I wasn’t looking to take on any new cases for a while anyway, but as usual, the gods who appear to have taken an interest in my life had other ideas. I’m not a religious man, but I sometimes think someone or something out there has singled me out for attention, or maybe it’s just karma. Either that, or they were bored up there on their mountain and they chose today to have some fun.

It had been over six months since my last big case. That one involved my best friend, Abe Goldman, who is a detective on the Metropolitan Police Force. He was working with the drug squad on an undercover operation in the Village and at Rochdale College. The case turned sour, and he got shot by a member of a bike gang that ran the trade out of the College. Luckily he survived. The shooter was never caught. The police eventually put their investigation on the back burner for the obvious reasons. So, I set out to find who was behind it. Friendship matters, especially with me.

Turned out to be a couple of dirty cops.

Abe recovered and was now back on the job where he got promoted to Lieutenant and re-assigned to Internal Affairs at headquarters downtown.

As I was saying, the gods decided that I must have been idle long enough, so, in their wisdom and to make sure I didn't slip into an easy comfortable life, they sent her to my door.

“Mr. Murphy?” she said, knocking softly on the glass panel, as she opened the door. Maddie must have stepped away from her sentry post: the reception desk.

“That's me,” I said, swinging my feet to the floor and swiveling the chair to face her.

She stood about five-six. Looked to be in her forties. A nice looking slender figure with long legs. It all came wrapped in a colorful floral dress that hung down to just above her knees. She wore a light woolen waist length jacket. Her thick red hair was tied up in a bun at the back of her head but didn't have that severe matronly look you'd expect. Not many women could have pulled off that look as well as she did. She wore just enough makeup to accent her facial features perfectly. By anyone's standard she was a looker.

“Have a seat, uh...”

“Adele Smithson,” she said, as she moved gracefully and sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

“Okay,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve come to you on the recommendation of Saul Rubinek. He said you’re the detective that was involved in that horrible business with those poor actors some time ago. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I said. Uh-oh, was that the sounds of chuckling from above.

“Good, then I have come to the right man.” She settled back into the chair, relaxing her shoulders. “I own a dance studio on Isabella Street, across from George Hisop Park. It’s not a very big studio as such, but I have several of the more notable dancers in the city in my company. Are you familiar with the dance scene?”

“Not really. I have seen a few performances but that's it.”

“Yes. I see. Well, as I was saying, I have a studio. At the present time, it consists of twelve permanent dancers and a list of a dozen or so call ups.”

I must have given her a funny look at that point because she said, “Call ups are dancers who are not a permanent part of any company but who are available as extras, stand-ins, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, thanks,” I said. “Go on.”

She nodded and continued, “For the last two months we have been in rehearsal for the debut a new production by one of the most promising new choreographers to come along in the last ten years.” She paused waiting for a response from me. When none came she continued.

“Yes, well, suffice it to say, there is a lot of interest in his work. Because of the importance of this production, we have received a number of offers from some of the major dancers in the city, and from abroad, to lead the performance. However, the choreographer has indicated that he has a girl in mind for the lead. She's a young dancer from Montreal that he met while directing another dance there and was greatly impressed with her. Of course, I agreed with his request. After all, this is a major event, and I’m honored that he chose my company to debut it in this country.” She paused for a moment.

“Uh-huh,” I said, “guess you would be. So why do you need the services of a private investigator?”

“I recently visited Montreal to meet this girl and to see her dance. Her name is Monique Levesque. I was quite impressed. She is a natural, and quite nice as well. I invited her to come to Toronto which she accepted. That was two weeks ago. The production has a two week run here before going on tour. Opening night is scheduled for three weeks from now. She has been in rehearsals during this time.”

She took a moment before continuing. I took this opportunity to offer her a coffee, which she accepted. I got up, poured a cup and placed it on the desk in front of her, then sat back down.

“Thank you. As I was saying, during this time a number of, ah, things have happened.”

“Things? What kind of things?” I asked, taking a few notes as she told her story.

“Odd things, I guess you'd say. Nothing dramatic or suspicious as such. It's just that, taken individually, one would think they were nothing more than little accidents, you know, the kind that happen in a studio. It's just that there have been enough for me to wonder, you see. It just seems to me to be stretching coincidence to keep thinking these are just a series of accidents.”

“Can you tell me what exactly has happened?”

“Props falling. Exercise bars coming loose, those kind of things. But it was something that happened two days ago. When Monique arrived for rehearsal she discovered that there were several pins embedded in the toe of her practice shoes. Which is why I have come to you.”

“And that's serious because...,” I asked, sounding a little puzzled.

“Because of the potential damage it could cause to a ballet dancer. It could, at the worst, ruin or end her career.”

“Gotcha. Sorry. Has there been anything else as threatening happening to her or any of the other dancers?”

“No. My God, you make it sound like someone is deliberately doing these things.”

“Well, you have to ask yourself how the pins got there. Somebody had to have done it,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, looking upset at the prospect, as if she hadn’t considered that before.

“I assume that other studios were in competition for this deal, if so, do you think any of them might harbor some resentment against yours for being chosen?”

“It is a competitive world, yes, but to actually do something to endanger a dancer...I can't believe that. Not many understand the nuances within the dance community, but this? No. There has to be another reason.”

“Uh-huh. However, from what you've given me so far, it sounds like someone isn't happy that you won the deal.”

“Are you suggesting there may be someone trying to harm the girl or maybe sabotage the production?”

I nodded.

“It’s a possibility, yes, although, for the life of me, I can't imagine who would do such a thing.” She sat with a worried look on her face. It was obvious that the possibility was upsetting her.

After a moment, she said, “If what you are suggesting is even remotely true then it seems that I really do need your services. So, can you help me?”

“Yeah. I don't see a problem. I have nothing pressing at this time.”

“Wonderful. You do understand that this will require a certain degree of, ah, discretion,” she said, with a slight smile. “The last thing I need is for any negative or adverse publicity to...”

“Not to worry,” I said, interrupting her. “I understand.”

“Good,” she said. “I had hoped that I could rely on your understanding of the situation.”

I outlined how I would proceed.

I would show up at the studio and nose around a little. I also wanted to be able to talk to her dancers, including the Levesque girl. We agreed that I would pose as a freelance reporter doing a feature story on her company and the upcoming performance. That should avoid any concerns as well as putting the dancers at ease. She agreed to my plan without any fuss and even agreed to a two hundred dollar retainer.

I made a few calls to my regular clients after she left to let them know I wouldn’t be available for the next couple of weeks. That wasn’t an issue. I had a good working relationship with another detective who covered for me when I needed him. Before leaving I called one of my favorite clubs and made reservations for dinner, then called Jane.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The sun was shining, the air pleasantly fresh and clear. I was lounging on my sofa with the weekend paper and a cup of fresh brewed coffee, enjoying the smell of frying bacon coming from the small kitchen as Jane made breakfast.

We’ve been together for more than two years. Right from the beginning, she accepted what I did for a living and who I am as a man. There were times that tried her, especially whenever I took a case that carried some degree of danger, but she still held on. She worried, of course, but never said anything or complained. I promised myself I would never give her cause to worry, if possible. In time, I grew to the realization that we loved each other.

Our relationship grew closer and deeper. so one day while on one of our favorites walks, I asked her to marry me. She accepted without batting an eye. That was six months ago, now we live together, agreeing it made more sense for me to move into her apartment on Bellair Street not far from Critchley. It was close to Queen’s University where she worked as a researcher in the library.

I looked over the top of the paper and marveled at her beauty as I always do.

She stood bare foot at the stove wearing nothing but one of my shirts and an apron; the shirt was three sizes too big but she still looked better in it than I ever could. My eyes traveled over her one hundred and fifteen pound, five-foot-four, slender body with a tapered waist and perfectly rounded hips and beautiful legs. Her hair was thick and black; kept at shoulder length, which this morning was tied off in a short ponytail. I could just make out the soft outline of her firm round buttocks beneath the shirt.

I wondered how the bacon would taste cold.

“Stop that,” she said, without turning around.

“Huh? Stop what?” I said, snapping out of my reverie.

“You know. Is that all you ever think about?” she said with a soft chuckle.

“Is that a complaint” I asked.

“Let’s eat first. You need to keep your energy up...among other things.”

“I knew there was a good reason why I married you.”

I dropped the paper to the floor then got up and went to the table.

“The only reason?”

“Well… not only. Let’s eat. I just realized I’m hungry.”

“You're always hungry, you,” she said, giggling. “So am I. C'mon. It's ready.”

She placed two plates filled with bacon and eggs on the table. There was a plate with four slices of buttered toast already there. Maddie sat on the wooden chair to my left,

“Tell me more about this new job you've taken?”

“Nothing to tell, really. I'm to look into some strange things that have been happening at this woman’s dance studio, especially those that seem to happening around a new dancer; a girl from Montreal.”

“Uh-huh. What's she like?”

“Who? The dancer?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, taking a bite of her toast. Women, I thought. Why is it they always want to know about any other woman that comes along.

“Not much yet. She's from Montreal, young and a dancer. This is supposed to be her first time to Toronto,” I said with a shrug.

“Sounds like an easy job.”

I saw the look that came into her eyes. “This should be a cake walk; what’s the worst that could happen...they start to kick each other to death with those shoes they wear? So, try not to worry.”

“It's just that I always get a little twinge in my stomach whenever you take on a new job.”

“I know. Like I said, what's the worst that could happen with a high strung dancer? Nothing I can't handle, right?”

“I know that, it's...,” she started to say.

“So. Whaddya wanna do today?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.

She sat quietly for a moment then said, “I thought we might give Millie and Abe a call and get away for the day somewhere.”

“Sounds great. Anyplace in particular?”

“How about over to Kensington Market? You know, we could check out the stalls then maybe go to dinner and then a show at the Riverboat. I hear Gordon Lightfoot is in town,” she said. Or we could head down to T’s and see who’ playing.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Especially the part about T’s. We could even do dinner there. You know how much I like T’s cookin’.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Let’s do that.”

“I'll call them after we eat.”

“Not right after we eat...” she said, giggling.

“Oh, yeah...right after that,” I said with a smile.

“I love you,” she said.

“And why wouldn't you,” I said, grinning like a love struck teenager.

“Oh you.” She laughed.

We finished eating and I helped with the clean up.

“Now,” I said, “I think it’s ‘bout time I had a talk with you about wearing my shirts…”

I followed her down the hallway as she skipped to our bedroom.

When we decided to get married we agreed that I would try and not take on any more dangerous cases where I would be at risk of being killed. It was not that hard to agree to, because in point of fact, I was never really interested in that side of the business.

In the past, such cases generally only turned out that way well into the job. Besides, I was crouching up into my middle forties and did not need the aggravation. Don't get me wrong, I'm still in pretty good shape. I keep up with my boxing three or four days a week. So, I can handle myself in a pinch, but one thing life has taught me is that no matter how good you think you are, there will always be someone better or more dangerous around the corner. Besides, the most important lesson I've learned from boxing is that almost always when you hit someone they hit back, and I have recently acquired an allergy to pain.

I mentioned this epiphany to Abe recently; his only response was, 'Uh-huh'. Sardonic bastard.

Abe and Millie. Probably the only other couple as much into each other as Jane and me. He met Millie Wainwright while he was in recovery after he was shot. They hit it off immediately and since he was single again after his wife left him, they started a relationship. Six months lather, a week after Jane and I got married, they decided to move in together. Turned out to be one of his better decisions.

Millie is a great gal. We first met when she hired me to work on her divorce a couple of years ago. When Abe and Phyllis, his long time wife, decided to call it quits, I introduced him to Millie. Turned out to be the best thing to happen to both of them. Since then, Jane and Millie have become really close friends, spending quite a bit of time together doing whatever girls do. So, when I called, it didn't take any time at all to set up the weekend. It was agreed that we would take my car and that we would pick them up around noon.

 

* * *

 

Monday arrived bright with clear skies. Always a good way to start one’s day.

We left the apartment and went downstairs to my car. Jane got in on the passenger's side. After dropping her off at the Queen’s University Library where she worked in the Special Collections Department with a promise to call later, I headed to the dance studio over on Isabella Street.

I arrived at nine-forty-five and, after finding a parking spot, entered the studio's reception area. It was located on the second floor above a ladies clothing store. The only person there was the receptionist; a middle aged woman who looked like she might have been a dancer at some time in her life. After telling her who I was, she escorted through a door into a hallway with an office at the far end. I could hear a piano playing on the other side of the only other door. I assumed that was the studio. She deposited me on a comfortable chair and said I was to wait for Miss Smithson who was busy in the studio at the moment.

Adele Smithson emerged at ten sharp.

Today, she was wearing a tailored and stylish light gray pantsuit with a pale pink blouse, open at the neck. Her hair, which was shoulder length, was down this time with a pair of ornate combs on either side. Very fetching, very fetching indeed, I thought.

She spotted me and came over. I noticed for the first time that she moved with an economy of motion and the definite grace of a dancer.

“Good morning Mr. Murphy. I hope you had an enjoyable weekend,” she said, offering her hand which I accepted as I stood up.

“Miss Smithson,” I said. “Please, call me Murph, everyone does and yes, I did, in fact. Thanks for asking.”

“Adele. I suppose you would like to get started. Where would you like to begin?”

“Maybe a quick walk through the studio before it gets busy,” I said. Once we were out of earshot of the receptionist, I added, “Can you show where some of these accidents happened?”

“Of course, over here,” she said, as she led me into a large room. The floor was polished hardwood and reflected the bright overhead lights which were on despite the flood of light from the bank of high windows along the length of one side. The only furnishing was a baby grand piano in one corner. I spotted a horizontal bar that was attached to a bank of mirrors that filled one wall.

“This is the part that was loose.” She pointed to the area where a bracket attached to the bar was screwed into the wall at the seam of two mirror panels.

“And what exactly made you suspicious?” I bent slightly to look at the bracket.

“The screws were, well, loosened enough so that if enough pressure was brought to bear it would have suddenly come away from the wall. If someone was stretching at the time, they could have injured themselves.”

“Hmm. Tell me, is this where Levesque exercises? Or does she work out elsewhere?” I asked, looking around the large wooden floored room.

“Funny you should ask. Yes, this is where she frequently comes to stretch. I hadn't thought of that.” We stood for a moment while I scanned the room.

“The other incidents happened around the studio area,” she said, with a sweep of her arm.

Just at that moment Monique Levesque arrived.

She was a vision of youthful beauty. Long dark hair tied off with a red silk scarf in the back. She stood around five-six or so with the typlical slender ballerina figure. She wore black leotards beneath a pale blue skirt and a white Angora shrug sweater. There was a jacket draped over her arm and a kit bag slung over one shoulder. As she walked into the room, I immediately noted her legs. Long with toned muscles that looked sculpted and strong. There was no mistaking her for anything other than a ballet dancer.

“And this is Mademoiselle Monique Levesque, our lead dancer for the upcoming performance,” Adele said, as the girl came toward us.

“Hi,” I said, offering her my most charming smile. She rewarded me with an equally charming smile.

“Mr. Murphy is a freelance writer who is doing a feature piece on the studio and the performance. He will be visiting with us for the next several days as he gathers his background information. I hope that you will be cooperative and help him with his efforts,” Adele said.

“But, of course,” Monique said with a warm smile.

“Wonderful. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a studio to run.” Adele turned and walked away leaving just the two of us.

“Who do you write for, Mr. Murphy?” she asked, with a faint trace of a French accent, as she dropped her kit bag to the floor and sat down. She dug out a pair of well worn dance slippers and started to put them on.

“I work freelance. You know, write an article then sell it to whoever's interested.”

“Are you a follower of dance?” She rose gracefully and started to limber up, pulling one outstretched leg up, placing her ankle on the bar then slowly bending forward touching her forehead to her knee. I realized as I watched her that even exercising was sensuous. I got the definite impression she was teasing me...if she was, it was working.

“Not really. That's the nice thing about freelance. I get to do a whole lot of different stories. Learn a lot more that way.”

“Mmm, you look like you know a lot, that's for sure,” she said with a smile.

Definitely teasing. I decided to change the subject.

“I thought dancers always wore those flat-toed shoes?” I asked, noting that she was wearing a pair of slip-on slippers.

“They are called, pointe shoes. And yes, we do wear them, but usually when we are performing or need to practice a particular part.”

“Oh. I see.”

Just then, I heard the sounds of giggling and laughter, as several young men and women entered the room. They glanced my way for a brief moment then went on with their preparations for the class. I excused myself and went for walk around the back areas to do a little 'detecting'. After all, that's what I was being paid to do.

Besides the main dance area that I just left, there were three smaller rooms which were used as classrooms for new students. Down near the back, I located two small changing rooms with a toilet in each; one for men, the other, women. The last place I looked at seemed to be a general storage area where various props were kept in no particular order. Anyone could access the area.

Music was coming from one of the rooms and I assumed that a class was beginning somewhere. There wasn't much else to see, so I went looking for Smithson.

She was in her office going over some papers. The room was quite small with only a desk, two straight back wooden chairs and a four drawer file cabinet in a corner. There was one window in the wall directly behind her chair.

“Spare a few minutes?” I asked, as I tapped the glass panel in the door that was already open.

“Certainly. Please,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Did you see everything you needed?”

“Pretty much. It looks like a pretty compact studio. How many students do you actually have here?” I asked, as I closed the door and sat down.

“We offer six classes. Three beginners, two intermediate and one advanced. The classes are small, usually around twelve per class. Of course, there is also the permanent company which I already indicated.”

“And does this group meet every day?”

“Not usually, no. They come here mostly to practice for a scheduled performance. Normally, only a few at a time, unless it's a major production like this one involving the entire company.”

“I see. Do you happen to keep files on the members? You know, addresses and any background information?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping that you would allow me to give them a quick look.”

“I don't see the relevance, but if you really feel it's necessary...,” she said, giving me a questioning look.

“Assuming that the things that have been happening are not simply accidents, the only other explanation is that someone is behind them. For the purposes of my investigation, I'm going to go on the assumption that these are not accidents. Better to start from the worst situation and eliminate it than to ignore it and pay a price later. Therefore, I need to know something about all the people involved.”

“Yes, I see. All the company member files are in the bottom drawer. When would you like to review them?”

“Preferably when there is no one around.”

“That would be after ten in the evening or early in the morning, before the studio opens at nine.”

“If it's okay with you, I think I'll come by after the studio closes.”

“Here is a spare key to the building and the studio,” she said, as she opened a desk drawer and pulled out a set of two keys on a small chain.

I accepted the keys and put them in my pocket, saying thanks as I did.

“When do plan to come around?” she asked, as I stood up.

“Either tonight or tomorrow. I'll return the keys once I've finished and report anything I come across.”

“That'll be fine, thank you.”

“Right then. I'll take off for now and see you later. There are a few things I want to look into.” She gave me another questioning look.

“Background.” This answer seemed to satisfy her.

I left after another quick peek into the main dance room. Monique was still in her corner but was now doing some stretches without the bar. Other dancers were in various stages of warming up while an older looking man with a tall staff stood beside a baby grand piano discussing something with the pianist.

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

I left the studio and made my way down to the theatre district. It was time to talk to Saul Rubinek; first to thank him for the referral and, second, to pick his brain about the dance community. His theatrical agency office was located down in the theatre district. He has been a fixture in the theatre community for quite a long time and had represented a number of notable luminaries of the stage.

We met a couple of years ago when he engaged me to baby-sit some star that was visiting the city from New York. Apparently, this person had a bit of a ‘bad boy’ reputation and was frequently in trouble. Anyway, after three days, the actor returned to the States and Saul was more than satisfied with my handling of the assignment; he even gave me a hundred dollar bonus.

I dropped my car back at the office, opting to take the subway, because parking downtown was a hassle and a real pain in the ass these days. I didn't need the aggravation or the expense. I had called ahead and made an appointment for two o'clock, so I was expected. This gave me a bit of time to stop and pick up a box of fairly good cigars as a thank you gift. Saul’s only vice these days was his passion for a good cigar.

I arrived at one fifty and found his assistant, Isobel, sitting at her guard post; a medium sized desk just to the right of his office door. She hadn't changed much since I last saw her over a year ago. Still had her trademark stern matronly look going, although, she was sporting new glasses. No one, small or great and famous, got past her without an appointment. She would give you a look that could stop a charging elephant if you dared to try.

There were several men and women sitting around the room waiting their turn with the man hoping to solicit his representation. I went and stood in front of her desk and waited for her to look up.

“Mr. Murphy. Nice to see you again,” she said, without a smile. I wondered if she ever smiled. “You are eight minutes early.”

“Isobel,” I said, flashing my best award winning smile. Nothing. Not even a crack. The woman must be made of stone. I felt deflated.

“Take a seat. He'll be free momentarily,” she said, gesturing to the few vacant chairs against the wall.

“Thank you,” I said, as I retreated from the cold atmosphere at the desk and sat down.

Five minutes later, the door behind her opened and a pretty young woman stepped out wearing a broad smile. Rubinek stood behind her. She turned and shook his hand and said thank you. Must've scored. Good for her. Then he spotted me over her shoulder.

“Ah, Mathew, my boy. Please, please come in. How good to see you again.”

He was one of three people in my life that ever called me Mathew. The young woman gave me a curious look, trying to decide if I was someone important, as she stepped past me to the door. I gave her a smile as I walked by.

“Saul,” I said. We had agreed some time ago to drop the formalities.

“Please,” he said, as I stepped into his office.

“Thanks.”

Saul Rubinek was a heavily built Jewish man in his mid-sixties with thinning white hair and a friendly looking face above a jowl that sagged beneath his cheeks. He was dressed, as always, in a dark blue three piece pin-striped suit with a gold watch chain hanging across the front of the vest.

He closed the door behind me and moved back behind his desk, gesturing me to sit in one of the chairs in front of it.

“That what I hope it is?” he said, pointing at the bag in my hand as he sat down.

“Yep,” I said, passing the plain brown bag across to him. “A small thanks for the referral.”

“You are such a considerate ‘goy’,” he said, smiling. “Thank you. Completely unnecessary, but I thank you all the same. It’s the only vice I still can enjoy. Now. What can I do for you?” he asked, as he opened the box and extracted a cigar. He rolled it between his fingers then moved it across his upper lip under his nose with his eyes closed.

“Would you mind,” he asked, reaching for his lighter.

“Help yourself. Don't do much good sitting in the box.”

“Quite so.” He flashed up the cigar and a cloud of light blue smoke rose lazily above him.

“Thank you, my boy. You are one of only a few that thinks of me.” He had a warm wide smile on his face as he took the bag and slipped it into a drawer in his desk.

“Let me guess, Adele Smithson,” he said. “Can I offer you something?”

“No thanks, and yes, Miss Smithson. She has filled me in on her concern. So far, all I’ve been able to find out is her studio seems to be the victim of a series of, uh, nuisance incidents. I’m not sure what I can do. Perhaps, if I had a better understanding of that world, I’d have a better chance to see if there’s something more sinister going on. You’re the only one I know who might be able to give me a quick education, you know, Ballet 101.”

“I see. Well, as you may recall, my stock in trade is predominantly the theatre. However, I do take an interest in other aspects of the performing arts; music, dance, that sort of thing, although not an active role. Mostly, I am in the background more as a donor or patron, sometimes as a facilitator in bringing the right people together, if you follow me.”

I nodded. As I mentioned before, he was a well known figure in the arts community.

“Well, about a year ago I met her during a small production she staged at one of the local venues and was very impressed with her dancers. We struck up a conversation and from that time on I have been involved with her studio as a silent partner. So, when she came to me with her recent concerns and their possible effects on an upcoming production, I immediately thought of you. After all, you do seem to have a broad interest and appreciation for this part of Village life.”

“Thanks. Just how much is going on in the Village these days with dance? I mean, I've seen several posters for shows but it didn't strike me as that prominent.”

“Oh, it's definitely here and growing. Mostly, it seems to be small troupes, usually around a half dozen or so young dancers in each, that have been running the circuit of clubs and playhouses. The main interest tends toward the new avant-garde movement, more free expression and less traditional ballet. Interesting ideas.”

“Is there much competition between these different groups? You know, one style over another? For performing places?”

“Interesting question. I wouldn't have considered that, but I suppose there would be some competition to a degree but no more than already exists within the community in general.”

“Well, if her suspicions are correct, then I think someone out there has decided to go a few steps beyond the normal practices.”

“Hmm. I see your point. However, from my understanding of the dance world, I think it highly unlikely that this would be coming from the modern groups. They're just so different in their philosophy and artistic motivations. There doesn't seem to be anything to gain from such actions.”

“Then that leaves rival traditional ballets groups who might see this new movement as a threat to their own productions. And if it's someone from there, then what would be their motive.”

“It seems to me that if you’re looking for a motive then maybe you might consider the upcoming production.”

“Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. I get the impression that this is a big deal. Maybe someone out there resents Adele’s studio getting the chance to debut this new guy's work.”

“It's a possibility, yes. I hope not, but it is a competitive world and regrettably, the arts are no longer immune to the vagaries of profits and losses. Art has become a commodity, an avenue of investment, and as such, it has to pay those who fund it. And, yes, this is a significant venture with the opportunity for substantial financial rewards as well as opening doors for future opportunities.”

“So, maybe someone feels short changed and is upset enough to strike back,” I said.

“Hmm,” Rubinek said, flicking an inch long ash from the cigar into the ashtray.

“A thought just occurred to me,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Is it possible that this business could be as simple as another dancer seeking to strike back at the dancer who was given the lead? One from outside, like Monique Levesque?”

“Interesting,” Saul said, leaning forward on his forearms. “Dancers, even more than actors, have very delicate sensibilities which are easily bruised.”

“It was just a thought. What can you tell me about this choreographer?”

He spent the next ten minutes filling me in on the choreographer, Pierre St. Jacques. When he finished I had a better idea of what I was getting into. It was clear that whoever was chosen to be the lead dancer for any St. Jacques production would have some very serious career opportunities open up to them.

Maybe I might have just found a loose end to pull on.

After leaving Rubinek's office, I decided to head over to see Abe Goldman.

We have a long history together dating back to when we both entered the police academy in 1954. I was a new kid in from Manitoba, and he, from one of the north Ontario towns, Barrie. Unfortunately, it didn't take with me, but Abe took to it like a duck to water. Later, after several years moving from job to job and a stint in the merchant marine on a laker, I came back, and we reconnected.

He had been assigned to a station up in the Yorkville area by then. It did not take me long to discover I liked the feel of the place as well, so I settled in. The only skill and training I had for work ashore was police work, but I didn’t want to wear the blue uniform again, so I got a P.I. License with a carry endorsement and hung out my shingle.

I arrived at the station around the time for the shift change. I knew he'd still be there finishing the day's paperwork. I went straight to the second floor where the Homicide Squad had their room.

“Hey Gus. What's shakin'?” I said, offering my hand to the detective bent over a file. Gus Ferguson was a friend and a good cop. We helped each other on a couple of cases I worked over the last few years.

“Murph,” he said, sitting back accepting my extended hand. “Same old shit only more of it. You'?”

“Nothing much really. Just thought I'd stop by and see Abe. Take him for a beer. You can come to, if you're free.”

“Thanks, but I gotta get this crap cleared up. You know the routine.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Is he in?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.” He leaned forward and went back to work.

“Yeah?” Abe called from behind the closed door after I knocked.

I opened the door and went in. “Hey, buddy. Thought I'd buy you a beer. Interested?”

“Hell, yeah. This desk work sucks. I don’t know what I hate more, paperwork or dirty cops. Days like this I miss the streets.”

“Really?”

“Really. But then I remember what the streets are like these days.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

He started closing files and stacking them on the corner of his desk then stood up and reached for his hat.

“Let's go before I change my mind,” he said. I'm calling it a day, Gus. If you need anything from the Morgan case file, it's sitting on my desk, top of the pile.”

“Okay, thanks. See ya guys later,” Gus said, looking back at the papers in front of him.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

We headed out of the building and walked the block and a half to Benny’s, the local bar. The establishment was where the cops hung out after their shifts before heading home. It was a typical neighborhood bar like dozens of others...must be a universal design.

An old wooden topped bar with eight stools fronting it and five booths along the opposite side. There was a large mirror on the wall behind the bar partly covered down one side with glued on shoulder patches from a variety of police organizations like the OPP – Ontario Provincial Police – and the RCMP – the Royal Canadian Mounted police. On the other wall were a couple of dozen framed photographs of former cops from the area’s station. Many of them now long dead or retired.

There were also a couple with serving members including one of Mike Clark with a couple of uniforms around him. Mike was once an instructor at the academy when I was there and now Abe's boss, a real hard nose but fair and a good cop and friend.

We went to the bar and took a couple of stools.

“Still don't like the desk job, I take it?” I said, as Mickey, the bartender placed two tall glasses of Budweiser drafts in front of us.

“Thanks, Mickey,” Abe said, then turning to me, “I ain't cut out to be a desk jockey,”

“Hey. You did your time on the street. You almost paid the big one as well. You earned this,” I said, taking a pull of the cold beer.

“Yeah, I know. It's just hard getting used to it is all.”

We sat sipping our beers for a moment, then he said, “So anything new going on?”

“You remember Saul Rubinek?”

“The theatrical agent? Same guy from back with that young girl that killed those actors? What was her name?”

“Lucy Adams. And yeah, same guy, well, he sent a client my way, name's Adele Smithson. Owns a dance studio across from George Hisok Park.”

“Hmm. How come? You don't know anything about dancing. I seen you try.”

“Very funny. Anyway, she came by the office yesterday and hired me to look into some strange happenings at her studio. Looks like someone may be trying to sabotage her upcoming production.”

“Sabotage? Something I should look at?”

“Don't think so, or at least I hope not,” I said.

“With your luck, I thought I'd ask. You know, get ready.”

“Man, you're a real comedian today,” I said.

“Sorry. Had one of those days.”

“Yeah, well, as I was sayin'. Her studio has been picked by one of the bright new stars of the dance world to debut his new production. It's been in rehearsal for the last few weeks. About two weeks ago she noticed that things started to happen around the studio, like props falling, equipment coming apart, that sort of thing. Initially, she chalked it up to a series of little accidents. Then last week, her lead dancer, a girl brought in from Montreal, discovered someone tampered with her dance shoes.”

“Tampered? How?” Abe asked, signaling Mickey for another round.

“Someone inserted small needles or pins into the toe of the shoes.”

“Ouch. I bet that would've hurt.” I nodded.

“Yeah. According to Smithson, worse than that, it could've been career ending.”

“So, what're you thinking?”

“My guess would be a rival studio. Apparently, there's big money in debuting a major production both for the artists and the studio. It's also possible that it's a disgruntled individual.”

“Hmm, sounds like a fair guess,” he said, as Mickey arrived with two more beers. “So, what's your plan?”

“Nose around. You know, stir the pot see what rises to the top.”

“Funny how they never included that method in the police detective manual. It seems to work so well for you.”

“There ya go,” I said, toasting him. “Actually, I gonna down to see Gabe at the Riverboat. I figure if anybody knows the skinny on the dance scene in the Village it'd be him.”

“Probably right. Hey, listen, thanks for the invite on the weekend. Millie and I had a great time.”

“Our pleasure. We gotta do it again sometime.”

“Count on it.”

We sat around for another fifteen minutes then I paid the tab. He headed home, and I headed for Village. I called Jane before leaving to tell her I'd be late getting home and not to wait dinner for me. I told her I was going to have a talk with Gabe at the Riverboat and would have a bite there.

 

* * *

 

I arrived at the club around five o’clock, it wasn’t busy yet. There were only a few of the end of day crowd who usually stopped in for a quick drink. I noticed my usual booth was empty and made my way across the room, saying hello to several people I knew. The booth was located beside the swinging door to the kitchen and to the left of the raised stage area. I could hear the dim sounds from the kitchen as they prepped for later.

A moment after I eased into the booth, a young perky, pony tailed girl bounced over with a menu card in hand. Her name was Kathy.

“Hi, Murph,” she said. “Alone tonight, or are you waiting?”

“Alone, afraid. Whaddya got on tonight?”

“Pastrami on rye with steamed sauerkraut, Kosher pickle and hot mustard.”

“Sold. And a beer, then coffee after. Thanks.”

“Okay. Be about ten minutes,” she said, as she wrote the order down on her pad.

“By the way, is Gabe around? I didn't see him when I came in.”

“Yeah. He's in back. Want me to get him?”

“No, that's okay. Just let him know I'm here and when he's got a minute I'd like to talk to him, okay?”

“Sure thing.” She turned and went through the swinging door.

Five minutes later Gabe Herschon came sauntering out of the kitchen. He is gay and proud of it but without throwing it in your face. The Village had a gay population and lately had been more open about it, although, not without a little controversy. As he said, he was what he was and comfortable being so.

He was a first generation German Jew. His family managed to smuggle him out of Germany to England during the war. They, unfortunately, did not survive, dying in one of the camps. He made his way to Canada and established himself in a new life. We've been friends for a long time.

He was a valuable source of information on anything happening in the Village particularly when it came to anything to do with the arts side, being connected with almost every aspect of it through his various 'liaisons' and the circles that he ran in. The only other person who'd know as much or more was Crazy Pete, though his information was from the darker underbelly of the Village and quite a bit seamier.

“Murph, dear boy,” he said, sliding into the booth opposite me. “And how is my favorite straight man these days? Still happily married?”

“I'm doing great and, yeah, still happily married. And you? Finally found someone or still smelling the roses?”

“Cute. Smelling the roses,” he said with a chuckle. “I like that. Yes, I am still playing in the garden, so to speak. Kathy said you wanted to speak to me?”

“Yeah. I'm doing a small job for the owner of one of the local dance studios and I need to build some background since I'm not that up on the dance scene.”

“Well, you came to the right person. What do you need to know? Or do you just want the Reader's Digest version?”

“The Reader's will do fine, I think. If not, I'll ask.”

“Right. Where to begin. I guess it would be safe to say that it represents only a small part of the community, but lately there has been a growing interest. Used to be more traditional, you know, classic ballet, but these days it has been moving more towards Modern and Representational. You know, less classical movements and more free expression of the body. I do so love watching these young men and the way they use their bodies to express their emotions. But I digress, sorry. Anyway, there are a few new, small troupes performing out of some of the old venues that used to offer only music and poetry readings.”

“I see. So traditional dance is fading into the background then?” I asked.

“Oh no. Quite the opposite actually. It still has a strong presence and following. In fact, I heard that there is a major production due to début very soon.”

“I know. It's that studio that hired me.”

“Really? Do tell.”

“Have you heard about any group or person complaining about this studio getting the contract?”

“Strange question,” he said. “Has something happened?”

“Not sure. Apparently, there have been a few, ah, odd things happening that has the owner feeling a bit spooked and since she's preoccupied dealing with preparing this big show, she didn't want to have this to worry over.”

“Oh my.”

“Right now I don't think it's anything. Just checking every angle to see if there's something in the shadows. What can you tell me about the dancers.”

“Wonderful people. So full of energy and life. The epitome of the free spirit.”

“You think any of them would do anything to, say, sabotage another dancer, or studio?”

“Is this what this is about? You think that...”

“I'm just asking, Gabe,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said. “But to answer your question, I don't think so, if the ones I know are any indication.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“So, you are here because you would like me to do what, exactly?”

“What you do best. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“I can do that,” he said.

“Hoped you would, thanks.” Kathy arrived at that moment with my sandwich and beer.

I finished eating and then paid the bill and headed outside. I stopped in at a couple of the other clubs and had a word with several people I knew. Around seven-fifteen I went outside and hailed a cab and headed for the studio and the files.