Robie's Last Case: Detective John Robichaud Mysteries, #8

Chapter One

MOB RUNS WILD ON STREETS OF DOWNTOWN HALIFAX

Halifax Mail, Tuesday May 8, 1945.

The lead column opened with the heading: ‘Riotous Crowds Hail Victory: Destruction Worst Since Explosion’.

Barrington Street. Hollis Street. Lower Water Street. What did these streets and others around them have in common? They all looked like a whirlwind of destruction had descended on them. Everywhere you looked – broken glass, debris, shops, and stores looted. Naked mannequins lying on the sidewalks, papers blowing in the wind; the pitiful remnants of two days of mass rioting, looting, and debauchery. The years of festering animosity, frustration, sacrifice, and death spontaneously erupted; fuelled by anger and the need for retribution in a population already at loggerheads with itself.

Today, the air was heavy with the silence like that you sometimes experienced after a storm. Thus the news heralding the war was over was met by the people of Halifax.

Looking back, one could see it coming. Tensions had been steadily growing between the civilian population and military personnel. As time went by, this also came to include the influx of outside labour, and the thousands of merchantmen who passed through the Port of Halifax in the convoys. When you added the restrictions imposed by the government on food, fuel, and especially, access to alcohol, it was only a matter of time and circumstance before everything would come to a head.

It was probably the darkest day of the war for many Haligonians. I know because it was for us. The police; the men who were charged with protecting the city. We had to deal with the multitude of issues that arose on a daily basis. It didn’t take a genius to see that a serious situation was simmering just below the surface and that it would soon reach a boiling point.

That point came the day of the announcement the war was officially over.

However, the powers that be, decided to stand back and let the mayhem run its course, hoping to avoid it becoming deadly. So, shortly after the riot started, our entire force was out on the street along with members of the military police from the navy and air force. The army, wisely, ordered their men to stay in barracks. Our orders were simple enough – step in only to prevent any serious crimes such as physical assaults or worse.

My name is John Robichaud. I’m a detective with the Halifax City Police where I have served for more than twenty years.

This was my second war; I served with a Canadian Infantry Division overseas during WW1. I was one of the lucky ones, coming home with only memories that still haunted my dreams all these years later. When I came back, an American Dogface I met overseas and became friends with, suggested that I go with him to his hometown of Boston. Shortly after arriving, we joined the Boston police force as patrolmen; that’s where I discovered my calling.

Eventually, I decided to return home to Cape Breton. However, after what I had experienced of life in the war and learned on the streets of Boston, I realized it was no longer ‘home’ to me. I ended up in Halifax and was soon in uniform again as a city patrolman with the police department.

I paid my dues pounding a beat in some of the city’s roughest areas, the waterfront and the dockyards. It was a rough seaport town in those days. But I stuck it out and soon progressed up the ranks to become a detective.

Today, I was sitting in the canteen in the basement of the Naval Intelligence building, enjoying my second mug of American coffee and reading the latest newspapers. I usually welcome any opportunity to come here: the food and coffee are excellent and lots of it, and it gives me a chance to catch up on the latest war news. There are usually a half dozen papers from Canada and the States on hand, and once in a while even a copy of the Gazette from England.

Throughout the course of the war, my partner Pete and I have been called in to help the Intelligence Service on a few cases. At times, those cases became extremely difficult and  dangerous. This included tracking down German agents, potential saboteurs, and agitators. It was difficult work, as we had to deal with everything else that was going on – bootlegging, prostitution, profiteering. All while trying to maintain some semblance of order in the increased number of people flooding the city. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, the added risk to life and limb we had to deal with as Pete could attest to since he got shot on our last outing.

But it wasn’t all bad. Over the last five years we met a couple of people who have since become good friends: Phil Mulroney, an Inspector with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who was attached to Naval Intelligence at the start of the war and Lieutenant Commander Michael Parks, the head of security operations here in Halifax. Together, the four of us proved to be a good team and, I like to think, did much to curtail the enemy’s attempts to disrupt activities in the port.

I was at naval headquarters today at Phil’s request. He called the day before and asked me to stop by, saying something had come in he needed to discuss with me. I was fairly sure it had nothing to do with the events of the last seventy-two hours.

I was just finishing my second mug of coffee and an article I was reading in a day old copy of the Stars and Stripes, when I noted the time on the large wall clock. It was time to head upstairs.

I reached Phil’s office on the third floor and went inside. Gail McFarland, his latest secretary, sat her desk. When she looked up and saw me, she greeted me with a warm, friendly smile. She was a very attractive woman I reckoned to be in her early thirties. She had been working with Phil for the last four months. I had a feeling there might be something more between them; I hoped so. They seemed a good fit for each other.

Good morning, Robie, she said; we had dispensed with the formalities a while back. She had a nice, almost musical, sounding voice.

Mornin’, Gail, I answered, returning the smile.

Go on in. He’s expecting you.

Thanks.

I stepped over to the door leading into his office and rapped on it twice as I opened it.

Phil Mulroney was a large well-built man in his mid-thirties. When we first met back in thirty-nine, he looked much younger then, like so many of us. The strains and stresses of the war had taken its toll on him like most everyone else, me included.

I imagine most of the women working here would think of him as handsome and I reckon they’d be right. I learned very early on he was a good cop and saw right away why he was sent to Halifax as the assistant to the head of Naval Intelligence, Michael Parks. They made a good team.

Robie, he said, looking up from a sheaf of papers and nodding to an empty chair.

Phil, I said. What’s up? You sounded serious when you called. Somethin’ come up with the plannin’ committee?

I took one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk.

No, er, yeah something did, but that’s not why I called.

Uh-oh, I thought, that meant I was about to get dragged into another intelligence operation.

I know that look, he said with a smile, not this time. Actually, this one falls more in your jurisdiction than mine.

Go on?

I received a call yesterday afternoon from a man named, Edgar Simpson. He’s a CPA working in the finance department down at the shipyards. He wanted to report some discrepancies he’s discovered in the procurement files.

Why call you? Doesn’t sound like anythin’ intelligence’d be interested in?

You’re right. It isn’t, he said. He thought that because the materials involved were assigned to the new military ship buildings that it must be a naval matter.

Okay, makes sense, I suppose I said. So what do want me to do?

Talk to him, he said. It might be nothing, but you know as well as I do, we’re finding more companies are taking advantage of the government contracts that have been pouring out of Ottawa lately. As you know, this presents certain, ah, opportunities for some to make mischief. If so, then this would a civil matter and in your bailiwick.

Thanks, I said sardonically, as if my life isn’t complicated enough.

Be nice, he said, chuckling. Think of it this way, if there is something going on, you’ll get a break from dealing with all that crap that happened recently.

Good point. Right. Give me everythin’ you got an’ I’ll pay a visit to Mr. Edgar Simpson. You wanna be kept in the loop on this?

Not unless you find something that relates to intelligence. Like you, I’m up to my neck in all this end of war crap. By the way, word is going around that Michael is headed out; a big promotion of some kind.

Good for him, I said. He’s earned it, if anyone has.

I agree. Also, when this business is settled here in the port, it’s likely I’ll be re-assigned as well.

Yeah? Any idea where to yet? I asked. I felt a slight twinge of regret at the news. Both these men had become good friends these last several years, especially Phil.

He shook his head.

Not yet. Michael suggested that I think about leaving the service and hitch my wagon to him when he leaves. I have to say, it sounds appealing.

I agree. You two make a good team, an’ you have a talent for the work.

Thanks, he said, that means a lot.

Jus’ statin’ the obvious. I’ll be off then. I stood up, taking the two sheets of paper he passed to me. Let me know what you decide to do. Oh, when is Michael due to leave?

Not right away, Phil said. Probably once the Navy finally gets their act together. Everything’s going over to them in the end.

Okay. Like I said, keep me posted.

Will do. Good luck.

Thanks. I folded the pages and stuffed them inside my coat pocket.

I left and went outside to catch the northbound tram that would take me back to the station. Normally I would walk but it was unusually cold outside for the month of May.

The ancient cable car was overcrowded as usual with sailors still in black wool greatcoats, the orders to shift to summer gear hadn’t yet come down. They were probably heading for their ships in the dockyard. It was always a rough ride as it rolled over rails embedded in the cobble stoned street; a lingering remnant of long past days. However, today I didn’t mind being jammed in like a sardine since the car wasn’t heated and it was bitterly cold outside; the collective body heat was welcomed.

I was the only civilian on the tram. as The mayor had issued orders to close the downtown section to civilians. I managed to squeeze myself inside between a couple of sailors. One of them gave me a surly look as I pressed against his back; the other one didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

When I got back to the station, the squad room was packed to the point of overcrowding. Me and my men, and a half dozen service MPs were busy sorting through paperwork, trying to separate military and civilians detainees that had been arrested the day before.

I spotted Pete already sitting at his desk. He gave me a questioning look as I hung my overcoat on an empty hook on the wall then went to the coffee urn on a side table.

I had a meetin’ with Phil, I said, answering his obvious questioning look as I poured a coffee.

What’s up? he asked. More plannin’ crap? He joined me by the coffee urn.

No, not this time. He got a call from someone named Edgar Simpson; one of the bookkeepers up in the shipyard. He seems to think there’s somethin’ not right goin’ on in the purchasin’ section. Phil passed it on to us since it doesn’t look like somethin’ connected to security or intelligence.

I went and sat down at my desk.

There seems to be a lotta that goin’ on, Pete said. People been lookin’ to cash in before the gravy train dries up.

Yeah, I know, an’ with us bein’ tied up with these... I nodded to the chaos in the squad room.

Think the boss’ll put us on it?

Dunno yet. Let’s wait an’ see what I find out after I have a talk with this Simpson fella. I’ll go up an’ have a talk with him.

Okay, but I hope it’s somethin’. I’m fed up with this shit. He tilted his head to the confusion in the room. Pete probably hates paperwork even more than me. He headed back to his desk from the coffee station.

I reached for my address book and looked up the number for the shipyard then picked up my phone and dialed.

Halifax Shipyard, the female voice said in my ear.

Mornin’, I said. Do you have a connection for a Mr. Edgar Simpson?

One moment. There was a long pause before she came back on line. Mr. Simpson does not have a direct line. I can put through the Finance Department, if you wish? They can redirect your call internally.

Thanks.

A minute or two later, another woman spoke in my ear.

Finance, she said politely.

Mornin’, I said. Can you put me through to Mr. Simpson’s line, please.?

One moment. Another pause.

Simpson, a man said a moment later.

Mr. Edgar Simpson?

That’s right. How can I help you?

"This is Detective Robichaud with the city police. I had a meeting this