The Information Man

6.

  Oswald was at a loss, unable to explain his brother's absence from the office as well as the impersonal, certainly imperfect and shed-like flat Rex endearingly called home. What to do if Rex should not appear anywhere? Absolutely senseless conjecture, of course, since, eventually, Rex would reappear. He always did, even when Oswald believed he'd been lost in the war. And, voila, he flitted to the surface again, over the skies of Rouen. Rex never disappeared for any significant length of time, and not when he was needed for a case.

  Oswald, annoyed more than concerned, as he and Rex rarely met outside the office, began to feel uncomfortable carrying around such pertinent information. Yes, he'd unleashed it upon one to whom it was very consequential: Mr. Weatherstaff. But Rex would be equally delighted—or appalled—the moment he heard the news. If Rex, in his beguiling manner, hadn't already ascertained the poor dead boy's identity. Knowing Rex, as he'd been after his return from the war, he was capable of finding the boy's name and address, his age, where he'd gone to school and what European village his ancestors hailed from. It was Rex's way, almost as if he existed at the edge of a fantasy world, where all information came floating to him and he breathed it in, held it in him forever.

  Stopping at a corner store, Oswald slipped into the telephone booth and gained access to Estella's boarding house. He happened to talk to the always glib and forever flirtatious Anne. Thankfully, his good humor prevailed, and he was at last able to wring from Anne, between her giggles and saucy remarks, that Estella hadn't yet returned. "She left a message," finished Anne, "and said she was likely going to be late getting in, and she hoped we wouldn't hold the curfew against her. I'd like to see us try! Well, hope that helps. If it doesn't, you can come on by sometime and I can try to explain it better—in person."

  He stumbled through his next set of phrases, that it wasn't necessary, that he thanked her for once again being his source of much-required particulars. But he rung off, standing in the booth another moment before a bothered, wiry-looking gentleman in queue pounded his fist upon the door.

  So—neither Rex nor Estella was at home this evening. Oswald, determined to see Estella happily settled with her brother, if it could be done, if Rex would simply wake from the trance that'd been upon him since Rouen—perhaps even before Rouen. Oswald, optimistic as he was, couldn't legitimize his hope that the two of them, Rex and Estella, had gone off somewhere for a quiet evening of dining and talk that, for once, might have nothing whatsoever to do with work.

  He rather doubted this.

  If Rex grew no sense about Estella, her fine qualities and her bewitching eyes, Oswald would like to rap Rex on the back of his head, where it might do some good. Better still, he'd like to revitalize Rex's cold and unfeeling—and very unaware—heart.

  Then again, it might be best if he kept his interference to a minimum. It was even likely that Estella, good as she was, aware as she was, did not want Rex Malin for a husband. If he would only focus on something else for once in his life, he might create a very happy marriage with a woman he'd been unable to function without for several years.

  Oswald returned to the snowy, blowy sidewalk, not entirely sure where he was. His thoughts hindered his awareness of common surroundings. He knew Toronto so well, really, that, like a human compass, he knew which direction was the lake, and knew which roads and avenues were which merely by the shadowy backdrops created by thousands of buildings. A hush had fallen across the city, and the streets, commonly flooded with pedestrians, had an unnatural blankness to them. The air felt drenched with the supernatural and the unfamiliar, but all the shadows of all the buildings were in their usual places.

  Continuing to be puzzled, Oswald's feet, not usually so utilitarian, took him in the direction he was not expecting to go, and soon stopped at the information desk of Inspector Cavendish's station. He watched as the constable wandered off for a moment, saying the inspector would be told of his arrival. The moment passed, and Oswald was soon in Cavendish's office. Immediately through the door, Oswald halted. Two persons were in the cramped room with Cavendish.

  "You see, I don't come unprepared when I'm hunting for a killer," Cavendish said, luxuriating in the surprise on Oswald Malin's face.

  "Ms. Bradley," Oswald gave her a bow, and received her soft smile in return. "I've been rather worried about you. I telephoned your house a bit ago, had a long chat with Anne, who circumvented, as only she can do, that you were not at home, and had supplied them with an incontestable excuse to miss curfew."

  "I'm sorry you went through all that trouble, Oswald," replied Estella, knowing how Anne could be, particularly towards attractive and wealthy bachelors, though she understood so little about perennial bachelors outside of her brother. "I've been having a nice conversation—"

  Her distant cousin snorted.

  "—with Jack and Watching Moon."

  Watching Moon was the other presence, who had stood to shake Oswald's hand and comment on how robust he was looking. "It is very cold out to be wandering the streets in search of someone."

  As usual, Watching Moon's phrases required seconds of rumination, as they contained meanings beyond the obvious. Oswald felt himself slip into a numbness, a kind of stupidity, and struggled to reply. "Yes, isn't it? I'm glad to find the two of you in one place."

  Cavendish gaped. "Were you looking for Mr. Egbert?"

  "I had an inkling he would float in from the snowy mists soon. I didn't expect it to be so soon, I admit. Well, since I'm here," Oswald removed his hat and peeled gloves from his hands, "we should have a solid chat, shouldn't we?"

  Cavendish again gaped. "Is that a question, Malin, or a statement?"

  "It's a suggestion, which can be taken as either a question or a statement, as your preference prefers, Cavendish."

  Cavendish let a low groan pass through his throat. Oswald was only tolerable if Rex Malin was around to interpret and tamper. "Bother," he grumbled, unable to say anything else with his lady-cousin present. Not that she wouldn't have heard it all from Rex Malin, more than likely. "What've you got to tell us that's so important you came all the way down here?"

  "It wasn't really that far, and I'm injured that you would suggest I didn't wish to see you for the purpose of a friendly chat."

  Estella snickered behind her hand, receiving a shot of daggers from her cousin's eyes. "Oh, lighten up, Jack. You know that Oswald never says exactly what he means. He plays with words. It's part of his charm."

  Jack had nothing to say to this. "What've you got, Malin? Make it quick. I would like to get home before the end of the decade, if possible."

  "I've been to Hamilton," started Oswald—and, unable to follow it up too quickly, dove into unwelcome silence.

  "And?" Cavendish gestured with both hands, hoping to have them filled with solid information. "Watching Moon's already told us that. He's seen your brother."

  "This afternoon," Watching Moon clarified. "We had coffee. He was looking for the woman."

  Estella didn't like the way Watching Moon called Lydia Botsaris "the woman." Were there not millions of other women? "It seems he was unsuccessful. You, Oswald, look as though you've had some success."

  "Yes, I have." Since there was no other chair to claim, Oswald paced the room slowly. "I went to the shoe factory in Hamilton, met with the overseer, and after my description was given, I was informed that the boy was one Gerard Leventis." He waited for the surname to kick into the minds of the trio ahead of him. Estella was the first to respond.

  "Isn't that a Greek surname?"

  "Yes, like Botsaris," said Oswald. He caught Cavendish scribbling on a notepad, and tried to help. "That's L-e-v-e—"

  "N-d-i-s?"

  "No, t-i-s. Pronounced with an n-d sound, however. I have the information here," from the pocket of his trousers, neatly folded into quarters, pieces of paper taken from the Hamilton shoe factory, "about the lad that the very helpful Mr. Gleason bestowed upon me. Very trusting man, Mr. Gleason. I could've been any old thug from t
he street, but he knew that I was sincerely interested in helping identify the young man. Mr. Gleason had had a sort of precognition that the boy he'd read about in the morning paper would turn out to be Leventis."

  "And why's that?" Cavendish said, scanning the papers Oswald had left on his desk.

  "He'd been missing for two days. And, prior to his going rogue from a good, steady job at the shoe factory, he'd been agitated, preoccupied. Mr. Gleason had had a private meeting with Leventis to see if there was trouble at home."

  "And?" Cavendish continued to goad, which he knew Oswald appreciated, as it soared the value of his information.

  "And there was no trouble at home. That is to say that Leventis denied that there was trouble at home."

  "Which you doubt," stated Estella, now pawing through the employment sheets Oswald had brought from the shoe factory.

  "Of course I doubt it. My idea, you see, is that Ms. Botsaris and Mr. Leventis were related, and, being fiercely clannish, found it absolutely necessary to help one another, as it sometimes goes in families."

  Watching Moon examined the information, too, but only for a glance. Oswald's points were more informative than handwriting on a piece of paper. "What trouble would they run into?"

  "I don't know," Oswald admitted, pausing to stroke his chin and glare at Cavendish. "For that answer, Cavendish, I'm afraid that I will require the expertise of my brother. I very sincerely doubt you have come up with a connection or a lead that would satisfactorily explain everything."

  Cavendish countered this the best that he could. "Damn it all, Malin, don't you downplay the work that I've been doing. As it so happens, Mr. Egbert has his own theories."

  Oswald turned to Watching Moon. "How often did our dear Inspector laugh at your theories, sir?"

  "A good many," Watching Moon replied, a smile lingering in his eyes.

  "He tells me," continued Cavendish, "that there are many things in this world that I can't help but be misguided about."

  "That is not precisely what I said," corrected Watching Moon. "I said that there are many things in our world which none of us will ever fully understand. This is a strange time of the year—a very strange and unusual time, both celestially and spiritually."

  "He's beginning to tell me that the moon's got some influence on us," said Cavendish. "A big hunk of rock floating round our planet, stuck in its orbit? I don't think so."

  "But the moon controls the tides," Watching Moon glanced at Estella, the only female in the room, and practically the only one in the whole station, "and many other physical things."

  "I concede that it has an influence on the tides, all right, but what's that got to do with a dead boy mauled and gnawed to bits in an alley?"

  "I'm going to side with Watching Moon," said Oswald. "In my experience, it is always better to side with Watching Moon's beliefs than bother trying to come up with my own. Generally speaking, his make far more sense. And you'd better not be so hard on those objects in space, Inspector. Not influence us? Are you sure? Whenever I step outside on a sunny day, I expect to feel the sun's heat, and watch its influence on flora—"

  "Yes, yes, all right! Stop turning this impromptu meeting into a biology lesson!" cried Cavendish. "Until one of you three can tell me what any of this has to do with a dead boy gnawed up in an alley, you can keep your damn sunshine, your moons, and your celestial objects!"

  "I do not think you will ever be ready for the answer," Watching Moon told him.

  "Not that werewolf business again," grumbled Cavendish.

  "Werewolf business?" echoed Oswald, a piercing glare locked to Watching Moon's steady gaze. He was so titillated by the prospect of annoying Cavendish with a werewolf suspect that it was difficult to hide the amusement from his demeanor. "Absolutely extraordinary. And I'm so heartily glad I decided to side with you, Watching Moon. It has proved my point, that what you believe is so different than what I believe that it would take me years—years—to come up with the idea of a werewolf."

  "It wasn't a werewolf!" Cavendish slammed a fist on the table, rising from the squeaky desk chair. He gathered the personal information of Leventis, giving his excuses prior to being gone for a minute. "And don't any of you turn into leprechauns or unicorns before I get back!" The door rattled closed behind him.

  "When you saw my brother," began Oswald to Watching Moon, "what was his temperament?"

  "Sleepy," Watching Moon replied, thinking it a legitimate answer. "He seemed very sleepy. And confused. He's very bothered by that woman, Ms. Botsaris. I could tell. He's hunting for something in his past that connects to the present. He wanted me to stay and help him, but it isn't from me that he will receive his help."

  "Then why are you here?" pressed Oswald.

  "That's my doing," Estella said. "I was leaving the office as Mr. Watching Moon was coming in. He thought I might be worried about Mr. Malin, and wanted to tell me what he's told you. We came to the station together. I thought Cavendish might want to know what Mr. Malin was up to. Not you, Mr. Malin, but your brother—the other Mr. Malin."

  Between Oswald's dark eyebrows, a crinkle formed. His mouth pulled tight to one side. "Watching Moon, where did you find my brother?"

  "The Church of St. James. I saw him go in when I was on my way to the office, and then I went in after him."

  "Interesting." Oswald took to pacing the room again. An old story Rex had told him, from his little brother's time in the war, trickled to the forefront of his thoughts. "Most interesting."

  "My brother Benjamin believes there is much to be said about the stars," Estella said to fill the silence. "He's an astrologer. Now that I think of it, he did mention that this month was very chaotic. We're supposed to have lunch this week, but he telephoned the other day and said that I shouldn't be surprised if our plans are disrupted."

  "We should always anticipate the disruption of plans," said Watching Moon. "And we shouldn't look too closely at our futures. That will certainly bring about disruption."

  "I've heard much about the famous patron-of-the stars, Benjamin Bradley," Oswald said, "but haven't yet met him. Does he hide in the moon's shadows, or beneath the unearthly fins of Neptune where the rest of us can't ever find him?"

  "I wouldn't be at all surprised," answered Estella, relieved that Jack stormed back in.

  Cavendish was angrier than ever now he had two additional persons with him. Watching Moon rose, wondering if he wouldn't be asked to leave, or looked upon with a horror by George Weatherstaff. But Weatherstaff had more on his mind.

  "I'm not surprised to see you here," he said to Oswald Malin.

  "I should be less astonished to see you here," Oswald said, "yet I'm afraid that I am more astonished than I care to admit. You know Ms. Bradley, my brother's secretary. And this is Egbert Watching Moon, a consultant on certain cases, and a very good friend to us all."

  "How do you do, Ms. Bradley, Mr. Watching Moon." He shook the hands of both secretary and consultant. The happiness had been wiped from his expression, and he was tired to the bone. "This is my brother," he indicated the weathered man, looking as though he'd been the mast of a ship for far too long and was thus living up to his surname, "Augustin Weatherstaff. He's just come home."

  "I've not been in Canada these thirty-odd years. I think I was meant to come home now, though."

  George pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away a pounding ache there. "Well, Cavendish? Any word yet on Lydia?"

  "It's like I told you a minute ago, Mr. Weatherstaff: We haven't located her just yet, but we're following some leads."

  "And one of those leads is that my brother has also decided to vanish into the gory evening light," added Oswald with a dramatic flair, and getting a rise out of Cavendish.

  "We have no proof that Mr. Malin is missing," the inspector tried to correct.

  The sailor, Gus Weatherstaff, took off his hat and turned it in his hands. "It's really Mr. Rex Malin that I wish to speak to."

  Estella won
dered why, and throwing her gaze upon the others in the room, Watching Moon and Oswald, she wasn't the only one.

  Cavendish suddenly rose form his seat, stare fixed outside the door's window. "I think you'll get your chance." He stormed to the door and swung it in. "Malin!" His billowy holler lifted over the noise of a police station busy during the night of a full moon, and an eclipsed full moon at that. His voice sank right into the aural canals of Rex Malin. "Get yourself in this office immediately!" Even as he said it, a hush swept across the constables at their desks, and the ringing telephones fell silent in homage to Inspector Cavendish.

  Red in the cheeks from cold and a touch of embarrassment, Rex sauntered through desks and into the inspector's office. A whole parade of eyes stared at him. He smoothed a hand down his face, afraid that his weariness, fatigue and fright showed. Yet all of that was worthless the moment he calculated the height, build and recognizable facial structure of the man in front of him.

  "Gus Weathers?" Rex, in awe, whispered the name, croaking on the final syllable.

  "Hello, Rex," Gus returned. They grasped each other's palms. "It's good to see you."

  "Gus Weathers," Rex repeated. "What—why—are you here? I thought you were dead."

  "I took to the sea again after we were all through in Rouen. Been at the sea since, and before that, too. But a lot of odd things had been popping up in my life, and I thought they might be signs that I was to come home. I'm glad that I did. I've got something I want to talk to you about. About that woman, that nurse. And one other thing you should know. I'm Augustin Weatherstaff, George's brother, the one almost arraigned for shooting our father a long time ago. Gus Weathers was a name I've been using outside of Toronto. You should know the whole truth about things, that's all. And I'm glad I got to you in time."

  In time for what? But Rex just gulped and stared and thought of the Gus Weathers he'd known in the Flying Corps of Rouen. Two of which were dead, two had whereabouts unknown and undiscoverable—and one stood right in front of him.

  The airs of the oldest Weatherstaff boy were vividly and rapidly restored. With an indisputable authority, he said, "I'd like to speak to Rex Malin alone for a minute, if I may."

  Cavendish gave his office over to no one. "There's an interview room you can use a couple doors down the center hall." Everyone stared. He cursed. "Fine, I've got some paperwork to file, anyway. Gentlemen, lady, let's respect these veterans' need for privacy, however resentfully it's given."

  Estella failed to mind being excused. Rex looked as though he could handle himself in front of Mr. Gus Weatherstaff, and she wished to have a word with Mr. George Weatherstaff. Watching Moon found a seat on a bench, resting his aching knee. Next to him, a man, tattooed in the face, handcuffs at his wrists, that, when seeing that he was sitting within striking range of an Indian, inched over. Watching Moon noticed, but he was too busy observing the body language of the silhouettes, barely discernible in Inspector Cavendish's office. He'd known someone else had been destined to appear out of thin air to help his friend.

  Inside the office, Gus informed Rex that he was going to ask him some uncomfortable questions. It was like Gus Weathers—Augustin Weatherstaff—to disclose the hell he was about to unleash.

  "May I ask a question first?" Rex started, hopeful that Gus wouldn't mind, and might've even anticipated it.

  "You'd like to know why I never told you whose son I was, whose brother?"

  "The son part I understand. But you knew I was from Toronto, and you never mentioned that you were also from Toronto. Why didn't you? Even with your assumed name, I wouldn't have recognized you as the son of John Weatherstaff."

  "My years growing up here became unimportant—like a dream. And I put it aside. I think I told you I was from Barrie. Seemed easier that way, and we used to have a summer house out that way, so I knew the place. Made it easier to talk about. Home started to haunt me more. And I mean that it haunted me. At night, I had dreams about home. Not the violent nightmares that I used to have after my father's death. Pleasanter dreams. I'd find myself talking to strangers, either Canadians or those who'd just come from Canada."

  "Are these the odd events you mentioned?"

  "No, not entirely. That has to do with what happened to us in France, and about that nurse. She's that Botsaris woman that my brother wanted to marry."

  "Did you know that to begin with?"

  "When he first wrote that he was getting married? No. How could I know? But that's when the dreams started coming along. About home and what'd happened in France and Belgium. You knew her better than the rest of us. She'd healed you more. You were worse off. You saw her outside the hospital, too. You loved her a bit, I suppose."

  "Only in the way stupid young men love someone that heals them. But she haunts me, too. When I saw her photograph in the newspaper—"

  "You wondered who she was."

  Rex nodded, attempting to draw out a response that didn't seem ludicrous. Considering what Gus had been telling him, nothing would seem beyond belief. "I dreamed about her, too. That first time I met her. With the wolves."

  "George told me about the boy killed in the alley."

  "You think it was wolves, too. But how is that connected to your brother's fiancée?"

  "It goes back to what happened to us in the hospital. I became obsessed with the fact that something out there changed all of us—made us a bit more than human. Something supernatural, in fact. I've been puzzled by my characteristics since you and I got into the Flying Corps at Rouen."

  Rex had no chance to ask what those characteristics were.

  "No doubt there's something about yourself, too, that's different than it was before you went off to war. I don't mean the subtle changes that a man goes through when he's forced to kill his fellow man. I mean something real, something about you, your mind, your body, the way the two go together. Something there that's real different."

  Rex refrained from mentioning the unusualness about himself, the one that he had put to use after returning to Toronto. "What's this have to do with the nurse in France?"

  "I've been thinking about that. I've had a lot of time to think about it, coming over on the boat, getting here on the train. Lots of time to think. And you're probably not going to believe what I'm about to tell you."

  Throat tightening and stomach twisting, Rex clenched his hands into fists to keep his anxieties from ruling him. "I've seen many strange things in my days, Gus. Tell me."

  Gus thought Rex would make a brave declaration. "It's got to do with those wolves you found her with, back that first night you came across her. It's got to do with the fact that I think—I think she's—"

  "Powerful," offered Rex.

  Gus gulped, briefly losing nerve. Overcoming a pang of intense fear, he looked Rex square in the face. "I think she's a god."

  * * * *