Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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the prospect.
But Grant wasn’t at his desk when Blacklock, breathless, arrived a few minutes later. He had been called out of the office to follow up on an extraordinary tip and no one but Grant knew where he was. Grant himself could scarcely credit it. It had started with a phone call a half hour earlier. The voice on the other end of the phone was unfamiliar but there was no denying the authenticity of the number displayed on the tiny screen of Grant’s telephone.
“It’s about that specious front page story of yours on Sam Schuster —” the voice began.
“Listen, I didn’t write the bloody front page story —” Grant started.
“Did I call to complain?” the voice interjected. “No, I just want to put you on the right path, that’s all.”
“The right path?” Grant had said, idly opening his notebook. “What path is that? Space aliens murdered Sam Schuster?”
“As a matter of fact, no. But I can tell you that I have proof of an extensive police investigation into Schuster’s business dealings and one other piece of information that you will find most intriguing.”
“Oh yes?” said Grant, now taking actual notes. “Look, if you’re going to continue to be off the record —”
“For obvious reasons, I can’t have my name or department associated with this.”
It was at this point that Grant looked at the number on display and did a double-take. He checked it in his phone book. He sat up straight and lowered his voice.
“Listen, I’m not doing any lame ‘sources say’ story,” he said. “Jinnah may like that shit but I don’t. I need live people. Quotable people.”
There was only the slightest pause before the voice resumed.
“I think I can put you on to someone,” it said. “Come down to my office. Now.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Grant. “But this better be good.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be pleased with the results,” said the all-too-happy voice of Staff Sergeant Graham of the Vancouver Police.
Jinnah was completely unaware of Grant’s location or what he was working on. He didn’t have time to think about it. Between angry phone calls and tracking down Mister Puri, he had his hands full. It was the call from Graham that upset him most.
“I just called to let you know I have nothing further to say to you regarding this case,” Graham said coldly. “You will get no further information from me.”
“Come on, Sarge!” Jinnah tried to jolly Graham. “Look, it’s all out now, so you may as well co-operate, hmm? Now, you’re looking for a white male, I presume — any age or other description?”
“Jinnah, your selective deafness is affecting you again. But I will tell you this: as far as we’re concerned, there is no suspect to look for.”
“What’s this bullshit?” Jinnah demanded.
“We have good reason to believe that Robert Chan’s eyes were playing games with him. What he saw was likely a trick of the light.”
“Come off it!” Jinnah cried. “What trick of the light?”
“You know — shadows, smoke, and mirrors — ingredients you should be intimately acquainted with, Jinnah, since most of your so-called stories are composed of all three.”
“You son of a bitch! You’re not going to tell everyone this … fiction! Are you?”
“Our release quotes Chan’s doctor. Patient is slightly delusional at this point due to trauma suffered. You might have learned that if you had talked to the doctor instead of stalking the poor man —”
“Stalking! Since when —”
“Since now and from now on. Good-bye, Jinnah.”
Graham hung up and Jinnah cursed. Another spell in the Vancouver police dog house, a situation that only time would heal. But time would prove Jinnah right, of that he was certain, although he knew he couldn’t count on the police to follow this lead. There was only one thing for it. Jinnah would launch his own investigation. He had his coat on and an unlit cigarette in his mouth before Sanderson noticed the activity beyond his newspaper barrier.
“Going somewhere?” he asked idly.
“Ronald, I’ll be out of the office for some time. I want you to do me a favour —”
“No, I won’t tell them you were summoned to a personal audience with the Aga Khan or that your tests results for leukemia came back positive,” said Sanderson, eyes glued to his paper. “Where are you going, really?”
Jinnah took the cigarette out of his mouth and shook it at Sanderson.
“Listen, my friend, I don’t give a damn about anyone here knowing where I am! What I want you to do is find out what Grant is working on.”
Sanderson lowered his paper and regarded Jinnah with patient exasperation.
“Hakeem, if you weren’t so lazy you would have called up the list yourself and seen he has some angle about a securities investigation into Schuster’s business.”
“Bullshit, Ronald! That’s what it may say on the list, but I know Grant! He’s furious because I bumped him off front! He has something up his sleeve, I know it! ”
“Then why don’t you ask him? You two are supposed to be partners.”
Jinnah shot his colleague a look of utter disgust as he headed for the door.
“I would rather be sealed in a pit of my own filth, Ronald.”
“Where shall I tell them you are, Hakeem?” Sanderson called after him.
Whirling around, Jinnah shouted somewhat melodramatically, “On the trail of a killer, my friend!”
“The man of light and shadows?” Sanderson teased.
Jinnah replied somewhat stiffly with one of his favourite phrases.
“Even a man of light and shadows must undergo trial, Ronald. There is trial by judge, trial by jury, and trial —”
“Yes,” Sanderson interrupted. “And trial by Jinnah.”
With the dramatic effect of his exit ruined, Jinnah scowled and left.
Two minutes later, Blacklock came looking for Jinnah and found Sanderson (whose nearly infallible editor-in-chief radar had, for once, failed him) with his feet up on the desk, reading the newspaper.
“Mister Sanderson!” Blacklock bellowed. “Where is that miscreant Jinnah!”
Sanderson threw down his paper and snapped to attention in a manner that would have done an Armed Forces recruit proud. It did not impress Blacklock one wit.
“I believe he’s out on a story, sir,” said Sanderson, voice tight with fear.
“Where did he claim he was going this time? The airport to greet an arriving terrorist or the Mayo Clinic for treatment?”
“He said something about tracking down a murderer, Mister Blacklock,” said Sanderson, trying to smile and failing miserably.
Blacklock looked at Sanderson as if he were something his cat might have spat up after eating too quickly.
“And just how are you justifying your enormous salary today, Mister Sanderson, other than reading the comics page?” asked Blacklock in that pleasant tone he reserved when about to sever a reporter’s jugular vein.
“I … I was hoping to do a follow-up on my Dumpster Doggie, sir —” Sanderson trembled, feeling like a caterpillar about to be devoured by a rotund praying mantis.
“Forget that!” snapped Blacklock, jaws closing on his