Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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Petroleum,” said Jinnah. “Is that it?”
Paula Schuster nodded. Jinnah turned this proposition over and over in his mind. He became aware of an urgent need to have a cigarette. He noticed several ash-trays scattered about the room and smiled.
“Mrs. Schuster, do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, reaching for his pack.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “I’ve not been able to light up since … since Sunday.”
Jinnah felt acutely embarrassed. How could he have even thought of asking? Somehow, things were not going quite right here. He should have been happy. He was getting an exclusive interview with Sam Schuster’s widow. He had a story that would blow Grant and anyone else, for that matter, off the front page. But there was something missing. His inherent instincts were not tingling.
“Of course, so stupid of me,” he said hurriedly. “Forget I asked. Returning to the possible scenario you were painting: is it not more likely that someone close to your husband did this thing? He was involved in some, how shall I put this, unfortunate ventures in his time.”
“Mister Jinnah, let me be honest with you: in the past, Sam swam with the sharks. But that was the eighties. Everyone was doing it. Junk bonds, worthless penny mining stocks. He cut his teeth on that. But he’d changed. When he was wiped out the last time — well, I wouldn’t exactly say Sam got religion, but he did things on the up and up. It cost him some friends though, you see.”
Yeah, friends like Cosmo Lavirtue and Neil Thompson, thought Jinnah. He noticed that, as she spoke, Paula Schuster stared down at the handkerchiefs wound around her hands. She first unwrapped the left hand and tugged it more snugly around her wrist, then her palm and finally finished up by tucking the pointed edge in around her knuckles: as if she were folding a linen serviette in an especially ornate manner. She repeated the process with her right hand and sat there, quite composed, with her hands in half-clenched fists. To Jinnah, it was disturbingly like facing a boxer wearing pink gloves. And then it hit him: she was boxing with him, using his own reticence to press her to her own advantage. She wasn’t sitting here by mistake. She could have easily insisted he leave, screamed and called the cops, but she had chosen to talk when he mentioned the trunk. The conviction was forming in Jinnah’s mind that perhaps Paula Schuster was using him like a share offering after all: hoping to get a decent return out of him. He stiffened.
“Mrs. Schuster, as long as we are being honest with each other, hmm?” he said with thinly veiled aggressiveness. “It makes far more sense to me that one of your late husband’s close associates, angry that he had lost big-time when he last went under, murdered him for revenge. What do you say to that?”
Paula Schuster looked up. It was at this moment Jinnah noticed that, bags beneath them aside, they were very pretty eyes: large and blue. He was not so romantically naive that he did not check to see if she was wearing contacts, however. She wasn’t. The deep azure wells glinted as she spoke.
“Mister Jinnah, that doesn’t explain the two men and the kidnapping!” she said, departing for the first time from her calm, flat monotone.
“Indeed, it does, ma’am,” said Jinnah. “I mean no disrespect, we are simply exploring possible scenarios, hmm? But listen: anyone could have hired those two monkeys. Why not someone well-known to Mister Schuster? Someone like, say Cosmo Lavirtue or Neil Thompson?”
“Cosmo would never do a thing like that. Nor would Thompson,” said Paula Schuster quickly, eyes flashing again. “I mean, why would they?”
“They were the two biggest losers in their last joint-venture, that’s why,” said Jinnah. “They were tied in with the Jakarta deal as well.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Mrs. Schuster! Cosmo Lavirtue arrives with a rent-a-crowd protest at my newsroom this morning demanding a retraction and apology for a story that could ruin the deal and cost everyone their money. Mister Thompson shows up at my cousin’s share launch and gets into an argument with him about it while you watch, oblivious to all else. Now why would they do that if they weren’t in it up to their eyeballs?”
“Because despite everything, Cosmo was Sam’s friend!” said Paula Schuster. “And Thompson has nothing to do with IIP.”
She sat there panting on the chair. Jinnah noticed how her nostrils flared when she was angry. He liked it. It was a sign they were getting to something close to the truth. But the progress was short-lived. Paula Schuster composed herself and the mask of calm suffering and fatigue slowly descended back onto that reluctantly animated face.
“Listen, Mister Jinnah,” she said. “I wasn’t oblivious at your cousin’s launch. You tell me: what are you two selling?”
Jinnah considered this carefully. He almost said “a commodity,” but hesitated. “Commodity” had too many other unsavory connotations.
“A service,” he said finally.
Paula Schuster shook her head and smiled sadly.
“No, you’re not. You’re selling a dream. That’s what Sam did best. He was a dreamer, Sam. Most of the time, the dream came true. Never, ever did I think I would find myself in a nightmare because of him.”
Jinnah saw her face starting to slowly dissolve. He tried to head the tears off.
“So your marriage was happy then?” he asked forcefully, changing the topic.
Paula Schuster was taken off guard by this. Her face assumed that tired look.
“Yes. Sam gave me everything I could possibly want.”
“No children?”
“We didn’t want any.”
“And the bankruptcies? The long hours at work, hmm? The disappointments?”
“Mister Jinnah, I’m sure you work long hours in your business and have your ups and downs. And then there’s your — shall we call them sidelines? I’m not talking total bliss here — of course not. But on balance, we had a good life together, you see.”
“A lot happier now you stand to inherit ten million dollars, perhaps?”
Paula Schuster didn’t answer. She turned away and sat with perfect posture, hands neatly folded in her lap, staring out the window. Jinnah sensed the interview was, for intents and purposes, over. She had given everything she was willing to give and, had she known it, a bit more. Jinnah folded his notebook and smiled softly. He decided to make a parting joke at his own expense.
“Sidelines?” he said good-naturedly. “What do you mean, my sidelines?”
“The people at your cousin’s launch seem to think you are quite the businessman in your own right, Mister Jinnah.”
Jinnah stood up and gave a stiff little half-bow.
“They are right, Madame” he said smoothly. “I deal extensively in the truth. I wish you good day.”
Paula Schuster saw Jinnah to the front door and said good-bye. Before heading back down the walk, Jinnah took in the two cars by the front entrance. He memorized the licence plates, humming them, forming them into a tune in his head for easy storage and retrieval when he returned to the Tribune newsroom. They were recorded irrevocably in a neat, tidy folder in the files of his mind by the time the heavy gate closed behind him and he climbed back into the satellite-guided Love Machine. Not that he was going back to the Tribune directly. He had one last important stop along the way. He disabled the computer link and drove humming to himself. It was time to see what Sergeant Gus Graham had to say about the kidnapping of Sam Schuster.
Jinnah bearded Graham in his den, gaining access to his office in the Vancouver Police headquarters by telling the receptionist he had a story that might bring down the entire department. Graham appeared at the front desk, concerned and scowling and beckoning Jinnah to follow, taking him up to the second floor for a quiet chat.
“This