Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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important!” cried Jinnah. “The story’s the important thing, for God’s sake!”
Blacklock dragged out his combined contemptuous-bored expression and leveled it at Jinnah.
“You may well think that, Jinnah, but let me assure you that no one wishes to read a page of solid type, even one composed of your deathless prose.”
Here, Junior Church was on solid ground. He chipped in to help the Boss.
“Graphics and photos are key,” he chirped. “And nibbly boxes. Readers love ‘em!”
Jinnah and Grant exchanged a pained glance. They disagreed fundamentally about most things, but this was one issue where they were as one. Art could go hang — it took away space from the words. Blacklock had turned around and was fiddling with his terminal, trying for the umpteenth time to access the photo-browser and failing. Junior Church, seeing his difficulty, sprang at once to Blacklock’s assistance.
“If I may, sir?” he said differentially.
“If you must, impatient youth,” said Blacklock, grinning at Grant and Jinnah as if to say: “I could do this if I chose.” Jinnah noted, not for the first time, his editor’s discomfort with new technology. Church’s fingers whirled on the keys and around the mouse, bringing up Schuster’s file. A series of thumbnails came up on the colour screen — most of them standard, corporate mug shots. One stood out: a small image of several people around what appeared to be a hay wagon. Blacklock pointed to it with a pen.
“Enlarge this one, if you would, Mister Church.”
Church obediently moved the mouse, sending the arrow-cursor fluttering about the screen like a sparrow. For a second, the screen went blank. Then, the image reappeared, now filling up the entire screen. Jinnah leaned close. There were seven people dressed in weird, 1960s garb standing in front of or sitting atop a hay wagon with an oil derrick in the background. But this was no haphazard snapshot. It had been composed by a Tribune staff photographer and Jinnah’s trained eye saw the three men standing in the centre of the frame were the key participants around which the image was structured. The man in the middle he recognized as a much-younger Schuster, wearing a tie-dye T-shirt, long hair, and a headband. Medium-height, medium weight. Everything about this man, save his career, seemed average. He had a huge grin on his thin face. On his left was a large, heavy-set man dressed uncomfortably in a black wig, flower-power shirt and Jesus Boots. He had his eyes closed, but Jinnah could tell by his body language he was extremely uncomfortable. To Schuster’s right was a big, tall man sporting a Van Dyke beard, granny glasses, army helmet, and a Mao jacket, smiling broadly. This man seemed almost as happy as Schuster and Jinnah immediately identified him as a ham, eating up the camera.
“Great snap,” he said. “Who the hell are these clowns? The Peace Corps?”
“Actually, Jinnah, this is Schuster and his business partners at the launch of Northern Frontiers Oil and Gas, circa 1982,” said Grant.
“So why the Hippie outfits, for God’s sake?”
“Because the project was in the Peace River country of Northeast B.C. Get it? Peace, man.”
Jinnah looked at these men who, at the time, had been about the age of the Flower Children two decades earlier. Name of God. Stock promoters would do anything to get their names in the paper, wouldn’t they? He looked again at Schuster. Mousy kind of chap but he had a certain gleam in his eyes.
“How did Schuster talk these guys into posing like that, hmm?” he asked.
Grant grinned.
“Schuster had the gift of the gab, Jinnah. He could have talked even you into trusting him with your life savings and, when he lost it, convince you that you were better off without all that money.”
Jinnah whistled. It was virtually impossible for anyone to extort as much as a free coffee out of him, let alone his life’s savings (which were carefully invested in a well-balanced portfolio). Schuster must have had considerable powers of persuasion.
“These two men beside him, who are they?” asked Jinnah.
“Guy on the left is Neil Thompson. The big chap on the right is Cosmo Lavirtue. At the time, they were Schuster’s closest partners,” said Grant.
Jinnah looked carefully at the two men’s faces. They appeared poles apart in their enthusiasm for this stupid publicity stunt, but both had been willing to put up money — lots of money.
“Isn’t this the deal that lost a record amount on the VSE?” he asked.
“On the VSE? Yes. Out of Thompson and Lavirtue’s pockets? Certainly. But somehow, good old Schuster managed to make out just fine,” said Grant with some relish. “There were millions of dollars involved.”
Jinnah sat back in his chair and studied these men carefully.
“Then these two fellows are suspects in Schuster’s slaying, hmm?” he said.
Grant laughed a hollow laugh.
“Jesus, Jinnah! That was nearly twenty years ago! There’s been a lot of water under the bridge and a ton of scams since then! They’d have to take a number.”
“A man is generally murdered by someone he knows, Mister Grant, not by some stranger,” said Jinnah, eyes narrowing. “It is a fact that you should bear in mind.”
The following silence was broken only by the click of the mouse as Church strove to find another, more rewarding image of Schuster. Blacklock decided to reassert himself.
“Mister Grant, I take it Mister Schuster was involved in more than one controversial deal?”
Grant nodded vigorously.
“Always a showman. Look at that stupid Peace River thing. Caught the public’s attention. But in the case of Northern Frontier, the geological reports turned out to be suspect. Schuster said they were within the statistical margin of error, of course.”
“How far off was he?” asked Jinnah.
“The pocket contained less than 5 percent of the amount originally forecast,” said Grant dryly. “And yet, Schuster has made more fortunes — and lost them — than anyone else on the VSE. Right up to Friday, he was still trying to pull off the biggest scam of his career.”
Blacklock raised a heavy eyebrow.
“Indeed? Pray, enlighten me.”
“Imperial Indonesian Petroleum. Schuster had a chance to gain a controlling interest in a one hundred million dollar deal. But at the last minute, he came up just short. He’d asked for an extension, but it was not certain the Jakarta authorities would give it to him. My guess is the deal collapsed, he ran out of time so he called it a life.”
Grant finished. Jinnah had nothing to add. He was still thinking. All eyes were now on Blacklock, who sat playing with a blue grease pencil, absorbed in thought. He reached his decision and began to pronounce like the Oracle of Delphi.
“Mister Church, what is the news hole looking like today?” he asked.
“Not big,” said Church. “But not much else is happening. We could give it story on front keying to a page inside.”
“And what would this page one story say, Mister Jinnah?”
“That Robert Chan is a bloody hero,” said Jinnah. “A dramatic narrative of how an ordinary Vancouver man braved smoke and flames —”
Blacklock once again held up a hand.
“A dramatic narrative? Surely you mean an exclusive first-hand account?”
Jinnah squirmed slightly. He’d been afraid of this.
“Not as such,” he admitted. “The cops won’t let me near Chan.”
Blacklock was smiling. That was a bad sign.
“And in the absence