Good Year For Murder Read Online Free

demanding religious sect. He still wore a black suit and shoes, still played golf on weekday mornings and retained the title of Father. But under the new regime, Father Cosentino was free to pursue other, more adventurous, avenues of life such as business, girls, horses, and politics. At the time of his defection, he ran for Fort York Board of Control and, to the surprise of the RC population, won handily.
    In his ensuing successful political career (he never lost an election), he blessed everything from tug boat launchings to scissors at ribbon-cutting ceremonies. He said grace at most official dinners and led the city hall staff in Christmas carols and Easter hymns. It was not surprising that he became the official Chaplain for the City of Fort York.
    As an Italo-Canadian, he openly criticized Mussolini in his early association with “those heinous, heartless animals called Nazis”. And when The War began, his round, happy face was a common sight at rallies exhorting people to buy bonds or collect scrap paper. In gossipy circles it was said that he perhaps drank a little too much ceremonial wine, but this was a small fault beside his willingness to work for worthwhile causes.
    Father Cosentino fought for underprivileged children, struck out fearlessly against all kinds of bigotry and attacked the maltreatment of birds and animals. He was a man with few, if any, enemies. All this made his murder hard to understand.
    At first light on Sunday, June 16, Father Cosentino was discovered sitting stiffly upright in the open rumble seat of his recently acquired ’35 Willys. On his lap was an open, empty gift box lined with tissue paper. An attached tag carried the hand-written greeting—“Happy Father’s Day”. Around the Father’s neck was a new, four-in-hand tie, tied much too tightly, that hung, surely by accident, in the same sympathetic curve and coloured the same hideous purple as the priest’s lolling tongue. And his eyes bulged.
    A Patrol Sergeant on an old bicycle, checking the rounds of his beat Constables, turned in the alarm from a nearby call box when he first saw Father Cosentino sitting conspicuously in his car—the only car in the church parking lot. There was no one present in the warm, still morning, not even (according to the Sergeant’s report) a cat or dog.
    The first to answer the summons was Detective Sergeant Wan Ho. Born and raised in Fort York’s small Chinatown and given the English Christian name of Charles long before Charlie Chan was created, Charlie Wan Ho had risen in quick succession from top police cadet to First Class Constable to Detective to Detective Sergeant. For the last ten years, he had been passed over for promotion because of his Chinese ancestry. Whenever a situation called for a high-ranking plainclothesman, as it did now, Police Chief Horace Zulp considered himself more suitable.
    The Chief arrived late and took charge. He ordered the uniformed men to cordon off the area, which Wan Ho had already done.
    â€œSharp eyes, watch out. Suspicious characters. On your toes.” He shouted instructions and encouragement. The detectives pounded on doors, waking sleeping residents and dogs, but received for their trouble mostly yawning heavy-lidded answers that didn’t help at all. And Mayor Trutt’s arrival was preceded by the sound of his personal ear-splitting siren waking the householders whom the door-thumping detectives had missed.
    In cases as serious as this (homicides, air raid drills, strikes, large fires) all senior officers were called in regardless of department. By the time Tretheway and Jake got there in Jake’s ’33 straight eight black Pontiac convertible (they had taken the time to put on uniforms but not to pick up a cruiser) the crowd had grown. Newsmen, photographers, some early-shift steel workers and several locals added to the busy scene.
    When Sunday was over, the policemen, firemen, news fraternity,