The Whole Megillah by Howard Engel Page A

of Bloor and came back to the Super Save, where I had a clear view of the two. They were laughing at something. Then Mary began prodding him with her finger in the chest, bringing home some homily about poverty and godliness, probably. The goateed man nodded gravely and gave her a hug. I’d never seen any body hug a saint before, and Mary looked overwhelmed too. As the old goat moved away from her, she began singing some new complaint and gesticulating and shaking her head in a--for her--good-humoured way. The goat-beard turned and waved to her, then made his way along Bloor Street to the Brunswick House at the end of the block. He went in and disappeared up the stairs. Richard had said that Kurian liked to stay in beat-up hotels. The Brunswick was an old hotel that had retired from the housing side of the business to concentrate on the potables in its various beverage rooms. There were no drinks to be had at this hour, so the man, who might be Kurian, had other business at the Brunswick House. Could he be living there? I thought of the possibilities while I sipped my coffee.
    There was nothing so formal as a registration desk at the Brunswick. I asked a waiter about who I should see and he shrugged ignorance. The pub wasn’t officially open yet, so he was not required to be nice to anyone. I tried the man at the bar, who was polishing draught beer spouts. ‘We don’t rent rooms these days,’ he said. ‘No profit in it.’
    â€˜I’m not looking for a room for myself,’ I explained. ‘I’m looking for the man who is renting one of them.’ The polishing stopped for a fraction of a second, which indicated both knowledge and caution to a nose like mine.
    â€˜Yes?’ he said, ‘And who might you be?’
    â€˜A friend of his,’ I said. ‘A cousin of his mother’s,’ I added. The pol ishing continued, but his raised eyebrow told me that the man I was looking for was on a floor above.
    â€˜Top of the stairs?’ I suggested agreeably.
    â€˜Second door on your right. Third floor,’ he said, and forgot all about me.
    Considering the trouble Kurian went to to hide his identity and keep his tracks covered, I’d been able to find him very easily, I thought to myself as I went up the linoleum-covered stairs to the third floor. Then it hit me that I could be wrong. I was sailing on a hunch. When was the last time I’d seen a hunch introduced as testimony in court? I found the right door anyway, and knocked.
    â€˜Yes?’ said the voice on the other side of the door.
    â€˜Mr. Kurian?’
    â€˜Yes. Who is this?’
    â€˜My name is Bushmill,’ I said, borrowing the name of the chiropodist friend whose office is next door to mine in Grantham. ‘Frank Bushmill. I’d like to talk to you about a rare Hebrew book printed in Italy about the time of Columbus. I’m acting for a collector.’
    â€˜Where did you get my name?’
    â€˜You underestimate your reputation, Mr. Kurian.’ There was a pause. I thought I saw a shadow pass near the bottom of the door.

    The door was opened with a certain arrogance by the goat-bearded man who might have been in his sixties. He blinked watery blue eyes at me and gave me a nod. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers and an old Irish sweater with a blue knobbly elbow protruding from the left sleeve. He stepped back from the door; I followed him into the room. The air was thick with the smell of pipe tobacco, and there were flecks of it on his ancient sweater. The room was small and chilly for the time of year. If there was no profit in renting rooms, at least they were keeping the expenses down.
    Kurian offered me a chair and sat on the edge of the bed himself His head was large and long, but the lines around his eyes showed that he knew about the funny side of life.
    â€˜Well, Mr. Bushmill,’ he said. ‘That’s a good name.’ I must have given him a blank look