The Edge (25 page)

I retreated to the men’s room and took the film out of the binoculars–camera, and wrote a short note to go with it. Then I twisted the film and note together into a paper towel and went out to try to find Bill Baudelaire, reckoning it might be all right to speak to him casually down on ground level since Filmer wasn’t there to see. I’d caught sight of him in the distance from time to time all afternoon, but now when I wanted him his red hair wasn’t anywhere around.

Zak came up to me with Donna and offered me a lift back to the city in their bus, and at that exact moment I saw not Bill Baudelaire himself but someone who might go among the owners, where Tommy couldn’t.

‘When does the bus go?’ I asked Zak rapidly, preparing to leave him.

‘Twenty minutes … out front. It’s got a banner on.’

‘I’ll come … thanks.’

I covered a good deal of ground rapidly but not running and caught up with the shapely backview of a dark-haired girl in a red coat with a wide gold and white studded belt.

‘Nancy?’ I said from behind her.

She turned, surprised, and looked at me enquiringly.

‘Er …’ I said, ‘yesterday you collected some thirst quenchers from me for Bill Baudelaire’s daughter.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She recognised me belatedly.

‘Do you happen to know where I could find him now?’

‘He’s up in the Clubhouse, drinking with the winners.’

‘Could you … could you possibly deliver something else to him?’

She wrinkled the freckled teenage nose. ‘I just came down, for some fresh air.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, all right. I guess he’d want me to, if you asked. You seem to be OK with him. What do you want me to give him this time?’

I passed over the paper-towel bundle.

‘Instructions?’ she asked.

‘There’s a note inside.’

‘Real cloak and dagger goings-on.’

‘Thanks, truly, and … er … give it to him quietly.’

‘What’s in it?’ she asked.

‘A film, with photos of today’s events.’

She didn’t know whether or not to be disappointed.

‘Don’t lose it,’ I said.

She seemed to be more pleased with that, and flashing me a grin from over her shoulder went off towards the Clubhouse entrance. I hoped she wouldn’t make a big production out of the delivery upstairs, but just in case she did I thought I wouldn’t go anywhere where she could see me and point me out to any of the owners, so I left through the front exit gates and found the actors’ bus with its Mystery Race Train banner and faded inside into the reassembling troupe.

In general, the cast had backed Premiere (what else) but were contented to have been interviewed on television at some length. A lot of Winnipeg’s race crowd, Zak said, had asked how they could get on the train. ‘I must say,’ he said, yawning, ‘with all the publicity it’s had, it’s really caught on.’

In the publicity and the success, I thought, lay the danger. The more the eyes of Canada and Australia and England were directed to the train, the more Filmer might want to discredit it. Might … might. I was guarding a moving shadow; trying to prevent something that might not happen, searching for the intention so as to stop it occurring.

The bus letting me off at a convenient corner in the city, I walked to the Sheraton and from a telephone there spoke to Mrs Baudelaire.

‘Bill called me ten minutes ago from the track,’ she said. ‘He said you sent him a film and you didn’t say where you wanted the pictures sent.’

‘Is he calling you back?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I told him I’d be speaking to you soon.’

‘Right, well, there’s only one picture on the film. The rest is blank. Please tell Bill the man in the photo is the ally of our quarry. His ally on the train. Would you ask if Bill knows him? Ask if anyone knows him. And if there’s something about him that would be useful if I knew, please will he tell you, to tell me.’

‘Heavens,’ she said. ‘Let me get that straight.’ She paused, writing. ‘Basically, who is he, what does he do, and is what he does likely to be of help.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘And do you want a copy of the photo?’

‘Yes, please. Ask if there’s any chance of his getting it to Nell Richmond at Chateau Lake Louise by tomorrow night or the next morning.’

‘Difficult,’ she commented. ‘The mail is impossible.’

‘Well, someone might be flying to Calgary tomorrow morning,’ I suggested. ‘They might even meet our train there. We get there at twelve-forty, leave at one-thirty. I suppose the time’s too tight, but if
it’s possible, get Bill to address the envelope to the Conductor of the train, George Burley. I’ll tell George it might come.’

‘Dear young man,’ she said, ‘let me write it all down.’

I waited while she did it.

‘Let me check,’ she said. ‘Either George Burley on the train or Nell Richmond at Chateau Lake Louise.’

‘Right. I’ll call you soon.’

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I have a message for you from Val Catto.’

‘Oh good.’

‘He said … now these are his exact words … “Stolen evidence cannot be used in court but facts learned can be verified.” ’ The understanding amusement was light in her voice. ‘What he means is, have a looksee but hands off.’

‘Yes.’

‘And he said to tell you to remember his motto.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘What is his motto?’ she asked curiously, obviously longing to know.

‘Thought before action, if you have time.’

‘Nice,’ she said, pleased. ‘He said to tell you he was working hard on the unknown numbers, and you are not to put yourself in danger of arrest.’

‘All right.’

‘Phone me from Calgary tomorrow,’ she said. ‘By then it will be evening in England. Val will have had a whole day on the numbers.’

‘You’re marvellous.’

‘And I’ll be able to tell you when you’ll get your photos.’

There was a click and she’d gone, and I could hardly believe that I’d ever doubted her as a relay post.

The train had come in from the sidings and stood in the station, warm and pulsing, its engines reattached, the horses and grooms on board and fresh foods and ice loaded.

It was like going back to an old friend, familiar and almost cosy. I changed into Tommy’s uniform in my roomette and went along to the dining car where Emil, Oliver and Cathy welcomed me casually as if I were an accepted part of the crew. We began immediately laying the pink cloths and putting fresh flowers in the vases, and Angus in his tall white hat, whistling Speed Bonny Boat amid clouds of steam, addressed
his talents to wild rice and scallops in parmesan sauce while Simone rather grimly chopped lettuce.

The passengers returned well before eight o’clock in very good spirits, Mercer bringing with him a porter wheeling a case of highly superior bubbles for toasting the Unwins’ success. The Unwins themselves – and it was impossible for anyone to grudge them their moment – said over and over that it was great, just great that one of the horses actually on the train had won one of the races, it made the whole thing worthwhile, and the whole party, drifting into the dining car in true party mood, agreed and applauded.

Filmer, I was interested to see as I distributed glasses, was smiling pleasantly in all directions, when the last thing he probably wanted was the enormous smash-hit the train enterprise was proving.

Daffodil had changed into a sparkling crimson dress and showed no pique over Pampering finishing fifth. She was being friendly as usual to Bambi, frostier in pale turquoise with pearls.

Mercer came to Emil and worried that the wine wasn’t cold enough, but Emil assured him he had lodged all twelve bottles among the many plastic bags of ice cubes: by the time the train left the station, all would be well.

The Youngs, whose Slipperclub had finished third, were embraced by the hyperjoyous Unwins and were invited to their table, leaving the poor Flokatis to seek solace with others whose hopes had died on the last bend. Sheridan Lorrimore was telling a long-suffering good-natured couple all about his prowess at ice hockey and Xanthe, pouting and put out at having been temporarily deserted by Mrs Young, had ended up next to Giles-the-murderer whose real-life preference, I’d gathered, was for boys.

The train slid out of Winnipeg on time at eight-twenty and I put my energies and attention all into being an unexceptional and adequate waiter, even though always conscious of the ominous presence in the aisle seat, facing forwards, three tables back from the kitchen end. I never met his eyes and I don’t think he noticed me much, but we were all, Emil, Oliver, Cathy and I, becoming slowly and inevitably more recognisable to the passengers. Several of them enquired if we’d been to the races (we all had) and had backed the winner (no, we hadn’t). Fortunately Mercer himself had had this conversation with Emil, which meant he felt no need to ask me also, so I escaped having to speak too much in my English accent at his table.

The party atmosphere went on all through dinner, prevailed through a short scene put on by Zak to explain that the Mountie had been left
behind in Winnipeg for investigations on the ground and heated up thoroughly afterwards with more unsteady dancing and laughter in the dome car.

Nell wandered about looking slightly less starchy in a fuller-cut black skirt with her tailored white silk blouse, telling me in passing that Cumber and Rose wanted to give a similar party at Chateau Lake Louise.

‘Who?’ I said.

‘Cumber and Rose. Mr and Mrs Young.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve spent most of the day with them.’ She smiled briefly and went on her way. No clipboard, I noticed.

Cumber and Rose, I thought, collecting ashtrays. Well, well. Rose suited Mrs Young fine. Cumber was appropriate also, I supposed, though Mr Young wasn’t cumbersome; perhaps a shade heavy in personality, but not big, not awkward.

Mercer and Bambi again invited Filmer and Daffodil into their private car, although it was Oliver, this time, who obliged them with a bowl of ice. Mercer came back after a while to collect the Unwins and the Youngs, and the general jollifications everywhere wore on without any alarms.

After midnight Nell said she was going to bed, and I walked up the train with her to her roomette, almost opposite mine. She paused in the doorway.

‘It’s all going well, don’t you think?’ she said.

‘Terrific.’ I meant it. ‘You’ve worked very hard.’

We looked at each other, she in executive black and white, I in my yellow waistcoat.

‘What are you really?’ she said.

‘Twenty-nine.’

Her lips twitched. ‘One day I’ll crack your defences.’

‘Yours are half down.’

‘What do you mean?’

I made a hugging movement across my own chest. ‘No clipboard,’ I said.

‘Oh … well … I didn’t need it this evening.’

She wasn’t exactly confused. Her eyes were laughing.

‘You can’t,’ she said.

‘Can’t what?’

‘Kiss me.’

I’d wanted to. She’d seen it unerringly.

‘If you come into my parlour, I can,’ I said.

She shook her head, smiling. ‘I am not going to lose my credibility on this train by being caught coming out of the help’s bedroom.’

‘Talking in the corridor is almost as bad.’

‘Yes, it is,’ she said, nodding. ‘So goodnight.’

I said with regret, ‘Goodnight,’ and she went abruptly into her own domain and closed the door.

With a sigh I went on a few steps further to George’s office and found him as I’d expected, fully dressed, lightly napping, with worked-on forms pushed to one side beside an empty coffee cup.

‘Come in,’ he said, fully alert in an instant. ‘Sit down. How’s it going?’

‘So far, so good.’

I sat on the facilities, and told him that the water samples from the horse car had been pure and simple H
₂
O.

‘That’ll please the dragon-lady, eh?’ he said.

‘Did you go to the races?’ I asked.

‘No, I’ve got family in Winnipeg, I went visiting. And I slept most of today, as I’ll be up all night, with the stops.’ He knew, however, that Upper Gumtree had won. ‘You should see the party going on in the forward dome car. All the grooms are drunk. The dragon-lady’s in a sober tizzy, eh, because they tried to give a bucket of beer to the horse. They’re singing gold-rush songs at the tops of their voices in the dayniter and it’s a wonder they haven’t all rocked the train right off the rails, with the noise and the booze.’

‘I guess it wouldn’t be easy to rock the train off the rails,’ I said thoughtfully.

‘Easy?’ George said. ‘Of course it is. Go too fast round the curves.’

‘Well … suppose it was one of the passengers who wanted to stop the train getting happily to Vancouver, what could he do?’

He looked at me with bright eyes, unperplexed. ‘Besides doping the horses’ water? Do what they’re doing in the mystery, I’d say. Throw a body off the train, eh? That would stop the parties pretty quick.’ He chuckled. ‘You could throw someone off the Stoney Creek bridge – that’s a high curved bridge over Roger’s Pass. It’s a long way down into the gulch. Three hundred feet and a bit more. If the fall didn’t kill them, the bears would.’

‘Bears!’ I exclaimed.

He beamed. ‘Grizzly bears, eh? The Rocky Mountains aren’t anyone’s tame backyard. They’re raw nature. So are the bears. They kill people, no trouble.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Or you could
throw someone out into the Connaught Tunnel. That tunnel’s five miles long with no lights. There’s a species of blind mice that live in there, eating the grain that falls from the grain trains.’

‘Jolly,’ I said.

‘There’s a wine storage space under the floor of your dining car,’ he said with growing relish. ‘They decided not to use it on this trip because opening it might disrupt the passengers. It’s big enough to hide a body in.’

His imagination, I saw, was of a scarier dimension than my own.

‘Hiding a body in the wine store,’ I said politely, ‘might indeed disrupt the passengers.’

He laughed. ‘Or how about someone alive and tied up in there, writhing in agony?’

‘Shouting his head off?’

‘Gagged.’

‘If we miss anyone,’ I promised, ‘that’s where we’ll look.’ I stood up and prepared to go. ‘Where exactly is the Stoney Creek bridge,’ I asked, pausing in the doorway, ‘over Roger’s Pass?’