The End of the Line (12 page)

Durrant stepped into the room. It was warm and close and he could smell the nervous sweat coming from the six men seated there. The dim cabin bore a fusty odour, as if a rotting burlap sack had been discarded there when the construction season ended and had never been removed. “You're Frank Dodds,” said Durrant, moving away from the door so that Wilcox could push it shut behind them.

Dodds didn't rise when the two men entered the room. He didn't offer his hand. He just nodded and said, “I am. And you're the Red Coat here to investigate Deek Penner's murder?”

“I am. My name is Sergeant Durrant Wallace. You may refer to me as Sergeant.” Durrant looked around him, imagining these six sitting then, as they were now, but with Penner among them. The card table occupied the centre of the room, with a single bunk pushed against the far wall, and an over-sized stove taking up the corner farthest from the door. The table was crowded with the morose group of men, but there were two empty chairs. Durrant noted Christianson sitting opposite Dodds, his hands folded in front of him, his glasses reflecting the light of the lamp. Durrant stumped to one of the two empty chairs.

“Which one of these was Mr. Penner sitting at?” he asked.

Christianson said helpfully, “He was in this one here.”

Durrant leaned his crutch on the table and took off his bison coat. He deftly slipped into the seat, but not before ensuring that every man in the room could see the Enfield pistol strapped to his left side, a belt of cartridges adorning his waist as if he were a law man from south of the Medicine Line.

“If I were a betting man,” he said once he was seated, “I'd say that whoever killed Deek Penner is sitting in this room right now.”

“Just a goddamned . . .” bawled Dodds.

“Be quiet, Mr. Dodds!” Durrant said evenly but forcefully. Dodds looked as if he had been struck. “You will speak after I ask you a question,” Durrant said, “not a goddamned minute before.” The men stirred in their seats, and Wilcox, standing near the door, shuffled awkwardly.

“There's always a chance that the killer has left Holt City. He might be frozen in the snow at the Kicking Horse Pass, or along the tracks toward Banff Station. A man in this camp held a grudge against Deek Penner, or owed him money, or Mr. Penner may have known something about some man's business that he shouldn't have, and it got him killed.” Durrant rested his left hand on the table, his game right hand on his lap. He slowly looked from one man to the next. “My bet is that one of you men holds the secret to Mr. Penner's untimely demise, and it's my job to find out which one it is. You could save me a lot of time, and yourselves a lot of aggravation, if the killer would simply say so right now.”

Durrant looked around the room at the men. Dodds' eyes burned into him, and he held his gaze a moment before he let it drift over the others. Christianson remained with his face downcast. Pete Mahoney had his eyes on Dodds; his older brother Ralph looked at Durrant from beneath a heavy brow. Grant McPherson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Devon Paine watched the Mountie with expectation.

“I thought not,” said Durrant, feigning disappointment.

It was Wilcox who spoke first. “Sergeant Wallace has asked to speak with each of you in turn,” he said.

Durrant turned and fixed the man with a stern gaze. “My request extends to you, too, Mr. Wilcox.”

He turned back to the table. “The facts of the matter are becoming clear to me already. There is whiskey in this camp. Somebody is making it and distributing it, and come the spring, it stands to disrupt the work of the railway. It may come to pass that Mr. Penner's murder is somehow tied to this. I can't say for certain as yet. But the law is the law, and as a representative of the Dominion Government, I aim to uphold it. Mr. Wilcox has assured me every co-operation, and I expect nothing less of each of you. The fact is, whiskey is being made here. Mr. Wilcox must have his suspicions and has done nothing to act on them, and so is at best negligent in his duties here.”

Wilcox drew a deep breath and held it.

“My primary duty will be to discover Mr. Penner's killer, but in the course of that investigation, should I reveal anything about the moonshining going on at Holt City, you can rest assured I will shut it down.” He looked around the room again. Dodds glared at Durrant. He could also see that Wilcox bore the expression of a man scorned, and what was worse, in front of a room of his subordinates.

This was exactly where Durrant wanted these men: angry, and off-balance. “Does any man here have anything he wants to say?”

“I take it that's an invitation to speak?” said Dodds in a tone that was low and menacing, like the sound a dog makes when you cross it.

Durrant nodded.

“You come to the wrong place, Sergeant, if you're looking for confessions. Deek Penner must have stuck his nose into somebody's business where it weren't welcome, and it got him killed, but not by anybody sitting in this room.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Deek and I weren't no friends is for sure; maybe I was the only one who was big enough to stand up to him, but I know for a fact I didn't kill him. The rest of these boys ain't got it in 'im. You think little old John there, or that poor boy Paine might have killed a big fellow like Penner? And these boys here,” he nodded at the Mahoney brothers, “they work for me.”

“And that absolves them?”

“They ain't going to do anything I don't tell them to do.”

“This has been very useful commentary, Mr. Dodds. I suppose I shall have to carry out my investigation anyway. I understand there was a card game here the night that Mr. Penner was killed. That correct?” Dodds nodded. “And it was you six, and Mr. Penner playing?” Again, Dodds nodded. “Who was missing from the game?”

“I don't take your meaning.” said Dodds.

“Who was missing? There was an empty chair?”

“Nobody was missing.”

“Doesn't seem right that a chair should sit unfilled at a game such as the one you hosted.”

“Sometimes others will join in. Bob Pen sometimes sits a hand. And my man Griffin will play now and again.”

“Mr. Pen I've met. What about this other man?”

“Thompson Griffin,” said Frank Dodds. “He's my number two up on the hill. He weren't about that night, must have had other business to attend to.”

Durrant made a mental note to track down this man and question him on his whereabouts. “Anything happen that night that might lead one of you to want to kill Mr. Penner?”

“Deek was winning as usual,” said Christianson, earning a sharp glance from Dodds.

“He often won?”

“Yes, he was a good player. He'd throw hands to make sure the rest of us didn't get too cross.”

“That night, did anybody get cross?”

Christianson looked around the room. His gaze came to rest on Devon Paine, and then Christianson looked down at his hands.

“How'd you get your face all bloodied?” Durrant turned to Paine. Paine looked up. The Mountie held his gaze. “Those bruises and that split lip look to be about three days old to me.” Devon looked around the room. Durrant took note that the man wasn't wearing the coat that he had seen in the laundry that afternoon. He had on an old, worn mackinaw that was grey and soiled. “You going to tell me, Mr. Paine?”

“I work with horses,” he finally said.

“What of it?”

“I got kicked.”

“You crawling across the floor when it happened?”

Christianson snickered, but was silenced by a hard look from Paine. “I was picking ice out from a mare's shoe. She gave me a tap. It's all it takes with those ice shoes the horses wear for the Tote Road.”

“When did this occur?”

Paine hesitated; he seemed to be doing a calculation in his head. “Two days now.”

“You must have bled a lot,” said the Mountie. Paine seemed not to understand the question. “When you got kicked. You must have bled a great deal.”

“Some.”

“Is that the coat you were wearing when it happened?”

“I can't recall,” said Paine, his face perplexed.

Durrant nodded. “So the card game was a peaceful event.” The men nodded. “And who left first?”

“I believe it was Deek,” said Christianson.

“After that?”

The men were silent.

“It was Paine, weren't it?” asked Dodds.

“Yeah, I believe that's true,” said Ralph Mahoney, speaking for the first time.

“Is that right, Mr. Paine?” Durrant asked.

“It must be,” he said, looking down.

“But you can't recall?”

“I think that's right.”

“Then John, then Grant, I believe,” continued Dodds.

“And then Pete and me,” said Ralph Mahoney helpfully. His brother nodded.

“Besides Mr. Christianson here, did any of you see Mr. Penner after he left that night?”

The men shook their head.

“And you, Mr. Wilcox?”

“I did not,” said the general manager, his arms folded.

Durrant shifted in his chair, easing the pressure on his prosthetic leg. “So none of you had words with Deek Penner that night, and none but John here saw him after he took his leave. Is that correct?” The room was silent. “Well, I don't believe that for a moment.” Dodds was about to speak, but Durrant hushed him with a hard look.

“Who else, gentlemen, in this camp might have wanted to see Deek Penner dead?”

“Deek was pretty well liked,” acknowledged Christianson quietly.

“That doesn't help your cause Mr. Christianson,” said Durrant.

“Blue Jesus, John, would you shut your mouth!” bawled Dodds harshly.

Durrant smiled.

“What about that Grand Trunk man?” asked Dodds.

“That's just a rumour,” said Wilcox.

“And what might that rumour be?” questioned Durrant.

Wilcox shrugged. “It's a delicate matter.”

Durrant shifted and looked at Wilcox.

“We've suspected a man in the camp has been spying on behalf of the Grand Trunk Railway.”

“Deek knew?”

Wilcox looked around the room. “Deek may have found out.”

“Do we know this spy's identity?”

“Not as of yet,” said Wilcox.

“We shall have to find out,” said Durrant. He thought he noted a glimmer of interest in Wilcox's eye. He shifted again and regarded the room full of men watching him.

“Gentlemen, get some rest,” he said at long last. “Expect to see me tomorrow.” With that, Durrant rose, slipped his bison coat on, and taking his crutch went to the door and vanished out into the frozen night, leaving the rest of the men in silence.

DURRANT WOKE BELIEVING THAT HE
had Frank Dodds exactly where he wanted him: backed into a corner, with nowhere to turn. He lay a moment under the heap of blankets piled high against the cold and went over the confrontation of the night before. Reckless, Sub-Inspector Dewalt would have said;
Diplomacy
, he would recite. Durrant believed that the ragtag complement of men who had been snowbound since December would only respect his authority as the law if he was uncompromising in the execution of it.

“You there, Charlie?” Durrant spoke into the pre-dawn morning. He didn't expect an answer but also heard no sound from the small room. He pushed the blankets off and realized that he was in fact sweating beneath the heavy mound of wool. Durrant affixed his prosthetic and dressed and was about to step to the door when there was a knock. Puzzled, he put one hand on the hilt of his pistol and said, “Come in . . .”

Charlie pushed the door open, a dented tin coffee pot in his hand. Durrant smiled at his modesty and relaxed his grip on the Enfield. The boy entered and poured the Sergeant a cup of thick black coffee and then one for himself. Durrant took the mug in his hand and held it appreciatively, absorbing the warmth. He took a sip. “It's warmer out today, ain't it?” asked Durrant.

The boy nodded, and took the writing tablet from the desk and scribbled something on it. Charlie turned it around for Durrant to see. “Cloudy. Maybe chinook on its way,” he read. “I see. Well, that would explain it. We're only a few days from the spring equinox,” Durrant added, holding the coffee close to his lips. “It's got to warm up in this God-forsaken country sooner or later.” Durrant finished his coffee and put the cup down on the desk.

“I'm going to be questioning those men all day today, Charlie. While I'm at that, I need you to continue your search for the murder weapon. Can you do that, son?”

Charlie smiled and nodded. “Don't catch a cold in the snow, mind you,” said Durrant as he pried open the door, and then felt foolish for playing father to the lad.

•  •  •

The morning was, in fact, much warmer. Before leaving the cabin Durrant opened his footlocker and found his greatcoat and cape. Exchanging it for the bison robe coat, he rearranged his arsenal and then closed the door behind him. The Mountie made his way to the mess hall along the pathways through the snow, and when he arrived found that breakfast was all but over. He went to the kitchen and was given a plate of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. He found more coffee on the stove and sat down to eat a hasty meal before undertaking the day's inquisition.

Where to start, he wondered? He'd make Dodds wait. He'd catch him off guard at the end of the day. There was a lot to be gained by learning as much as he could
about
Dodds, about his relationship with Penner. Durrant finished and made his way to the stables, drawn by the sound of horses and the ring of the nearby blacksmith plying his trade. Outside, in the yard next to the stables, a few men were fitting a harness onto a team of horses. The doors were open and Durrant stepped to the verge.

“Mr. Paine?” he called into the dim room. These stables, like those in Fort Calgary, were new and still bore the sweet scent of freshly milled pine boards. There were ten stalls along each of the north and south walls of the barn, each separated by a heavy fir joist set deeply in a rough milled post, some of which still had bark clinging to them. Durrant could smell the horses and hear their whinnies as he moved from the flat light of the day into the darkened recess of the barn.