The End of the Line (7 page)

“That's one train you don't want to mess with,” a voice said behind him. Durrant turned to see a well-dressed man standing with his hands buried deep in his pockets by the station's main doors. Durrant turned back to regard the train. “Nitroglycerine,” he heard the man say.

The dapper man stepped forward. “You must be Durrant Wallace.” He extended a hand sheathed in a black leather glove.

Durrant extended his left. “
Sergeant
Durrant Wallace.”

“Sergeant,” said the man, taking the Mountie's hand. “I'm Hep Wilcox. I'm the general manager here at the end of steel. I'm glad you've come.”

“How much will you put aside by the spring?” Durrant inquired, watching the passage of crates of explosives with suspicion.

“The short answer is as much as we can. The long answer is, well, a little bit more complex.”

Wilcox was now beside him, his breath thick in the frigid air. “We have a contract with the Canada Explosives Company out of Mount Saint-Hilaire to manufacture the liquid nitroglycerine for the Upper and Lower Kicking Horse. It's a subcontract, really, through my operation. But the vetting of the bid was done through the Parliament of Canada, as they are paying the bills. I'm not really all that happy with the terms of the deal, but what can you do? We've been having a lot of trouble with quantity. We're yet to see the quality. We'll be running some tests this spring up at the Kicking Horse Pass to assess the power and stability of the mix.”

Durrant had lost interest in the troubles of the railroad man, and wanted to turn his attention to the death of Deek Penner. “Can we step inside and talk?” he asked.

“Of course.” Wilcox held up a gloved hand to point to the main station door.

The station was the first truly warm space that Durrant had been in since departing Fort Calgary, and it came as a relief. Wilcox led Durrant into the small vestibule, where a broad L-shaped counter separated the entrance way from closed doors beyond. Two small windows flanking the single door to the platform permitted the spectacular light of the day to flood into the room.

“This here is the merchantable counter, where Tom Holt takes care of shipping and receiving for the station,” said Wilcox, taking off his glove and tapping the counter top. “Tom manages the stores here, and got the place named after him for his service. Mind, I think he did the naming himself . . .” cracked Wilcox. “Back behind is the telegraph office. John Christianson tends to the wires as well as the store. Through there,” pointed Wilcox, “is where we keep the supplies for the men to purchase with their pay.” Durrant made note of the heavy lock on the outside of the door.

Wilcox stepped to a third door on the northern wall of the station. “This here is the
CPR
offices.” He pulled a ring of keys from his coat pocket, unlocked the door, and shoved it open. Durrant could see where the door had already cut a groove into the soft, uneven, pine flooring. They stepped into the room. A small stove glowed in the corner and Durrant felt the heat through his heavy clothes. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. “Take your coat off, Sergeant,” said Wilcox as he unbuttoned his own. “Would you like coffee? There's a pot there on the stove.”

“No, thank you,” said Durrant, hanging his coat on a chair while leaning on his crutch.

The office was small and neatly ordered. A compact desk with an oil lamp was pushed against one wall, and there were two chairs arranged near the tiny window that looked out on the rail yard. Durrant could see the men moving about with their crates of raw material to make nitroglycerine through the frosted pane of glass.

He didn't wait for Wilcox to finish pouring coffee for himself before he started. “Do you know who killed Deek Penner, Mr. Wilcox?”

His back to Durrant, Wilcox quickly replied, “If I did, there would be no reason for you to be here, would there Sergeant.”

“That may be so, but nevertheless, do you?”

“I do not.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted Mr. Penner dead?”

“Well, that's another matter altogether.” Wilcox sat down next to his desk and put the tin cup with his coffee in it down next to the lamp.

Durrant continued to stand and survey the room as he talked. “So let's make a list, shall we? Who was it that found Mr. Penner's body?”

“That would be John Christianson. John's no killer, I assure you.”

“There was a card game that evening. Who was in attendance at that game?” asked Durrant.

“I know that Frank Dodds was there, as it was in his cabin. And John was there, 'cause he told me that he nearly lost his shirt in the game. You'll have to check with one of them to determine who else sat in on the game.”

“You didn't ask?”

“Didn't see why. The boys here play cards nearly every night. There's always a dozen games on the go. I don't make it my business to keep track.”

“Gambling is illegal.”

Wilcox smiled. “I suppose . . .”

“That being said, my concern is not with having a bet now and again. I've been known to play a hand or two of poker myself. It's what nearly always accompanies a game that I'm wondering about. And what happened after this particular game was over is my principal concern.”

“Liquor.” Wilcox said it in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Is there liquor at any of the games you mention?”

“I imagine there might be a jar here and there.”

“This doesn't bother you, Mr. Wilcox?”

“Course it does. Liquor is illegal along the
CPR
. Selling liquor is prohibited in the camps.”

“But you don't know for sure if there's any at Holt City.”

Wilcox looked at Durrant as he sipped his coffee. “Sergeant, you and I both know that wherever there are men working, there is whiskey. It's just the way it is. Is it a problem at Holt City? I haven't seen evidence of it. Do I make it my business to meddle with it? So long as it ain't disrupting business, then I got other problems more pressing.”

“It's your job, Mr. Wilcox.”

The man glared at Durrant.

“As a representative of the
CPR
, it's your
job
to meddle.”

“I don't take kindly to you telling me what my job is, Sergeant Wallace.”

“I'm certain you don't, but the fact of the matter is, I've seen more than one man killed 'cause he stuck his nose into a moonshine operation.”

“You think that's what happened to Deek?”

“It's possible. Tell me what Deek's responsibilities were.”

“He was site foreman for my blasting operations. He was going to be in charge of blasting out the right of way for the Tote Road, for the mainline, and for the tunnels and platforms on the Upper Kicking Horse.”

“So he was in a position of authority.”

“That's right.”

“As a
CPR
man, he too had a responsibility to meddle in moonshine operations; to report any violations to you, and to the Mounties.”

“I guess he did.”

“Did he ever report any violations to you?”

“I don't recall ever hearing a word from Deek Penner about moonshine,” Wilcox said immediately. Durrant watched him a moment. An awkward silence filled the tiny room.

“You're certain?”

“I don't ever recall.”

“That's different than he didn't ever report anything, isn't it?”

“What exactly are you getting at, Sergeant?” said the General Manager, his eyes tightening, his lips thin.

“This morning in the mess I could smell the stench of whiskey on a man who passed me. If it's that obvious to me, then it seems that it must be obvious to just about anybody who cares to look, Deek Penner included. And you as well, sir.”

Wilcox drank from his coffee. He's stalling for time, thought Durrant.

“Of course there is whiskey here,” Wilcox finally said. “I never said there wasn't. I told you it's in the nature of a camp like Holt City to have a little whiskey from time to time. Probably comes in from Fort Calgary with the mail. Who knows? Did Deek Penner know about it? Likely. Did he care? I can't say. But I know for certain that Deek Penner had his hands full with preparing for the spring push down the Kicking Horse, and unless someone was messing with his explosives, it seems pretty unlikely that he would give a damn about a little booze in the camp.”

Durrant nodded. “Well, we'll never know for certain what Deek Penner cared for and didn't.” He turned awkwardly in his chair and looked about the tiny window behind him. “Tell me more about Penner's job, sir.”

“He was a foreman, as I already said.”

“And he was on the
CPR
roll?”

“He was on my contract. I suppose in a manner of speaking we all are on the
CPR
roll.”

“What exactly was his job?”

“He started as a blaster. He worked the mainline when we did the millage along the Lakehead north of Superior. He was the best blaster I had in my crew, and so when the men I work for won the Kicking Horse contract, I asked him to come on as foreman. He'd have been supervising the crews that will be blasting the line down the Kicking Horse Pass. There'll be two or three hundred men working along that section just on the munitions side of things come the spring.”

“It sounds like a big job.”

“It is. Out on the prairie it was all about speed, how much track a team could lay down.”

“I've heard the stories. Six miles in a day . . .”

“Well, in the mountains it's all about bridges and tunnels. That latter means explosives. We build five hundred yards in a day and it's a good day's work,” said Wilcox.

“Did he make enemies among the men he worked with?”

“It's a bit too early to know, really. The team he was putting together never had a cross word for him, and none of the fellas along the Lakehead ever said a bad word. He was a fair man. He worked hard, and expected the same of others. That's why I hired him.”

“Any jealousy?”

“You mean someone that might have been passed over for the top job?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I know of. You'd have to ask around.”

“I will,” said Durrant. He reached for his crutch and pushed himself to standing. Wilcox looked relieved that the barrage of questions had come to an end. He made as if ready to stand.

“I have one more question for you, if you don't mind.”

“What is it?”

“How well did
you
get on with Mr. Penner?”

Wilcox rose from his chair and put his coffee cup down on his desk. “We got on very well. Deek was like a brother to me, a good man. I chose him because of his honesty and commitment. I asked a lot of him, and he always came through for me.”

Durrant regarded Wilcox standing before him. For a man who had just lost a brother he seemed well composed, but then, Durrant knew that the men who worked along the
CPR
had lost many such comrades to accidents and that they learned to simply move on. He imagined that might well be the case here. “Thank you for your time, sir,” Durrant finally said.

“It was no trouble at all.”

“Now, I believe its time for me to have a closer look at Mr. Penner himself.”

•  •  •

The two men stepped outside of the station, Durrant hurrying to pull his gloves on. He followed Wilcox across the station platform.

Durrant observed that Wilcox walked straight and tall, a man of considerable confidence and poise. Durrant had to work hard to keep up with the brisk man. They crossed the yard behind the station and came to the shed where the cadaver of Deek Penner now lay. Durrant paused before the plank door and reached into his trousers for the key to unlock the cast heart lock he had placed on the door late the night before. He swung the door open and a band of light from the bright day fell across the vacant space. The room smelled of split wood and earth, and in the shadows next to the west wall lay the body of Deek Penner. The canvas tarp was pulled up over the man's face and concealed his torso and legs, but the fingers from his left hand hung down below the oilcloth's edge. He turned and said to Wilcox, who hovered close behind, “Would you mind fetching a lantern?”

The general manager snorted in the crisp air as if he was put out by being sent on a common errand, but he wordlessly disappeared in search of the lamp.

Durrant stepped into the shack and crossed the frozen floor to where Deek Penner lay atop a stack of cordwood. He waited a moment for Wilcox to return, leaning his crutch against the split rounds of pine that scented the air with a heady aroma. There was no stench from the body as yet, the temperature having remained well below freezing these past three days. Should the weather turn, however, decomposition would start and the cadaver of Mr. Penner would soon foul the small room.

Without looking he heard Wilcox return, the snow outside the shack crunching beneath his boots.

“Your lantern, Sergeant,” the man said behind him. “I'll just hang it here,” said Hep, suspending the lamp from a square nail in a crude ceiling joist. It cast a sickly yellow light over the room that made the quarters feel close and stifling despite the cold.

Durrant took hold of the heavy tarp with his left hand and pulled it slowly back from Deek Penner's head. As he did so, he watched from the corner of his eye for any change in expression in the eager Wilcox as the man stepped up to his side. If there was a change, Durrant could not detect it.

Penner's face was caved in so badly that he was likely unrecognizable to any but his closest friends. Congealed, frozen blood had pooled in the sockets of his unseeing eyes and coated his face. Any visible skin was frozen white, and his hair was tipped in a ghostly frost.

Durrant had seen his share of dead men in the decade he had been a North West Mounted Police officer, but he had never seen a man so brutally murdered.