Eyes widening under a furrowed brow, Marica advanced slowly and silently into the compartment and was less than four feet away from him when Deakin turned, the same almost viciously hard expression on his face. Marica recoiled before it, taking a step back almost as if expecting to be struck. Several seconds elapsed before Deakin appeared to become aware of her presence. His face gradually assumed its normal expression – or lack of it. He said, affably: 'Quite a start you gave me, ma'am.'
She did not answer at once. She advanced like a sleep-walker, her face still full of wonder, lifted a hand and tentatively, almost apprehensively, touched his lapel. She whispered: 'Who are you?'
He shrugged. 'John Deakin.'
'What are you?'
'You heard what the Marshal said–'
He broke off as the sound of voices came from the passageway, loud voices that carried with them the connotation of gesticulating hands. Claremont entered, followed by the Governor, Pearce and O'Brien. Claremont was saying: 'If he's not here, he must have fallen off and be lying by the track-side. And he's not here. If we back up, say, five miles–'
Fairchild interrupted, one more vexation added to his sea of troubles. 'Damn you, Deakin. That's my whisky!'
Deakin gave an acknowledging nod. 'And excellent stuff it is, too. You don't have to be afraid of offering this to anyone.'
Without a word and without warning Pearce stepped forward and savagely struck Deakin's right wrist, sending the glass flying.
Marica's reaction was involuntary, as surprising to her as it was to the others. She said in sudden anger: 'What a brave man you are. Marshal – with that big gun hanging by your side.'
With the exception of Deakin, everyone stared at her in astonishment. Pearce looked back towards Deakin, the surprise on his face giving way to contempt, a contempt reflected in his gesture as he pulled the Colt from its holster, threw it on the couch and smiled invitingly at Deakin. Deakin made no response. Pearce swung his left hand and hit Deakin, hard, across the lower face with the back of his clenched fist, a humiliating blow with which to strike any man. Deakin staggered and sat down heavily on the sofa, then, after a few seconds during which the other men averted their faces in shame for lost manhood, rose, dabbed some blood from a split lip and walked across to the other corner of the compartment, near the entrance to the passageway where, to the accompaniment of the screeching of brakes, the others brushed by him as they hurried to take up observation positions on the platforms. Marica came slowly after them and stopped in front of Deakin. From her reticule she brought out a flimsy wisp of cambric and patted the cut lip. When she spoke, it was in a very quiet tone.
'Poor man,' she said. 'So little time to live.'
'I'm not dead yet.'
'I didn't mean you. I meant the Marshal.'
She walked down the passageway and entered her sleeping compartment without looking back. Deakin looked after her thoughtfully, then crossed to the liquor cabinet and helped himself to some more bourbon.
While Deakin was lowering the level in the Governor's bottle, Banlon backed the train slowly down the valley. Four men stood at the very end of the train, the rear platform of the second horse wagon, heavily wrapped against the biting cold and the thinly falling snow: Claremont and Pearce studied the track-side to the right, the Governor and O'Brien the side to the left. But as mile succeeded crawling mile there was nothing to be seen. The snow on both sides was virginal, untouched except for the faint dusting of soot from the locomotive's earlier passage; nor was the snow heavy enough to have concealed any recent disturbances in the ankle-deep snow on the ground, far less have covered the body of a man. In short, there was no sign of the Reverend Peabody or any mark made by him had he fallen – or been pushed – from the train.
Claremont straightened and turned at the same instant as O'Brien, on the other side of the platform, did the same. Claremont shook his head slowly and O'Brien nodded in reluctant agreement; the latter turned again, leaned far out over the platform safety rail and waved his arm. Banlon, who had for the past fifteen or twenty minutes been looking towards the rear of the train, gave an acknowledging wave of his arm. The train jolted to a halt, then began to move forward again. Reluctantly, the four men on the rear platform moved away from the safety rails and returned to the comparative warmth of the horse wagon.
As soon as they returned to the day compartment Claremont had assembled there, with the exception of Banlon and his soldier-fireman Rafferty, the only eight remaining survivors of the original trainload. The atmosphere was heavy with suspicion and menace, not unmixed with fear. Every person present appeared to be carefully avoiding the eyes of every other person, with the exception of Deakin, who didn't appear to care where he looked.
Claremont passed a weary hand across his forehead.
'It's impossible. It's just absolutely impossible. We know that Peabody is not on the train. We know he can't have left the train. And nobody saw him after he left this compartment. A man can't just vanish like that.' Claremont looked round the listeners, but there was no help from there, no reaction except the embarrassed shuffling of the feet of Carlos, the Negro cook, who was clearly embarrassed by the unaccustomed presence of the gentry. Claremont repeated: 'Well, he can't, can he?'
'Can't he?' Fairchild said heavily. 'He's done it, hasn't he?'
Deakin said: 'Well, yes and no.'
Pearce's antagonism flared instantly. 'What do you mean – yes and no? What do you know about this disappearance, mister?'
'Nothing. How could I? I was here from the time Peabody left till the time Henry reported his disappearance. Miss Fairchild will vouch for that.'
Pearce made to speak but Claremont lifted a restraining hand and turned to Deakin. 'You have something in mind?'
'I have something in mind. True, we haven't crossed any ravines during the time that Peabody could have disappeared. But we did cross over two small trellis bridges in that stretch. The outside of the train is practically level with the sides of the bridges – and neither of those have guard rails. He could have gone from the train over the edge without leaving a trace.'
O'Brien made no attempt to conceal the disbelief in his voice. 'An interesting theory, Deakin. All you have to explain now is why he jumped from–'
'He didn't jump. He was pushed. More likely, someone just picked him up and threw him over the edge. He was, after all, a very little man. A big strong person could have thrown him well clear. I wonder who that person could have been. Not me. I've an alibi. Not Miss Fairchild. She's not a big strong man and, anyway, I'm her alibi, although I suppose my testimony is worthless in your eyes. But you're big strong men. All of you. Six big strong men.' He paused and surveyed them severally and leisurely. 'I wonder which one of you it was.'
The Governor didn't splutter but he came close. 'Preposterous! Absolutely preposterous!'
Claremont said icily: The man's crazy.'
'I'm only trying to find a theory to fit the known facts/ Deakin said mildly. 'Anyone got a better one?'
From the uneasy silence it was apparent that no one had a better one. Marica said: 'But who on earth would want to – to kill a harmless little man like Mr Peabody?'
'I don't know. Who on earth would do away with a harmless old doctor like Molyneux? Who on earth would want to do away with two – I presume – harmless cavalry officers like Oakland and Newell?'
Pearce's suspicions were immediate and inevitable. 'Who said anything's happened to them?'
Deakin regarded him for a long and, it seemed, pitying moment; he appeared bent on making it clear that the strength of his determination not to become involved physically with Pearce was matched only by his total disregard for the man, an attitude that Pearce was manifestly finding more intolerable by the moment. Deakin said: 'If you believe, after all that's happened, that their disappearance is just the long arm of coincidence, then it's time you turned over your badge to someone who isn't solid bone between the ears. Why, Marshal, you might be the man we want.'
'That will be quite enough, Marshal. There's been too much violence already.'
'I agree entirely with Colonel Claremont.' Fairchild puffed out his cheeks and spoke weightily in his impressively gubernatorial manner. 'I think we're being panicked. We don't know that anything of what this – this felon is suggesting is true. We don't know that Molyneux was murdered–' Fairchild had a splendid gift for emphasis with a telling pause after each word so emphasized – 'and we've only Deakin's word for that, we've only Deakin's word that he, Deakin, was a doctor – and we all know what Deakin's word is worth.'
'You're maligning my character in public, Governor,' Deakin said. 'There's a law in the constitution that says you – that's me – can seek redress for such unsubstantiated imputations. I have six witnesses to the fact that you have slandered me.' Deakin looked around him. 'Mind you I wouldn't say that they are all unbiased.'
'The law! The law!' Fairchild had turned an unbecoming turkey red and the popping bloodshot blue eyes appeared to be in some danger of coming adrift from their moorings. 'A scofflaw like you, a murderer, an arsonist, daring to invoke the sacred constitution of our United States!' He paused, probably because of the awareness that he was operating some little way below his thes-pian best. 'We don't know that Oakland and Newell were murdered. We don't actually know that Peabody was the victim of–'
'You're whistling in the dark/ Deakin said contemptuously. He looked at the Governor consideringly. 'Or maybe you don't intend to lock the door of your sleeping compartment tonight.' The Governor failed to take advantage of the longensuing pause and Deakin went on: 'Unless, of course, you're in a position to know that you personally have nothing to worry about.'
Fairchild stared at him. 'By God, Deakin, you'll pay for that insinuation.'
Deakin said wearily: 'Hark at who's talking about insinuations. Pay for it? With what? My neck? That's already spoken for. My God, it's wonderful. Here you all are, bent on delivering me up to justice, while one of you a killer with the blood of four men on his hands. Maybe not four men. Maybe eighty-four men.'
'Eighty-four men?' Fairchild exercised the last of his rapidly waning hauteur.
'As you put it yourself. Governor, we don't know that the loss of the troop wagons was an accident.' Deakin gazed off into the middle distance, then focused again on the Governor. 'Just as we don't know that there is only one of you eight – even though they are not here, we cannot exclude Banlon and Rafferty although we must of course exclude Miss Fairchild – solely responsible for the killings. There may be two or more of you felons acting in concert, in which case all of you would be equally guilty in the eyes of the law. My training in medical jurisprudence. Not that any of you would believe it.'
With an unhurried ostentation Deakin turned his back on the company, leaned his elbows on the brass grab-rail and peered out into the thickening, snow-laden twilight.
SIX
Banlon eased the locomotive to a halt, secured the brake, locked it, removed the heavy key, tiredly wiped his brow with a sweat-rag and turned to Rafferty who was propped up against his side of the cab, his eyes half-closed and swaying with utter weariness.
Banlon said: 'Enough.'
'Enough. I'm dead.'
'Two corpses.' Banlon peered out into the snow-filled darkness of the night and shivered. 'Come on. Let's go see your Colonel.'
The Colonel, at that moment, was sitting as close to the wood-burning stove as it was possible for a man to be. Huddled with him were Governor Fairchild, O'Brien, Pearce and Marica. All of them had glasses of various liquids in their hands. Deakin sat on the floor in a remote corner, his shoulders hunched against the cold; predictably, he had no glass in his hand.
The door leading to the front platform opened and Banlon and Rafferty hurried in, accompanied by a blast of freezing air and a thick swirl of snow, and quickly closed the door. They looked whitefaced and exhausted. Banlon yawned mightily, politely covering his mouth with his hand; one does not yawn in the presence of governors and colonels. He yawned again, uncontrollably, and said: 'Well, that's it, then. Colonel. We lie down or we fall down.'
'You've done a fine job, Banlon, a splendid job. I won't forget to report this to your Union Pacific employers. As for you, Rafferty, I'm proud of you.' Claremont considered briefly. 'You can have my bunk, Banlon; Rafferty, you have the Major's.'
'Thank you.' Banlon yawned a third time. 'One thing. Colonel. Somebody's going to have to keep the steam up.'
'Seems a waste of fuel. Can't you just let the fire out and light it again?'
'No way.' The emphatic shake of Banlon's head precluded any argument. 'Relighting would waste another couple of hours and use just as much fuel as it would cost to keep steam up. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that if the fires go out and the water in the condenser tubes freezes – well. Colonel, it's still a mighty long walk to Fort Humboldt.'
Deakin rose stiffly to his feet. 'I'm not much of a walker. I'll go.'
'You?' Pearce had also risen, his face at once suspicious. 'What suddenly makes you so cooperative?'
'I don't feel the slightest bit co-operative; the last thing I want to do is to co-operate with any of you lot. But it's my skin as well as yours – and you all know by now how much I cherish my own skin. Also, Marshal, I have very delicate feelings – I can sense I'm not very popular here. And I'm cold – this is a very draughty spot – while it will be nice and warm in the cab. And I'd rather not spend the rest of the night watching the lot of you drinking whisky. And I'd feel safer the further I am from you – meaning you, Pearce. And I'm the only person who can be trusted to go – or had you forgotten, Marshal, that I'm the only person aboard above suspicion?'
Deakin turned and looked enquiringly at Banlon, who in turn looked at Colonel Claremont. Claremont hesitated, then nodded.
Banlon said: 'Rake the fire-box bed every halfhour. Feed in enough fuel to keep the pressure gauge needle between the blue and the red. If it goes over the red, you'll find the steam release valve beside the gauge.'
Deakin nodded and left. Pearce looked uneasily after him, then turned to Claremont.
'I don't like it. What's to stop him from uncoupling the locomotive and driving off himself? We all know that scofflaw will stop at nothing.'
'This is to stop him, Marshal.' Banlon held out the heavy key. 'I've locked the brake wheel. Like to take charge of it?'
'I would indeed.' Pearce took the key, sat down, relaxed and reached for his glass. O'Brien rose at the same moment, nodded to Banlon and Rafferty.
'I'll show you men where to sleep. Come on.'
The three men left the day compartment and O'Brien led the way towards the after end of the second coach. He showed Banlon into Claremont's compartment, then led Rafferty into his own. He waved a hand and said: 'This suit you?'
While Rafferty looked around in dutiful respect O'Brien swiftly extracted a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and held it out in the passageway where it couldn't be seen. Rafferty said: 'Of course. Thank you very much, sir.'
'Fine. I'll say good night, then.' O'Brien closed the door and retraced his steps until he reached the galley. Without even the courtesy of a knock he entered and closed the door behind him. The galley was a tiny place, not more than six by five, and when the space taken up by the cord-fuelled cooking stove, the cupboards for pots, pans, crockery and food were taken into account, there was barely room for the cook to turn around in, far less swing a cat: but Carlos and Henry, each perched on a tiny stool, did not appear to find the accommodation unduly cramped. As O'Brien entered they looked up, each man wearing his habitual expression, Henry his look of lugubrious near-despair, Carlos his dazzling beam.
O'Brien placed the bottle on the tiny worktable. 'You're going to need this. And the warmest clothes you can find. It's a bitter night out. I'll b
e back shortly.' He looked round curiously. 'Wouldn't you have a lot more room in your own quarters?'
'Yes, indeed, Mr O'Brien.' Carlos smiled hugely and indicated the stove – it was too hot to touch. 'But we wouldn't have this. Warmest place on the train.'
The second warmest place was unquestionably the locomotive cab. At that moment it was quite a few degrees colder than it would have been normally because of the heavy gusts of driving snow that swirled almost continuously into it; but the fierce red glow from the opened fire-box, which rendered the two oil-lamps momentarily superfluous, at least gave the illusion of warmth. But Deakin, unquestionably, was feeling no cold at all; sweat glistened on his face as he stoked the fire-box.
He fed in a final baulk of cordwood, straightened and glanced at the steam-gauge. The needle was close to the red mark. He nodded to himself in satisfaction and closed the fire-box door. The illumination in the cab was suddenly much reduced and still further so when Deakin unhooked one of the lamps and took it with him into the tender, which was still about two-thirds full of cordwood. He set the lamp on the floor and began to work almost feverishly, transferring the wood from the right to the left side of the tender.
Fifteen minutes later his face no longer glistened with sweat; it was copiously covered with it and this despite the fact that the temperature in the fully exposed tender must have been close on freezing point. But then, shifting heavy baulks of timber at high speed is no light work and Deakin had already transferred at least half of the remaining contents of the tender from the right to the left. He straightened wearily, rubbed an obviously aching back, turned away, moved into the cab and examined the steam-gauge. The needle, during his exertions, had fallen below the blue line. Hurriedly, Deakin opened the fire-box door, raked through the bed, threw some more cordwood into the hungry heart of the fire-box, closed the door and, without even glancing at the steam-gauge, returned to his back-breaking task in the tender.
Breakheart Pass Page 9
