“When did you alert the North West Mounted Police?”
“We sent a cable first thing in the morning.”
“You waited till then?”
“Well, it was near morning when we finally got old Deek into your cabin. It couldn’t have been but a few hours.”
“You sent the cable to Regina?”
“Yes sir.”
“Who told you to do that?”
“Mr. Wilcox did.”
“Did he write the cable?”
“I did. I wrote it. He told me what to tell.”
“And what was that?”
“That a man had been killed and that it looked like murder and could the Mounties come and have a look.”
Durrant thought about this.
“Why Regina?”
“Well, that’s headquarters, ain’t it?”
“It is, but Fort Calgary is much closer.”
“You’d have to ask Mr. Wilcox. He’s the one who told me where to send it.”
Durrant looked down again where Christianson was standing in the snow. “You can come out of there now.”
Christianson nodded and seemed to swim through the deep drifts until he reached the path. He patted all his clothing to knock the snow off of himself, and then, he looked up at Durrant. “Are you making me out to be a suspect in this killing?” he asked quietly.
Durrant looked at him. The bright sun shining above the rugged peaks to the west, and the intense glare off the snow made his eyes water, the tears pooling and freezing on his skin the moment the air touched them. “It’s too early for that.”
Christianson exhaled again. “That’s good. ’Cause I liked old Deek, and would never have done him harm. That, sir, is a fact.” Christianson stood up straight and looked up at the mountains. He seemed to breathe easier after his speech.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Mr. Christianson,” Durrant said, blinking into the harsh glare of the noonday sun. Its reflection off the bright snow was dazzling. “As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t a man in this camp who isn’t a suspect right now.”
Christianson nodded and pushed more snow from his coat.
“After you found him, Mr. Christianson, did you happen to handle the body?”
“How do you mean like?”
“Did you try to move him?”
“Deek was a big lad. And in this deep snow . . .”
“Is that a no?”
“Well, I tired to be of help to those that carried his body to . . . the Mountie cabin.”
“Did you happen to get any of Mr. Penner’s blood on you?”
John seemed to shudder and looked down at himself, as if half expecting to see blood there now. “I don’t know. I don’t believe so.”
“Have you been to the laundry since Mr. Penner’s death?”
“No. No, I’ve not been there in a week or so.”
“And have you requisitioned any garments from Mr. Holt’s store?”
“Not a one.”
“There’s one more thing, sir,” said Durrant, regarding the man brushing more dry snow from his coat. “The wire. This all started with you bringing a wire to Penner. But you never reached him. He was dead. What became of it?”
“Oh my,” said Christianson, his eyes searching, “I have no idea. In all the confusion I plain forgot about it!”
“Would it be among your papers at the telegraph office?”
“I don’t know. I have to check. I may have stuffed it in my pants pocket,” he started patting himself down again, looking for the paper.
“It may be important, Mr. Christianson. Please bring it to me directly when you have located it.” said Durrant. “You say that I can return to the NWMP cabin this way?” He pointed towards Penner’s cabin. Christianson nodded. “Alright then.” Durrant turned and made his way along the new trail towards the barracks.
Christianson stood watching Durrant go until he disappeared from sight, and he continued to stand for some time after.
• • •
Durrant used the keys he had obtained from Hep Wilcox to open the door to Penner’s cabin. His was set amid a cluster of shacks and tents huddled in a thick stand of trees opposite the CPR right-of-way from the NWMP cabin, and nestled close to the Bow River.
It was a tiny space, with a low narrow cot pressed up against the boards. A small but solid Ransom 1850 stove sat opposite, its stovepipe running up through an opening in the boards of the roof. Bailing wire had been used to secure it, and in places it was patched with tin.
There was a trunk next to the door, its lid closed. There was no lock on it, and Durrant opened it, the aroma of cedar chips, used to stave off garment-eating moths, filling the room. It was of crude construction, and had leather for hinges. Inside were a few pairs of heavy wool trousers, several thick shirts and a jacket worn and frayed at the elbows. A pair of boots sat next to the trunk. There were no papers of any sort to be found there, or anywhere else in the quarters. He opened the stove to inspect the contents. The fire had burned down to almost nothing and he could find no shreds of paper among the pale ashes.
Durrant turned his attention to the bed: it was carefully made, but sparse. The blankets on it were faded and frayed, but not moth-eaten. Next to it was a small oil lamp on an upended crate that had once contained tinned peaches. The lamp was dark and stained with oil. A small tin-type sat in a homemade frame next to the lamp. Durrant picked it up with his left hand. The photograph was of a family; a man and wife, dressed in formal wear, and six children. Durrant assumed that that one of the two strapping lads in the photo was Deek, as the others were school-aged girls. He wondered if they had been notified of his passing.
The Mountie completed his search of the austere quarters. The photograph still in his hands, it struck Durrant that the outcome of his investigation would affect people he had never met, but who would be counting on him to succeed in his undertaking. He put the tin-type back by the lamp and left the tiny cabin to its ghosts.
SIX
SEVEN MEN
“I’M GOING TO WANT TO see the men Deek Penner was playing cards with the night he was killed,” Durrant said as he stepped into Wilcox’s office. He held in his left hand the script that Wilcox had furnished with the list of men who had participated in the card game the night Deek Penner was killed.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wallace.”
“It’s Sergeant Wallace, Mr. Wilcox. I’ll need you to arrange for me to see all the men, together, tonight please. In Frank Dodds’ cabin.”
Wilcox closed the ledger he had been making notes in and twisted in his chair to look at the Mountie. “Okay, well, yes, that can be arranged. I will check with Mr. Dodds.”
“This isn’t a request, Mr. Wilcox.”
Wilcox regarded him a moment. “Frank Dodds doesn’t take orders well. He’s an independent man.”
“I’m certain you will find a way to convince him so that I don’t have to.”
Wilcox drew a slow, laboured breath. “I’ll ask the men to gather around eight, after the evening meal.”
Durrant opened the door and left without another word.
• • •
Three men were milling around the counter in the area outside Wilcox’s office. Behind the counter that served as the general store, post office, and cable office, Christianson was passing a packet of mail to a man. The four men all turned to look at Durrant as he emerged from Wilcox’s office. Their conversation died, and a silence filled the space. Christianson had been leaning on the counter with one elbow, but straightened up as Durrant made his way across the floor to the counter. One of the men made room for him. Durrant could smell the powerful combination of body odour and wood smoke on the men.
“You here to find out who killed Penner?” one of the men asked.
“I am,” said Durrant, leaning on the counter, doing his best to appear authoritative, the crutch pushed behind him. “You got something to tell me?”
“I don’t,” said the man. “But my guess is t
hat Frank Dodds got something he could sure tell.”
“Shut up, Ted, you aiming to get your teeth broke?” the man next to him urged.
“Well, everybody in camp knows them two had a hate on for each other,” said Ted, looking sharply at his friend. “Don’t take no detective to figure that out.”
“Why did they hate one another?”
“Penner was always sticking his nose in Frank Dodds’ business, accusing him of running moonshine.”
“Is he?”
“How should I know? I don’t touch the stuff,” said Ted, and his two friends burst out laughing and then he joined them.
“Good luck, Red Coat,” said Ted.
“Yeah, good luck,” said the third man.
“You’re going to need it in Holt City,” Ted said, moving toward the door.
“And why’s that?” Durrant said.
The man called Ted turned and looked at him. His two friends bunched up next to the door, pulling their wool caps down over greasy hair. “This ain’t Fort Calgary. You’re all alone here. People here liked Deek fine, but there ain’t nobody here who is going to say a word against Frank Dodds, even if they seen him crack Deek Penner’s skull with their own eyes. That’s a fact.” Ted pushed open the door and the cold air filled the room as the three men left.
“You think Frank Dodds killed Deek Penner, Mr. Christianson?” said Durrant, still watching the door.
“I don’t know, Sergeant Wallace.”
“You think it was Dodds you saw running away that night?”
“I can’t say . . .”
“Can’t, or won’t.”
“Can’t say, sir. Can’t say,” Christianson was shaking his head, not making eye contact.
“I need to use your telegraph, Mr. Christianson.”
“You want for me to send a wire for you, Sergeant?” Christianson looked up at him, smiling weakly.
“No, I’ll send it myself. I know the machine. And the North West Mounted Police have their own code.”
“Very well,” said Christianson, “sit yourself down, Sergeant, make yourself at home.” Christianson seemed genuinely happy not to be under the spotlight any longer.
“You need pen and paper, it’s all right there.”
Durrant watched the man walk to the far side of the L-shaped counter where he had been sorting the mail. Another man entered the room and Christianson greeted him and fetched a package for him. Durrant sat down and thought about his message. He checked the circuit and made the connection with the North West Mounted Police headquarters in Regina. He operated the machine quickly, tapping out the coded cable:
To Sam Steele, Commanding.
From Sergeant Durrant Wallace.
Arrived Holt City. Examined Deek Penner. Cause of death, blow by blunt object. Establishing possible motives. Presence of whiskey with likely connection to the murder. Questioning suspects . . . Will update thereafter.
Durrant sat up straight on the narrow stool as he waited for a reply.
Durrant took Wilcox and others on their word that the corpse was in fact Penner. The weapon used for bludgeoning had not been recovered. It could have been dropped right next to the body and might not be recovered until later in the spring, when the snow finally melted. Durrant made a mental note, however, to search for the weapon in the area around where Penner was found. That would be a good job for Charlie. It occurred to Durrant that the killer might actually be walking the tracks. He could be making his way by shank’s pony along the relatively snow-free tracks between Holt City and Banff Station, nearly fifty miles to the east. It was a slim possibility, but still doable. Durrant would wire the stationmaster in Banff and ask that he keep an eye open for a severely frostbitten man arriving from Holt City. It was no surprise that there was whiskey in the camp. Wilcox, as the manager of the camp, should have been doing more to root out this evil. From what he’d learned so far, it sounded like Penner had been poking his nose into at least one moonshiner’s business, and it may well have gotten him killed.
His thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of the telegraph machine. He listened to the coded message and recognized it as the one that the Mounties used. He took a pencil and paper from the pigeonholes above the machine and with his left hand awkwardly scrawled out the incoming note, decoding it as he wrote.
Confidential Durrant Wallace.
From Sam Steele, Commanding.
Determine what can about whiskey. Make investigating murder first priority. Wire with updates daily.
When Durrant had received the note he became aware that Christianson was watching him from behind the counter. He looked up at the man and Christianson smiled and quickly turned back to his own business. Durrant read the note twice, then stood and hopped across the room, opened the door to the stove, and slipped the sheet of paper on top of the hot coals.
• • •
The Laundry was located across the confluence of the rivers, close to where a hole had been cut in the ice of the Bow River, from which water was extracted for use around the camp, and for icing the various roads to allow for the smooth passage of buckboards and other wagons. He followed the winding track that lead through a thick grove of trees down to the river. He stepped aside, nearly toppling over into the deep snow, as a sled passed him on the narrow road. It bore the giant tank used to drip water from the Bow River onto the Tote Road that led to the Kicking Horse Pass, up into the woods. Two men sat on the sled’s spring-loaded seat, and one of them nodded to the Mountie as the horse team pulled the heavy load up the grade towards the camp. Durrant nodded solemnly in return.
He passed through the trees and could see a small cluster of shacks on the bank of the river, the building serving as the laundry among them. A thick column of grey smoke rose from a heavy chimney, and through the poorly constructed walls tangled threads of steam emerged, so that it appeared as though the entire building was smoking. Durrant opened the door to the shack. He was greeted by a billow of steam reeking of boiled wool. He steeped through the haze and into the dark room.
“Shut the door!” shouted a voice through the mist.
Durrant did as he was told. The room was dense with the pong of filth scrubbed from the camp inhabitants’ clothing.
“You need something laundry?” came a voice through the swirling steam. The ceiling was hung with racks of clothes drying in the oppressive heat. Durrant pulled his heavy bison jacket open and with his game hand pulled off his sealskin cap, his hair already damp with sweat.
“No, I came to ask you questions,” he said.
A man appeared through the forest of clothing and vapours. “I am Mr. Kim. I do laundry.” He was a small man, dressed in a clean grey shirt that had no sleeves and wore a small back watch cap on his head. He was the first man of Chinese descent Durrant had seen since leaving Fort Calgary, where several of Mr. Kim’s countrymen served in a similar capacity.
“Mr. Kim, I’m Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police.”
“I have heard you have come.”
“I’m investigating the murder of Deek Penner.”
“Mr. Penner was a good man He always leave a good tip.”
“Mr. Kim, would it be fair to say that you know most of the men in this camp?”
“Yes, most but not all. Some men never wash. Not once all winter do they wash their clothing,” said the man, his face twisting with disgust.
Kim was drying his hand on an apron he wore around his waist. Durrant said, “If I give you the names of some men I am interested in, can you tell me when they were here last?”
“Yes, but Mr. Kim work while you talk. Much work to do . . .” He turned away from the Mountie and found his way back between drying clothing to the central part of the operation. Durrant followed him. The floor of the shack was bare earth and the combination of wool and earth created a pungent odour. Kim stepped between bedsheets and pants and grey work shirts and came to a low cast iron stove that was four feet wide and held a massive boiling cauldron.<
br />
“This is Kim Jr.,” Mr. Kim said pointing to a boy whose age Durrant could not peg. He could be twelve; he might be Charlie’s age. The boy was pulling a coat from the wash with a long stick as opaque water streamed off it. He lifted it out of the boiling vat, dripping water onto the dirt floor, slapped it down on a washboard, and with gloved hands began to scrub it, the excess water running off into a washbasin.
“Mr. Kim, have Frank Dodds or Pete or Ralph Mahoney been in to have any laundry done this week?” Durrant asked, looking at the names on the list Wilcox provided.
Mr. Kim shook his head. “I see Mahoney now and again. But not recent. Frank Dodds, he no come in this week. I tell him no come in. He don’t pay? He yell at Kim Jr.”
“Why is that?”
“He say we not clean good. He call us names. I tell him to wash own clothes.”
Durrant watched the man. “What about Grant McPherson?”
“He work for Mr. Penner. He come in, but not since Mr. Penner die. He come in,” the man cocked his head, “two weeks ago. Very dirty clothing. Much dusty. Powder from making dynamite. Very hard to clean.”
Durrant nodded. “John Christianson?”
“Yes, he come in often. Very neat, little John. Very tidy.”
“When was he last here?”
“Two days ago.” Durrant’s eyebrow shot up. “Yes, he brought in pants, socks, and waistcoat.”
“What about an overcoat.”
“No, no overcoat.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about John’s wash when he was here last?”
Mr. Kim thought a moment. “Nothing.”
“You didn’t notice if he had blood on his clothing? He was among the men who handled Mr. Penner’s body, is all . . .”
“I sorry, Sergeant, I didn’t look close at his clothing. Nothing to notice . . .”
“And Hep Wilcox?”
“Yes, Mr. Wilcox comes in often, but not in the last three days. He don’t get dirty like all the other men. You don’t get dirty sitting at desk.”
Durrant nodded in agreement. “What about Devon Paine?”
The End of the Line Page 8
