The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

“Well . . . you’ll want to look it over yourself, Sergeant Wallace.”

  “That I will, but what strikes you ?”

  The little man in front of him seemed to change momentarily. For a second, Christianson seemed to grow before Durrant’s eyes. It wasn’t that his physical stature changed, just his countenance shifted from diminutive to substantial and back in the blink of an eye. The change unnerved Durrant, and made him watch the man more closely.

  “Most of Deek’s correspondence was with his superiors back in Winnipeg, the men who own the contracts. He had some correspondence direct with the big bellies at Montreal and with the people at the Canada Explosives Company in Mount Saint-Hilaire. I don’t think there is anything unusual there, Sergeant.” Christianson showed Durrant the log book, his small finger scrolling down the list of signal stations that wires had been directed to. “See,” he said. “I marked the initials of the sender and the receiver here for you . . .”

  The Mountie stood beside and slightly behind Christianson, who sat on the stool next to the wire. From his position Durrant could look down and over the crown of John’s head. He looked through the man’s spectacles and wondered how Christianson could see through the accumulated grit on his lenses.

  “What about Hep Wilcox?” Durrant asked, and Christianson turned to face him. Christianson thumbed through the log book, his face flushed and perspiration began to show on his brow. “Here you go, and this . . .” He flipped a page. “And this.”

  Durrant nodded. “Okay, I’ll have a look at these. Tell me this, would you please?”

  “Anything, Sergeant.”

  “The ones that are blank, where there are no initials, what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know who sent or received those wires,” said Christianson.

  “So why would someone mark the log?”

  “I don’t know.” said John.

  Durrant paused a long moment to study the man. Christianson was having a hard time keeping his eyes on Durrant. Durrant asked, “If this supposed Grand Trunk man wanted to send or receive a wire, he could do it without you knowing about it, correct?”

  “He would if he knew how to operate a telegraph.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a spy if he didn’t, would he now.”

  “I don’t suppose he would.”

  “Any other way for us to learn if he’s been sending wires?”

  Christianson put a finger to the side of his face in thought. “Well,” he said after some time. “You could always check on the other end.”

  Durrant stood up straight. “My God, man, you’re absolutely right.”

  • • •

  Durrant sent his wire to Steele, explaining the demolition of the still on the Pipestone River. Durrant was careful to make as little as possible of the incident with the pail of nitroglycerine outside their cabin, mentioning only that he awoke to find it there. He didn’t want Steele dispatching reinforcements. Not yet, not before he had Deek Penner’s killer in shackles. He also asked that Steele arrange a warrant for the procurement of the Grand Trunk Railway’s wire logs so as to ascertain the identity of the inside man here at the end of track.

  Satisfied with this undertaking, he set his mind to what he had learned about Hep Wilcox and Deek Penner’s wire correspondence. While Christianson and others busied themselves around the station, Durrant studied the log book that Christianson had provided. He first read through all of the entries and familiarized himself with the codes of stations sending and receiving to and from Holt City. Most had the initials JC, HW, or DP next to them. Occasionally, Bob Pen had sent a wire, likely regarding his needs for skilled labourers, but most of the camp’s recorded wire correspondence came from the other three men.

  More interesting to Durrant were the wires that had been sent from Holt City that Christianson had not put a mark beside. These he studied with curiosity. He scrolled down these looking for patterns. It didn’t take him long to find much more than he was expecting: an exact match. He looked up. Christianson was busy sorting the post.

  Durrant set the wire transmission for send and keyed in the code that his finger rested on. He tapped in a quick message:

  Station, please identify yourself.

  He waited. A moment passed. Durrant could hear a clock tick somewhere in the room. He was aware of Christianson moving about the station. There was a buzz and Durrant set the wire to receive. As he tapped out the incoming code, Christianson looked up and started to move toward the telegraph table. Durrant stopped him. “It’s for me,” he said, without looking up. Christianson returned to his post. The message before him was in Morse:

  House of Commons. West Block.

  Durrant felt a flush of heat rush through him. Both Hep Wilcox and another person had been sending messages back and forth to the same station in the House of Commons. Durrant had a strong suspicion who it was that was sending and who might be on the receiving end of those telegrams.

  Again, Durrant felt the pulse of impatience rush through him and he got to his feet, grabbing up the log book. He noted Christianson stop his activities as he strode from the wire station.

  Durrant had a lot to think about as he went in search of the general manager. He hoped Wilcox might become more forthcoming if he provided an incentive for his honesty.

  • • •

  Durrant found Wilcox in his bunk. While he had taken great pains to search each of his other suspects’ quarters, Durrant had not yet found the opportunity to search for a bloodied coat within Wilcox’s personal space. That could wait no longer. Now, with the revelations made clear by the preponderance of wire correspondence between Holt City and Ottawa, he had more than one reason to further brace the general manager. Durrant tapped on the door of the caboose that sat on a siding not far from the station.

  “What is it?” he heard Wilcox say from within.

  “Mr. Wilcox, it’s Sergeant Wallace.” There was no reply. Durrant listened carefully, his hand resting on the hilt of the Enfield revolver. After a long silence the Mountie heard the bolt pulled back on the door. Hep Wilcox stood before him.

  “Mr. Wilcox, I have a few questions for you.” An expression of exasperation crossed the general manager’s face. “May I step inside?”

  Silently, Wilcox stepped from the door to allow Durrant inside, who found himself in a the small but ornate room. The caboose looked as if it had been decorated by a top designer from Chicago or New York City. A plush couch rested against one wall, bordered by small round tables that held the finest Tiffany lamps. A deep pile carpet lay on the floor in front of the couch, a low stool in the middle. Two equally well-appointed chairs sat at angles next to the couch. A gramophone was positioned against the opposite wall.

  “You have a nicely made up accommodation, sir.”

  “It was a gift. A loan, in fact, for my use while here at the end of track for the winter.”

  “From whom?”

  “From the CPR.”

  “Is that so?” Wilcox stood by the far wall, as if Durrant had backed him into a corner. Durrant shut the door behind him, but was careful not to throw the bolt. He looked around the room. Paintings of pastoral countrysides adorned the walls.

  Wilcox did not ask him to sit, so the two men stood staring at one another. Durrant noted that door next to him was closed and imagined that it led to the man’s bedchamber. “This doesn’t look like a CPR-appointed carriage,” said Durrant.

  Wilcox stared at the man, his eyes dark. He said, “It’s for use by the company brass while they are inspecting the line.”

  “I see,” said Durrant. “Might I inspect your quarters?” he asked impulsively.

  This caught Hep Wilcox off guard. “They are private, sir.”

  “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Wilcox. There is no privacy.”

  “You have no right.”

  “I have every right!”

  Wilcox looked away and seemed to be considering his options. “I have nothing to hide. Go ahead if you will, Sergeant.”


  Durrant walked across the room, trying not to catch the nails of his crutch on the lavish, but borrowed, carpet. Wilcox stepped aside and Durrant opened the door to the bedchamber. It was a compact space, but adorned in similarly lavish fashion. A four-poster bed took up much of the room’s space, and a heavy feather quilt was heaped on top. In the corner a small stove with brass trimming rumbled. A window looked out toward the banks of the Bow River. “I should like to look in your wardrobe, Mr. Wilcox.”

  “I really object to this treatment, Sergeant.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Wilcox, that each of my suspects likewise objected to such a search. You are no different than they are, sir.”

  Wilcox looked as if he had been slapped. Red-faced, he stepped into the room and opened the upright wardrobe that was crowded into one corner. Durrant looked through it, and finding several coats there, took them from their pegs and laid them out on the bed. He examined each of them in turn.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, and stepped from the room. Wilcox said nothing. When he rejoined Durrant in the parlour, he found the Sergeant sitting in one of the chairs.

  “I hope you don’t mind me making myself comfortable,” Durrant said.

  Wilcox began, “Sergeant, I really must get back to work.”

  “This shouldn’t take long. I have an offer to make you.”

  “Really?” said Wilcox. “What kind of an offer could you possibly make?”

  “You tell me the truth about what happened the night Deek Penner died, and I will see that the Crown is lenient with you.”

  Wilcox laughed a harsh laugh. “I have nothing more to tell you about that night, Sergeant Wallace. I deeply regret Mr. Penner’s death, as I have already attested over and over, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you killed Mr. Penner, but you are far from innocent.” Durrant looked at the man.

  The general manager still stood by his bedroom door. “What, exactly, are you accusing me of?” asked Wilcox.

  “It’s not so much an accusation, Mr. Wilcox; it’s a question, and an honest one, at that. I know you’ve been sending wires to a station in Parliament. Who have you been corresponding with?”

  Wilcox looked confused a moment. “Mr. O’Brian and I have shared correspondence, as he is Vice-Chair of the Select Standing Committee on the Railways.”

  “Your log books show dozens of wires sent.”

  “Did Christianson give you that information?”

  “The log book is simple enough to interpret, Mr. Wilcox. My orders to people here are only being followed.”

  “Since when are you giving the orders in Holt City, Sergeant Wallace?”

  “Since a man was killed here,” said the Mountie. Durrant could see that he was going to get nothing more from Wilcox on this topic, so he changed direction in his questioning. “You used to make explosives, I gather.”

  Wilcox looked taken aback. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “With whom were you employed?”

  “I have . . . I should say I did, but that was . . . What has this got to do with your mandate here?”

  “Mr. Wilcox,” said Durrant, “how long ago did your association with an explosives manufacturer end?”

  “Some time ago, Mr. Wilcox. Are you questioning my integrity? How is this relevant?”

  “Everything is relevant, sir. Everything is relevant until I say it isn’t.”

  Wilcox regarded the Mountie. He shook his head, “I worked for a time for an outfit that held the explosives contract for a spur line of the Burlington Vermont Railway. It was more than three years ago. It’s why Deek and I got on so well, you see. I understood his work. He came to me for advice.”

  Durrant nodded, marvelling at the man’s about-face. He pushed himself up and looked around the carriage one more time before stepping out onto the railway line, leaving a confounded Wilcox in his well-appointed sleeping car.

  • • •

  “Things just keep getting more and more convoluted,” Durrant confessed to Charlie. They were sitting in their cabin; outside, snow had started to falling lightly. Durrant was sitting at his desk, and Charlie sat cross-legged on his bunk. He held the wire correspondence from Kauffman in one hand, and the writing tablet in the other. For most of the afternoon he’d been reading over the code, trying to find patterns that could be transcribed into English.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to track down all our suspects and see if I can’t start putting the squeeze on people. It’s going to heat up around here, I think,” said Durrant, looking over his shoulder at Charlie. The boy looked up at him. “Okay, it’s going to heat up even more. I think it best if you move about the camp as little as possible.”

  Charlie wrote a question mark on his tablet. “If someone has an axe to grind, I want it to be me they come to find. Not you.” Charlie shrugged and returned his attention to his coded message.

  Durrant looked down at the rudimentary list he was constructing on a piece of writing paper, using a nub of pencil he’d found in the desk. He’d written down the names of all the suspects he had amassed for the murder of Deek Penner, and then jotted down the words “means, motive and opportunity” and scribbled notes in each crude column. He was absorbed in this list when he heard the crunching of snow on the path to the cabin. Charlie heard it too, and put down the tablet. Durrant, seated next to the door, unholstered his Enfield and placed it on the table before him. The two men sat listening. The sound of the approaching footfalls seemed to echo in the dense, snowbound air. Despite their anticipation, the loud rasp at the door surprised them, and Durrant grabbed the handle of the pistol.

  “Sergeant Wallace, it’s Tom Holt.”

  Durrant breathed out.

  “Come in, sir. The door is unlocked.”

  The door opened, and a swirl of snow entered the little cabin. The man who came in was wrapped in a heavy coat, and scarf and wearing a woollen cap like the one Dodds’ sawyers wore. He closed the door behind him and brushed off a little of the snow onto the floorboards then unwrapped his face.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “I’m sorry not to have been around for your investigation; business has taken me to Padmore, to oversee the delivery of supplies. I just returned on the mid-day freight. There has been much to attend to.”

  “Well, thank you for stopping by. Would you care for tea? Charlie could brew up a pot.”

  “No, thank you both,” the man said, waving Charlie to sit back down. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got five cars of freight arriving for the stores tomorrow and I need to prepare the papers. I came to deliver something. Something I think you’ll find very interesting.”

  “What is it?” Durrant asked.

  Holt pulled a thick envelope from his jacket. He reached inside it and drew forth a sheet of paper. Charlie sat forward. “It’s wire correspondence,” said Tom, “intended for Deek Penner and sent a day before his death.”

  “Where was it? Why did he not receive it?”

  “It was in Banff. Sometimes, if John doesn’t receive a transmission, our man in Banff will pick it up; the signal for the two stations is practically the same. This has been sitting at the station there for two weeks. I was just made aware of it today.” He handed it to Durrant.

  Durrant turned to Charlie. The boy stood up and looked at the paper in Durrant’s hands. “It’s the same code, Charlie. Look here, it’s signed Kauffman,” said Durrant, pointing with his twisted right hand. “Can you decipher this code, Mr. Holt?”

  “I don’t recognize it. It’s not one the CPR uses.”

  “It’s a mystery to us as well, unfortunately.”

  “I’m sorry that Deek didn’t receive it.”

  “So am I,” said Durrant.

  “Well, then, good night.” Holt wrapped his scarf around his face and put his hat back on his head, opened the door, and stepped back into the swirling storm.

  “Good night, sir.”

  Charlie indicated that he’d like the wire c
orrespondence. Durrant handed it to him. The boy sat back down the bed and compared the two transmissions. Every so often he would jot a word or two down on his tablet, counting the letters, and then erase them. What struck Durrant about the lad was the intensity of his concentration. Half an hour passed and he didn’t look up once.

  Suddenly Charlie looked up, a broad smile on his face. He moved to where Durrant sat and pointed to a word on both pieces of correspondence, then to his tablet. He wrote “explosives.” Durrant nodded. Charlie then pointed to more words and wrote “shipment,” then “Northumberland Glycerol Company.” Finally he circled a name that appeared halfway down the page on the second wire transmission: “O’Brian.” Durrant looked at the boy. They both smiled widely.

  SIXTEEN

  WITNESS

  THIS DAY BEGAN AS THE previous one had ended—with the arrival of wire telegrams. Before Durrant and Charlie had left their bunk to take breakfast in the mess tent, Christianson had knocked at their door. Pistol in hand, Durrant opened it to see that the snow was falling steadily in the woods around their bunk. The wind had abated and the temperature risen so that now, rather than blowing sideways, the flakes fell soft and thick on the ground. A foot of snow had settled around the cabin in the night.

  “Do you want to come in?” asked Durrant.

  “No sir, I’ve got to be getting back. Mr. Holt’s got a huge shipment of supplies for the Kicking Horse today, and I’ve got to lend a hand. I thought you’d want this.” He handed Durrant the coded message.

  “Thank you, Mr. Christianson,” Durrant said and took the message. “Hell of a snowfall,” said Durrant to Charlie, pushing the door closed.

  Charlie nodded as Durrant turned his attention to the wire. He took up the stub of a pencil and decoded it. “It’s from Steele. He says we’ve gotten some assistance from the Montreal constabulary. They’ve seized the log book of the Grand Trunk: a man named Patrick Carriere is our spy.” He looked up.

  • • •

  After breakfast Durrant dispatched Charlie back to their cabin while he went to learn the whereabouts of Patrick Carriere. He first inquired with Bob Pen, and was directed to Grant McPherson. He found the new foreman in the munitions warehouse. They exchanged greetings and then Grant pointed out Patrick Carriere. “What do you want with him?” McPherson inquired.