“Friend of the family,” quipped Durrant, turning his back on the man.
Carriere was of an average size, standing five foot ten, but thick through the chest. He wore a wool cap and a heavy wool sweater as he hefted sacks of kieselguhr, the thin powdery soil used to make nitroglycerine. He was loading them onto a handtruck for transport to the munitions factory—now under construction—at Kicking Horse Pass.
“Mr. Carriere?” Durrant asked.
“That’s me,” the man said, not looking up.
“I’m Sergeant Durrant Wallace. North West . . .”
“I know who you are, Sergeant. What do you need?” The man grunted as he hefted another load. “I’ve got to finish this before the next sled leaves for the Pass.” Carriere stopped and looked at Durrant for the first time. The labourer was sweating. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I want a minute of your time. Mr. McPherson won’t mind.”
Carrierre looked up at him. “You want to talk here?”
“Suits me fine. You know what this is about?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, Sergeant.”
“We’ve raided the Grand Trunk offices in Montreal. We know that you’re working for them. We know that you’ve been sending them cables with information on the CPR’s progress here at Holt City.”
Carriere folded his arms across his chest. He was silent a moment. “You going to arrest me?”
“I imagine there will be some charges. At the very least you’re going to have to leave Holt City. But I have more important business that I need to ask you about.”
“Given my position, I’m not inclined to discuss much with you, Sergeant.”
“We’ll see. You worked for Deek Penner, didn’t you?”
“I did, before Grant McPherson took over.”
“Hep Wilcox tells me that he had asked Deek to try and learn the identity of a spy he suspected of infiltrating the camp.”
Carriere broke into a broad smile. He laughed, “I see where this is going.”
“Do you?”
“You think that I killed Deek Penner because he was onto me. Is that it?”
“Did you?”
Again the man laughed.
“You think murder is a laughing matter?”
“I think that you must be a little crazy is what I think.”
Durrant stiffened.
“I mean no offence, Sergeant, but someone is selling you a line of bull. Deek Penner was a good man. He worked hard. He knew his business. He served the CPR faithfully. But he wasn’t onto me. If Hep Wilcox told you that, he’s a goddamned liar. Hep knew about my being in this camp as early as February, maybe the first week of March. He didn’t ask Deek Penner to try and find me. Wilcox found me himself, or I suppose his man John Christianson did, as Hep isn’t really all that bright. Come on, Sergeant, it’s a tiny camp, and there ain’t that many of us who can send cables. How long do you really think it would take to find a spy here?”
Durrant regarded the man. He fought back the feeling of foolishness that was washing over him.
“Walk with me, Mr. Carriere,” said Durrant.
The man shrugged. Durrant started towards the door, where several large stacks of material were awaiting loading. Before they got to the door Durrant stopped, and with all his might grabbed Carriere by the collar and heaved him into the space between the sacks. Before the man could respond, Durrant drew his Enfield revolver and levelled it at the man’s forehead. He pulled the hammer back, the firing pin hanging above a round in the cylinder.
“You’re a liar,” he said, his teeth gritted.
Carriere looked at him askance, “You’re not going to shoot me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re a lawman. It ain’t the way the Red Coats do it!”
“It would be self-defence. I found out about you. You tried to flee custody. You attacked me in the effort to evade capture.”
The two men stared at each other in the dim light, the muzzle of Durrant’s pistol coming to rest on Carriere’s forehead. A bead of sweat formed above his eye and dripped onto his cheek.
“You know, son, after being shot and left for dead, I’m not near as steady as I used to be, and these old Enfields, they have a reputation for a bit of a hairtrigger.”
Doubt clouded Carriere’s eyes. “What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“I told you the truth.”
“Did you kill Deek Penner?”
“No!”
“Who did?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“When did Hep Wilcox catch onto you?”
“End of February, maybe the first of March. Ask him!”
“Why wouldn’t he turn you in if he knew?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t care!”
“I think you know.”
“I swear I don’t.”
“What were you giving the Grand Trunk?”
“Just logistics; where the preparations were at for the Big Hill. Time tables, supply contract information, just that.”
“Why would they care?”
“They’re competitors! The Trunk is trying to buy up lines in the Midwest and out through Missouri country. They wanted to know where the CPR would run, and if it was going to meet its schedule. If it looks like it was going to fall behind schedule, or cost more, then the Trunk could maybe make a play for investments to complete its lines.”
Durrant pressed the barrel of the pistol into the man’s forehead. The skin around it turned white. “You were going to engineer an accident. Set construction back. Weren’t you?”
“No! I was just passing information. The Grand Trunk has lots of spies. So does the CPR.”
“Deek Penner found out, didn’t he? He found out what you were going to do—kill some men while they were working on the Tote Road, or on the first tunnel down the Big Hill. He found out, and you killed him.”
“I didn’t kill Deek Penner,” The man seemed to compose himself.
“I don’t believe you,” Durrant said as he lowered the pistol to the man’s gut. “You’re under arrest.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Espionage, for now. We’ll see what comes of things.”
“I want a solicitor.”
“You’ll get one, but first you’re going to have to sit and stew up here a while.”
• • •
Durrant had taken the spy Carriere to the station and presented him to Wilcox, curious as to what the man’s expression would be. Wilcox remained implacable. Behind him, in the tiny office, Durrant could see the MP Blake O’Brian sitting with his hat in his hands, a look of concern on his pale face.
“I’ll need a place to secure this prisoner,” he said to Wilcox.
“You can put him in Deek Penner’s bunk. We’ll leave some wood and some food and you can lock the door.”
“That will be fine. Nobody is to talk with him.”
“So you’ve found your killer?” called the MP cheerfully over Wilcox’s shoulder.
“Not yet, but I’m very close,” said Durrant, taking his leave.
Durrant thought over the interrogation of his prisoner. He’d likely gone too far in the use of force, but he was running out of tools to get at the truth. He didn’t think Carriere was lying, and that meant Wilcox was. Why would the man lie about his knowledge of the spy at Holt City? And why, if he knew about Carriere’s presence at the end of track, would he tolerate it? He would need to make his rounds and question the key suspects once more before the trail went entirely cold, and before his suspects began to disperse with the coming spring construction schedule. The heavy snowfall had ground much of the camp’s activity to a halt, so he thought it might work to his advantage. He decided to start with the hardest of the lot, Frank Dodds.
Durrant stood a moment at Dodds’ cabin, the snow accumulating on his sealskin cap and his greatcoat, and contemplated the lack of tracks in the snow around the
man’s door. If Dodds had come and gone over the last twenty-four hours, he’d not left a single print as evidence of his passage.
Durrant hobbled up to the door, the snow a foot and a half deep. He knocked and stepped aside. He waited. Nothing. He knocked again. “Mr. Dodds?” he called. Nothing. He knocked and yelled a third time. He tried the door. There was a heavy Yale lock crudely affixed above the handle. He could get it off, but it would require more gunplay, and he imagined that he was pushing his luck in Holt City as it was.
It was plain that the man had not been to his cabin in the last day, maybe longer. If Dodds had somehow slipped out of Holt City, in which direction had he gone? If Dodds was now on the lam, that would put him at the very top of the suspect list once again.
Before he made those inquires, Durrant would pay a visit to Dodds’ associates Ralph and Pete Mahoney. Durrant found his way through the shantytown of tents and cabins to where the brothers lived. He could hear fiddle music emanating from the tent. When he pulled back the flap the reek of sweat, cheap tobacco, and moonshine nearly knocked him down. Ice crackled on the canvas; as the snow fell on the tent it melted from the cabin’s heat and then froze, forming a thick coating.
A dozen men sat on bunks or at the crude table in the middle of the room. A jug of moonshine rested on the table and several candles cast a rancid light on the half dozen lads playing cards. The fiddle music stopped; the fiddler sitting on the top bunk looked down at the silhouetted figure in the door.
“Ferme la porte,” a man called from the back of the tent. Durrant stepped inside. His eyes adjusted to the light and he assessed the room for threats; there were so many he couldn’t decide which ones to focus on. There were a number of rifles propped against the walls, and several double-sided axes hung from pegs or rested on the floor.
“Blue Jesus,” said a man and Durrant recognized Thompson Griffin, Dodds’ number two man on the cutting crew, at the card table.
“Afternoon, Mr. Griffin,” said Durrant. He spotted the powerful Pete Mahoney sitting beside him.
“What do you want, Red Coat?” said Mahoney.
Durrant decided that having driven his fist into the hornets’ nest, he might as well stir them up. “Thought I’d stop by for a hand of cards.”
“Can you play cards with that gimp hand?” asked Griffin.
Durrant sized up the man. There was no doubt he was armed; most men had access to a shooting iron of some sort, and Durrant guessed this man would have a revolver tucked into his pockets somewhere. Durrant decided to defuse the situation rather than escalate it. He also thought to win some valuable information as he did.
“I can beat your sorry ass,” he said.
“Let’s see your money. This ain’t no social event.”
Durrant stepped forward, snow falling from his coat. He pulled a tight roll of script from his pockets and waved it in front of himself. “Find the Sergeant a chair,” said Griffin. “Deal him in.”
Durrant sat down, his back to the wall, and rested his crutch on the table.
He looked up at the fiddle man. “Can you play something by Bobbie Burns?” he asked.
The man looked down at Griffin. “Play him a song, Dean.”
Griffin cut the cards. “We’re playing penny ante, five-card draw.”
Durrant reached into his pocket to find some coins and tossed a couple into the centre of the table.
The cards went around and they played a hand. Durrant lost on the final card to Griffin.
“Happy to take your money, Red Coat,” said the man, grinning widely, showing bent and missing teeth.
“Let’s play another hand.”
“Ante up.”
“I got a better idea. I’ll play for money, you fellas play for answers.”
Thompson cocked his head. The strains of the fiddle slowed. “What are you on about?”
“If I win, you give me answers for every two bits I bet.”
“When you lose?”
“You keep my money.”
Griffin grinned again. “Your deal.”
Durrant dealt the cards, deftly flipping the face cards with his left thumb and forefinger. He looked around the room at the other players. Nobody had touched the bottle of shine at the centre of the table; nobody had said a word about it. With his left hand he picked up his cards. He frowned.
“Not much of a poker face, Red Coat,” said Griffin.
“If you don’t stop calling me that,” said Durrant, not taking his eyes from his cards, “I’m going to shoot you in the head.”
Griffin tensed. Durrant smiled.
“You’re joshing me.”
“Wanna find out?” There was a moment’s silence, and then Durrant laughed. He threw four bits into the centre of the table.
“Who needs a card?” he asked. He dealt the next round of cards and placed his bet, another four bits.
“You’re bluffing,” said Griffin.
“It’s going to cost you four answers to find out.”
“How you going to know if I’m lying, anyway?”
“’Cause you’ll still be breathing if you’re telling the truth.” Durrant looked at his cards.
Thompson Griffin grinned again. “You’re just funning.” The man fidgeted in his seat.
“Let’s see everybody’s hands.”
The men laid their cards on the table. Griffin had a full house. He beamed.
“That’s a pretty good hand,” said Durrant. His right hand trembled a little as he thumbed his cards. He snapped his hand down on the plank table.
“Blue Jesus,” said Griffin.
“I can’t believe it,” said Pete Mahoney.
“Why’s that?” said Durrant, looking the man in the eyes.
“That’s the same godamned hand that started this whole mess.”
Durrant had produced a straight flush. He stared hard at Pete Mahoney. “First question is for you, Mr. Mahoney.”
“I ain’t gotta tell you a thing,” he said, looking down.
“Tell me about this hand of cards.”
“I’m not saying another word to you.”
“You know what happens when a man cheats at cards in Fort Benton, Montana, Mr. Mahoney?” Pete looked up. The fiddle stopped. The room fell silent. They could hear the wind swirl outside as tiny pellets of ice drummed on the tent.
“Tell me about this hand of cards.” Durrant could hear the ice on the canvas roof cracking.
“Aw, shit,” said Pete. “Deek Penner beat the boss with a straight flush the night he was killed. I remember ’cause I was thinking what dumb luck it was for Deek to beat Frank at that moment. They’d been at each other all night.”
“Did it come to blows?”
“Yeah, but not between Frank and Deek. It was Devon Paine that caught it from Mr. Dodds.” The rest of the men were looking at him. Pete was still looking down. “He made a crack and Frank took it out on him. He knew better than to get into it with Deek. Deek pulled Frank off of him, but ol’ Paine caught a hell of a beating.” Several men laughed.
“Who was next to leave the card game?”
“That’s three,” said Griffin, smiling.
“I can count, sir. Who was next to leave?”
“Paine was. Had to go and put some snow on his face, then John, me, and Ralph.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mahoney,” said Durrant.
Pete looked up, his eyes filled with scorn.
“Final question, then, and it’s for you, Mr. Griffin. Where are Frank Dodds and Ralph Mahoney right now? And you remember my rule,” he said, his hand resting on the leather of his pistol’s holster.
Griffin laughed. “That’s an easy one to answer. I’m even goin’ to tell you the truth. I don’t know where they is. They ain’t been seen since the day after you blew up that still on the Pipestone.”
Durrant knew that Griffin was lying, but the lie told more than the truth at that moment.
• • •
Durrant pushed his way through the heavy snow
towards the station, where he expected to find both O’Brian and Wilcox, as he had before. When he entered the station he could hear both men in the tiny office; O’Brian was clearly angry with Wilcox. The shouting stopped when he knocked on the door.
“Sergeant,” Wilcox said when he opened the door, exasperated.
“Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Vice-Chair, I’d like a word with each of you in turn, please.”
“Sergeant, please, I understand the importance of what you are trying to do, but we are in the middle of something, and what with the late date, and the heavy snow, things are falling behind.”
“I’m sorry if this murder investigation is an inconvenience, but I assure you, I’m close to making an arrest.”
“Are you still of the belief that the Grand Trunk man isn’t the killer?” called O’Brian.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Well then, who is?”
“Will you permit me a moment with Mr. O’Brian?” Durrant turned to Wilcox, who seemed to be barring the door. He stood aside to let Durrant past, who said, “Alone, please, sir.”
Wilcox looked at O’Brian, who stared back, and then nodded. Durrant shut the door behind him.
“Is this to be another inquisition, Sergeant?”
Durrant leaned towards the Member of Parliament and spoke in a hushed tone. “I think a few more questions won’t inconvenience you too greatly, Mr. O’Brian.” The MP sat motionless. Durrant took Wilcox’s seat and looked out the window. Turning back to the man, he asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “Why would Deek Penner have reason to be sending wire cables to the House of Commons, Mr. O’Brian?”
O’Brian looked stunned. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“And who within the House would be sending them back?”
“Again, I haven’t the faintest.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“I just said so, Sergeant. I find your line of questioning offensive . . .”
“Yes, yes, so you’ve said before. I find your lack of forthcoming equally offensive. I have several cables in my possession from the signal at the House of Commons to Mr. Penner. The log book shows several other signals sent in return. This wasn’t from your office?”
The End of the Line Page 23
