The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  Inside, the volume was so loud he had to stop for a minute to get his bearings. There had to be a hundred men in here, all of them clustered around blackjack or poker tables. No wonder the barkeep had told him to watch out for the police. Granville wondered how often this place was raided. He could just picture Craddock rampaging through here, swinging his club, eyes glittering.

  He scanned the crowd. He’d expected to find Blayney here, but in this throng it would take some time. He eased through the crowd, headed for the bar, he felt a hand on his arm. He spun around, knife half-drawn, and found himself facing the scared eyes of the kid who’d tried to sabotage the silk cars.

  “Sorry, mister,” the boy stammered. “Please. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  Granville released his breath harshly. “So talk.”

  The kid looked over one shoulder, then the other. “Not here. It’s not safe.”

  Granville’s wanted to laugh. The memory of his own approach to the world at the same age, the exaggeration and melodrama, kept the laugh silent. And the boy’s connections to Jackson meant he might know something. “I thought you agreed to leave town if we let you go.”

  The kid nodded. “Pa left. I stayed.”

  “Why?”

  “I found a job.”

  “Another train to rob?”

  His companion bristled. “A real job. It’s legit this time.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not like that. I’m working for Mr. Turner.”

  Turner? The one who’d hired Scott? “So why were you looking for me?”

  “Well, I was really trying to find the other man, the one you were with.”

  “Scott?” Granville took a hard look at the boy. “Why are you after him?”

  At his tone the boy seemed to shrink, then he looked quickly behind him. “Not here.”

  Impatient now, Granville nodded. “All right. What’s out back?”

  “Not much, just an alley.”

  “We’ll talk there. Lead the way.”

  They passed through a half-hidden side door, down a long narrow hallway that smelled of mold and stale soup, exiting through a door at the rear of the building. No one seemed to notice them go.

  The back lane was dark and stank of urine. The sole illumination came from two small windows set high in the wall behind them. With any luck they wouldn’t be observed, or overheard. He turned to the boy.

  “Now tell me. Why did you want to talk to Scott?”

  The kid hesitated.

  Granville watched him impatiently for all of thirty seconds. “I have better things to do with my time than stand about in alleys waiting to be shot at. Either you start talking or . . .”

  He stopped short. At his words, his listener had ducked. He was terrified, and much younger than Granville had first thought.

  “No one is gunning for us,” Granville said calmly. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be standing here if they were. Now, it’s time to answer my question.”

  The boy straightened slowly but remained mute. Then with no warning, he started to talk. “We were broke. And we’d been hungry awhile. That’s what started it. Pa . . . Pa, he said there was a way to get money . . . that he knew a man.”

  Granville could hear him swallow hard.

  “He . . . Pa . . . met with Mr. Jackson. I didn’t know anything at first, but then he asked about me, said I’d be useful.”

  “How well did you know Jackson?”

  The boy hesitated again.

  Granville sighed. “Look, kid . . . what’s your name, anyhow?”

  The kid bit his lip, looking as if he’d said too much already.

  “It’s all right, you can trust me,” Granville reassured him, but his impatience was growing.

  No response.

  “You have to trust someone, right?”

  The answer came all in a rush, as if the words had been held back far too long. “My name is Davis, Trenton Davis. But call me Trent, sir. Everyone does.”

  “Fine, Trent. And I’m Granville.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Granville, sir.”

  “Just Granville. And don’t call me ‘sir.’”

  “No, sir. I mean, no, Mr. . . . I mean, Granville.”

  This was far harder work than guarding empty boxcars. “So, Trent, tell me about what you and your pa were doing for Jackson.”

  Trent nodded. “He hired us to run errands. That’s what he said. Sometimes for him, sometimes for Mr. Blayney.”

  “Blayney?”

  Trent hunched his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  “Go on.” Suddenly he was fascinated by what Trent had to say. “What kind of errands?”

  “Fetching and carrying. That’s all, really.”

  “Fetching and carrying what?”

  “Envelopes. Bundles. Whatever they gave us.”

  “What was in these packages?”

  “Don’t know. They were sealed tight.”

  “Where did you deliver them?”

  “All over town.”

  “And how did Blayney fit into this employment?”

  “I’m not sure,” Trent admitted. “He doesn’t really work for Jackson but for some other fellow.”

  “Gipson.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. But how did you know?”

  “Never mind. What more do you know about Jackson?”

  “Nothing. And I wouldn’t want to, either,” Trent said.

  Delivering packages was only part of the story. “How did you end up trying to sabotage the train?”

  The boy didn’t reply, just stood there shivering.

  Granville wished he had a drink. “Trent?”

  Trent’s voice was miserable. “Mr. Jackson told us what we had to do. He made it clear we had to get it right.”

  No one so young should sound like that. Granville fought to keep the pity out of his voice, knowing from his own experience that it would be anything but welcome. “There were three of you. Who was the third?”

  “Charlie Jones. He was supposed to be in charge, but he’s no real thief, either. After all, we got caught, right?”

  “Right,” said Granville dryly. “So why are you still in town?”

  “Because I found work. It seemed worth it to take the chance.”

  “And why did you want to talk to Scott?”

  “I need help.”

  “He can’t help you now, kid.”

  “I’d rather ask him myself.” The words were courteously spoken, but the underlying will was fierce.

  “Scott’s in jail,” Granville snapped, suddenly angry with himself for wasting time. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want from him?”

  “In jail? He can’t be!”

  At the despair in Trent’s voice, Granville nearly promised to help him if he could. He stopped himself, knowing he didn’t have time for another lost cause. “Well, he is. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “What? Oh. I needed to talk to him about Mr. Jackson.”

  “Why? Jackson’s dead,” Granville said.

  Trent looked at him in shock, staggered, and would have fallen if Granville hadn’t moved quickly, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  “Who killed him?” There was stark terror in the boy’s voice.

  He hadn’t known Jackson was dead? What was going on here? Granville wondered. “They’ve arrested Scott for the murder,” he said, making an effort to keep his tone matter of fact.

  “Are they crazy?”

  The amazement in Trent’s voice drew surprised laughter from Granville. Here was someone who believed in Scott’s innocence as much as he did, even if he was only an unfledged kid.

  The growling of his stomach suddenly reminded him that he hadn’t actually eaten anything that day. He made an impulsive decision, based as much on Trent’s drawn face and scrawny frame as his need to find out any more from him about Jackson. “Look, there’s no point in continuing our conversation here. I know a place where they make one hell of a steak. You hungry?”
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br />   He led the boy to Garrity’s Steakhouse, where Scott had taken him the previous day. The rough-and-ready ambiance hadn’t impressed him, but the steaks had. As Granville chewed on a thick bite, he watched the top of Trent’s dark head, where a cowlick stood up in spikes. The kid was eating with happy concentration. Catching the waiter’s eye, Granville ordered two more steaks.

  When Trent finally looked up, Granville offered a grin. “And now it’s time for you to sing for your supper.”

  Trent looked confused. “Sing? Here?”

  “Talk,” he said softly. “It’s time for you to talk now. What did you want to ask Scott about Jackson? And why Scott?”

  “Oh.” Trent paused, his fingers turning a fork over and over again, then in a hurried motion he put it down and folded his hands on the table. His eyes met Granville’s.

  “I didn’t trust what Mr. Jackson might be saying, and I wanted Mr. Benton to know I’ve gone legit,” he said with great dignity. “That I won’t be running errands no more. Anymore,” he corrected himself.

  “So all you actually wanted was to talk to Benton?”

  Trent nodded.

  “Wouldn’t he have been a little annoyed with you about the botched job at the yard and the fact you told us about Jackson’s involvement?”

  Trent’s face flushed, and he seemed to be studying the splinters in the tabletop. “He doesn’t know I was involved. It was just supposed to be Pa and Charlie. They weren’t paying for me.”

  Granville sighed. “But you were there anyway.”

  Trent nodded eagerly, then he seemed to remember the outcome and his expression dimmed.

  “Then why do you need Scott’s help?”

  “Mr. Benton isn’t easy to get to talk to. I wanted Mr. Scott to set up a meeting for me. I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding between Mr. Benton and me,” he said with a gravity that was at odds with his youth.

  “But why Scott?”

  Now the boy looked worried. “I thought you two were partners?”

  “We are.”

  “Then how come you don’t know that he knows Mr. Benton?” Trent crossed his arms over his chest and sat back, watching Granville with a wary expression.

  Granville would have been amused to see his own mannerisms copied if he hadn’t been so shaken. If Trent was right, why hadn’t Scott told him? It had him wondering—again—what else Scott wasn’t telling him, and how well he really knew his friend.

  In the Yukon, all that mattered was how a man acted, not who he had been. Granville had to ask himself what he really knew about Sam Scott, about his background. He knew he was an orphan, had grown up in Chicago and then gradually wandered west, like so many men eventually following the lure of gold north. Not much information, when you came to think about it. But back then all he’d needed to know was that Scott was courageous, loyal, quick with his fists, and an accurate shot. Now it wasn’t enough.

  How well did he really know anyone? The things he did know about Scott were the things that mattered; Scott had saved his life and his sanity. Hell, Scott was probably the closest thing to family Granville had here.

  He turned to the kid. “I’ve only got your word for it. Exactly what have you heard about Scott and Benton?”

  Trent looked like he was debating whether to answer or to run, but finally said, “Rumors, mostly. That’s all.”

  Granville’s mind was racing. How had Scott gotten involved with Benton? Or was Trent lying? What he needed, still, was to locate Blayney and see if he had any information to offer.

  He looked at Trent speculatively, decided it was worth a try. “Any idea where I’d find Blayney?”

  Trent nodded. “On Friday nights he’s always at Gipson’s warehouse. It’s payday.”

  Granville stood up, dropping some coins on the table. “Where is this warehouse?”

  “On Water Street, past the Union Steamship wharf.”

  Granville nodded. He knew the area. “I’ll find it. Thanks, Trent.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Trent said, putting his cutlery down with a clatter.

  “No, you are not.” Water street at night was no place for a boy.

  “Then I’ll follow you.” Trent stood up.

  Granville stopped dead. He didn’t have time for such nonsense, he thought, putting one hand to his hip, where his revolver would have been if he’d been carrying it. “You are not coming.”

  “I know some more stuff about Jackson.”

  “What?” Granville asked, only half sure he believed him.

  “I’ll tell you later. After we find Blayney.”

  “You do realize I could put a bullet in you as you stand there,” he said mildly.

  “But then I’d be dead, and you’d never get your answers.”

  “Not if I placed the bullet strategically. Through an arm, say. Or a leg.”

  “Do that, and you’re no better than Jackson was,” Trent said, and waited.

  Granville knew when he was defeated. “All right. But stay in the background.”

  Trent followed him out of the restaurant, looking pleased with himself.

  S I X

  The first blow caught Trent solidly on the chin. Granville winced in sympathy even as he tripped his own assailant. A pair of arms gripped his from behind, and he jerked an elbow back into a beefy midriff. A loud groan followed, and he was released. He spun toward Trent’s assailant and got in one blow, then a sound from behind had him half-ducking, but not fast enough to avoid the blow.

  When consciousness returned, Granville found himself trussed up like a chicken ready for spitting. A quick assessment revealed a ringing head and a few new bruises, but nothing that felt permanent. From the corner of his eye he could see Trent, similarly bound. The kid didn’t appear to have fared too well. One eye was puffy and closing fast. His lip was cut and bleeding. Granville winced. He should have refused to bring him along, no matter how the boy had insisted. It was no business of his, after all.

  A pair of shiny shoes stopped in front of him. “What are you doing here, Granville?”

  Blayney sounded as ineffectual as ever, despite the fact that he was the one holding a gun.

  “I was looking for you,” Granville said.

  Blayney ignored this. He studied Granville closely, taking in his new coat and boots. “Well, well. You’re cleaned up since the last time I saw you.”

  Granville had never considered Blayney dangerous, but something in the other man’s expression made him rethink that assumption. Perhaps it had something to do with being trussed up, or perhaps it was the four thugs positioned like bookends on either side of them.

  Blayney looked down at the revolver he was holding, then without changing expression or tone of voice, he cocked it and aimed at Granville.

  “Now, if it’s all the same to you, I need to know why you were looking for me and how you knew to come here?”

  And just what are you hiding? wondered Granville. But before he could speak, Trent did.

  “It was my fault.”

  We’re in for it now, Granville thought, bracing himself for what the kid would say, but Trent surprised him.

  “I told him about the warehouse, that you’d be here, I mean,” he explained. There was an open, honest expression on his face. “And when Granville was so worried and wanting to talk to you about his friend, well, I remembered delivering stuff here, so I brought him. I didn’t mean to cause a problem, really I didn’t.”

  Somehow Trent had figured out what to say, and he had managed to look and sound entirely guileless. Amazingly, it seemed to have turned the trick, because for now Blayney was lowering his gun.

  “What friend?” The question was thrown at Granville.

  “Scott’s in jail. He’s been arrested for Jackson’s murder.”

  Blayney looked stunned for a moment. Then he began to laugh. “The man thought he had connections, and that would protect him,” he said, a bright thread of malice running through every word. “You can’t fight the law,
though, can you?”

  Now what did Blayney mean by that? “That’s why I need your help.”

  “My help? Never thought I’d see the day. What d’you want my help with, old chap?”

  Blayney wasn’t making any attempt to untie them, Granville noted, choosing his next words carefully. “You’ve been here longer than I have, Blayney. I’ve set myself the job of learning just why Scott’s been targeted for this killing. I’m bound and determined to get him off.”

  “Get him off? Get Scott off on a charge of murder? My dear Granville, I don’t think so. The man will undoubtedly hang within the month.”

  Why had he never realized what a detestable creature Blayney was? With an effort, Granville kept his voice level. “Can you tell me anything about his enemies, then?”

  Blayney appeared to find the question amusing. “Well, the chief one is probably Clive Jackson. The late Clive Jackson, I might add.”

  “And who else?”

  “It’s a rather large list, I should say.”

  Granville couldn’t keep the contempt he felt from showing.

  Blayney reacted with a pettishness that quickly switched to aggression. “Perhaps I should shoot you,” he said. “It would probably save a lot of inconvenience if I just shot you both.”

  Probably? Granville thought. The man was an idiot who would never have the nerve to shoot them in cold blood. He might not have a problem telling someone else to do it, though. There was no point in taking chances. “My disappearance would raise questions that you might find rather, shall we say, awkward to answer. My brother wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being murdered.”

  “That would be your elder brother William now, wouldn’t it?” Blayney said in thoughtful tones. “From what I hear the baron might be rather pleased if someone murdered you.”

  That was a hit, but Granville was damned if he’d acknowledge it. “Oh, I think you heard wrong,” he drawled. “William would be quite happy to kill me himself. However, he would be most unhappy if anyone else did it for him.” He paused. “Most unhappy,” he repeated, watching Blayney’s face.