The End of the Line (11 page)

“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.

“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?”

“Ah, Mr. Paine.”

“He's been in?”

“Yes, smell like horses. Not so bad.”

“So he's been in since Mr. Penner was killed.”

“He was in to bring laundry yesterday.”

“What did he bring in?”

Mr. Kim looked over at his son on the washboard. “That his coat right there!” he said, pointing as the young man scrubbed the heavy riding coat down with his gloved hands.

•  •  •

Only Devon Paine, who managed the stables and who had been at the card game, had taken a coat to the laundry over the last few days. Durrant aimed to find out who might have a coat with blood on it from the grisly murder. After visiting the laundry, Durrant had collected Charlie to help with the unpleasant task of rummaging through the trash from the camp's four-month stay at the end of steel. A mound higher than their heads and twenty feet across occupied a clearing in the woods a stone's throw from the Pipestone River, and just south of the mess for the camp.

“It ain't too bad,” said Durrant. The boy was using a long stick to dig through the trash. He looked up at the Mountie standing on the periphery of the garbage heap.

“Okay, so from where you're standing maybe it's a little worse.” The man and the boy poked through the rubbish. There was a barrel on the edge of the garbage heap and Durrant limped to it, trying not to trip on the irregular ground.

“Come have a look here, lad,” he said, one gloved hand resting on the barrel. It was full of ashes. “See if you can't stir up the contents of this here barrel and discover something of use.”

Charlie inserted his stick and began to stir. A great plume of ashes rose from the barrel, and Durrant coughed and stepped back. “Blue Jesus, lad . . .”

Charlie continued to stir and then reached in with his bare hand and grabbed something. He held it up. Durrant took it from his hand. It was a blackened buckle from a heavy coat.

•  •  •

It was late in the afternoon before he realized how hungry he was. Charlie had long since returned to his bunk, and Durrant had continued searching the trash barrel on his own but found nothing more of the coat. He could not even be certain that it had been a coat, no less one worn by Deek Penner's killer. He would have to search each witness's possessions for a possible garment with blood on it. It was the only way he thought he might find actual physical evidence of the crime.

Durrant made his way from the garbage dump up the icy road and through the tunnels of snow towards the
NWMP
bunk. When he opened the door to the bunk house, he was greeted by both a blast of warmth and the rich aroma of fresh baking. He stepped in and stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted. Charlie was moving Durant's footlocker to the toe of the Mountie's bed. He stood up when Durrant entered. “What the hell is going on here?”

The boy's pleasant smile faded. He looked around self-consciously. There was a broom near the door. The desk had been adorned with paper and a quill. A bottle of ink sat near the stove where it wouldn't freeze. The beds were neatly made. The oil lamp had been cleaned so its globe was no longer soiled with dark soot. The map that Durrant had borrowed from the stationmaster in Fort Calgary of the
CPR
's route through the mountains was tacked above the desk.

Durrant stared at the boy, who now simply looked down at his feet. “My God, son, when I said make the quarters passable, I didn't mean for the King himself!” Charlie smiled in relief.

“I need to have a rest before what promises to be a big night. What I have to do, son, is find whatever it was that Deek Penner got his face mashed in with. You saw where they found the body, didn't you? The murder weapon's got to be something big and heavy. Like a sledge or the back of a maul. Christianson says that whoever he seen running from the body that night didn't have anything in his hands. I think maybe the killer saw Christianson coming, and threw the killing tool. It could be out in the snow somewhere. While it's still a little light, have a look around some. If you find anything, leave it and come and fetch me. If anybody bothers you, let me know straight away. I'll handle them.”

Charlie was already pulling on his heavy coat. “One more thing, come back and get me up in time for supper, would you? Be careful, son,” said Durrant as the boy opened the door. Charlie cast a quick glance back, smiled and was gone.

Durrant sat on the bed awhile, then slowly loosened and slipped off his coat. He checked the pockets and found the sack containing the contents of Penner's pockets. A few currency notes, a set of heavy Yale keys, caps and fuses, and the coded note. Durrant looked at it. The code could be cracked, but he would need a few more examples before he could get to work with it. He would need to question Christianson about further correspondence, and see if he could ascertain the address of the recipient to speed the investigation. Durrant lay back on the bed, pulling some of the neatly folded blankets over him in a haphazard fashion, and fell into a fitful sleep.

•  •  •

It was half past eight when Durrant and Wilcox approached the bunk of Frank Dodds. Wilcox carried a lantern. “You know what you're doing?” asked Wilcox as they neared the cabin. In the darkness his tone betrayed both scepticism and a co-conspiratorial notion that the general manager and the Mountie shared the same purpose.

Durrant said nothing and instead knocked on the door. The cabin was of a more solid construction than most in the camp, framed with square timbers with a roof of boards hewn straight and flat; the cabin of a sawyer, of a man who works in the woods, thought Durrant.

“Come!” responded a harsh voice from within, and Durrant pried open the door and stepped inside. Wilcox followed him.

“'Bout goddamned time,” barked a large man sitting on the far side of a round table.