The End of the Line (24 page)

“It was suggested?”

“Of course, but
not
by me; I have no need for such considerations. Sergeant Wallace, I have made a small fortune in my life, and my family is of considerable means. We've worked for kings and queens for many hundreds of years. I have no need for further material wealth, but there
are
those here that do. This railway will bleed your young Dominion dry, and there are a great many that will not rest until they have swindled the Canadian Pacific of its remittance.”

“Did Mr. Penner have enemies?”

“I should say a few.”

“Like who?”

“Anybody who might have fallen into the class of swindler, I would say.”

“And that's a fair number of men, you believe.”

“Who do
you
suspect, Sergeant?”

Durrant regarded the man. Durrant guessed him to be at least fifty, maybe fifty-five, but he appeared younger than himself.

“Sergeant,” Moberly said as Durrant studied him. “You're wondering if you can trust me.”

“I'm wondering if you are a suspect.”

“I had no opportunity, as the Yard would put it. I was two hundred miles away. Nor did I have a motive. Deek and I have never quarrelled, except maybe to insist that the other have the last biscuit some cold morning down on the Columbia.”

“You have means.”

“Ah . . . yes, the knob-kerrie. Mr. Wilcox mentioned that Mr. Penner had his skull caved in with some form of bludgeon.”

“The top of his skull, yes, but also his face.

“And you've not recovered the murder weapon?”

“We did, in fact.”

Now it was Moberly's turn to look up in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes.” Durrant quickly retold the tale.

Moberly studied him. “So you needn't examine it for evidence?” Moberly said, nodding toward the knob-kerrie. Durrant looked at the mace-like club on the man's wall. Moberly stood and took the shield from its nail and then removed the knob-kerrie. He handed it to Durrant, who remained sitting while he looked it over. “It has been used to kill men, Sergeant. Many, I would guess. Some of them my countrymen, I dare say, but it wasn't used to kill Mr. Penner, and certainly not by me.”

“Your cabin is locked while you are away?”

“The finest Yale lock.”

“And there was no sign of entry?”

“None whatsoever.”

Durrant looked over the club, purely out of curiosity. He handed the weapon back to Moberly, who replaced it on the wall, followed by the shield.

“I'd say right now that Frank Dodds is my number one suspect,” Durrant said when Moberly had sat back down.

The Englishman poured them both more tea. “Mr. Dodds is a crude and boorish man.”

“I believe that he and Deek may have quarrelled over a game of cards the night that Mr. Penner was killed.”

“I told Deek on several occasions that his weakness for cards would be his undoing,” said Moberly, shaking his head.

“Well, it may have been his weakness for justice and honour that led to his untimely end,” said Durrant. “I haven't any proof yet, but I believe that Deek Penner was onto Dodds' moonshine operation. I believe that he was going to fink on the man, and that Dodds may have killed him to keep him quiet.”

Moberly was silent a moment while he contemplated this. He sipped his tea. “He had a clear motive, then,” he finally said. “I have heard that Dodds was making moonshine and would be selling it to every bloody hand who stepped off a train from Fort Calgary come the start of work. He stood to profit a great deal from this.”

“He also had the means,” said Durrant. “He could have used the star drill to bash in Mr. Penner's skull. They are easy enough to come across. From what I understand from my inquiries, Penner left the card game after a row with Dodds. Stories vary, but I think that Dodds could have taken leave of his own cabin when the game wrapped up and sought out Penner to kill him.”

“So why wasn't Penner found dead in
his
cabin? As I understand it, he was killed along the Bow River.”

“I don't know. I don't know why Mr. Penner was out where he was, when he was, or how Dodds might have come across him where he was found by Mr. Christianson.”

“John found the body?” asked Moberly.

“He did.”

“That's interesting.”

“How so?”

“Well, what was John doing out so late?”

“He was at the card game too.”

“If the game broke up earlier, what cause would John to have to be on that track?”

“He claims he was delivering a wire to Deek himself.”

“Did he produce this wire?”

“Not yet. I've asked him for it,” said Durrant, feeling embarrassed that he hadn't followed up on this loose end. It also reminded him of the coded correspondence from the mysterious Kauffman. He decided that he would need to gauge Moberly more before he revealed all his evidence. Durrant started, “You think John . . . ?”

“I can't see John Christianson committing such a crime. I don't believe the man has the stomach for it; such a mousey little fellow. The fact that he found the body is interesting,” said Moberly.

“And what about Dodds as a murderer?”

“That I
can
see. You have others, through, don't you?”

Durrant nodded. “The Mahoney brothers for the same reason as Dodds. Grant McPherson as he has now taken over Deek's position as foreman.”

“I expect that there is much more to these explosive contracts than what we can see on the surface of things. There is a great deal at stake, in terms of money, and in terms of men's lives. Remember what I said, Sergeant, Deek Penner was a moral man, and a fine leader of men. He would not have condoned a course of action that would have put his men's lives in greater danger than was necessary from the nature of their already hazardous work.”

“You think that Deek might have been mixed up in the explosives contracts?”

“Or that he knew of some nefarious undertaking that might cause alarm.”

The two men were silent for a moment. Moberly sat forward, “What of physical evidence?”

“I was just considering that myself,” said Durrant.

“I don't suppose the star drill had a name etched upon it?” Durrant shook his head. “I thought not . . .” said Moberly.

“What I do have,” said Durrant, “is blood.”

“Do tell!”

“Saul Armatage and I . . .”

“Ah yes, the good doctor; he's performed a post mortem, no doubt.”

“Of sorts.”

“I imagine more could be done if we were at Fort Calgary or Regina,” said Moberly.

“Yes, but we do know that whoever killed Mr. Penner was likely covered with his blood. It would have been very difficult to commit such a crime without getting at least a little of the man's blood on you.”

“Unless you wore something over your clothing and then disposed of it . . .”

Durrant looked up. He hadn't considered that possibility. He said so. “Like what?” he wondered aloud.

Moberly thought a moment, “Well, some sort of tarpaulin would be best, but that would be impractical.”

“The next best thing,” mused Durrant, “would be a cape. Like what us Red Coat's wear over our coats, even a greatcoat itself that could be burnt afterwards.”

“Yes, that would do it.”

“My lad Charlie found a buckle burned in a trash barrel, but nothing more,” Durrant said, feeling suddenly impatient. He reached for his crutch.

“You aim to take your leave, Sergeant?”

“You've been a generous host,” said Durrant. “The tea and cakes were very nice and the conversation useful.”

“We've not discussed the spy as yet,” said Moberly. “Hep Wilcox went out of his way just this morning to tell me of it. He suspects someone on Deek Penner's crew is spying for the Grand Trunk and aims to disrupt the spring work to cause delays and add costs to our undertaking. I certainly think there is a spy, just as the
CPR
has agents inside the Grand Trunk. This is the eighties, sir. We are in the age of information. My only question is the zeal with which Mr. Wilcox presents the intelligence, and why if he's so convinced of the wicked intent of this spy, he hasn't rousted him yet. It can't be that difficult.”

“I was curious about that myself.”

“I would let that curiosity carry the day, Sergeant.”

Durrant pushed himself to standing. He pulled his coat closed and readied himself for the outside world. “I have one last question, if you don't mind, Mr. Moberly. It's of personal nature.”

“I don't mind at all,” said the gentleman, standing.

“Why are
you
here?”

Moberly laughed, and as he did, his face broke into its criss-cross of lines. “‘For Queen and Country,' of course.”

Garnet Moberly became suddenly more sober. “Sergeant Wallace,” he said, “I think you might be the only other man besides me, here at the end of steel, who can appreciate what is happening. We are witnessing history unfolding. This country is too young yet to appreciate this, but in time it will. This railway will almost certainly be the defining moment in its inception. We are breaking the back of these mountains with this thin ribbon of steel, sir. It is indeed the most glorious time to be in the Dominion of Canada.”

Durrant nodded. He extended his left hand, “Thank you for the tea.”

Moberly took his hand. “You shall have to come again. I am bound once more for the Kicking Horse once we've resupplied, but when I return, I shall call on you to inquire after your progress.”

“I hope to be long gone from this place by the time you return,” said Durrant.

“I shall call on you at Fort Calgary then, or see you at the end of the line.”

“You shall,” said Durrant. “You most certainly shall.”

THE WIRE MESSAGE ARRIVED IN
code from Fort Pitt, in the Saskatchewan Territory.

To Durrant Wallace.

From S. Steele.

Proceed with caution. Extreme sensitivity in Parliament over cost overruns and pork barrel nature of contracts. Canada Company factory at Kicking Horse vital to mainline's budget and timetable.

Will look into O'Brian's business dealings.

Have found nothing on man named Kauffman within
CPR
and
GTR
. Will ask Ottawa Metropolitan Police to inquire further.

Regarding whiskey production:
CPR
concerned. New orders: disrupt production within Temperance Zone.

Noises coming from Dumont and others of resistance. Much activity within Cree Nation.

Durrant decoded the message as he ate breakfast at his desk. First, Durrant considered the overheard conversation between Wilcox and O'Brian. How might these two men's involvement in the explosives contract be tied to the death of Deek Penner?

Wilcox had said that it would take something dramatic to shake loose the contract from the Canada Explosives Company. Blake O'Brian had added that there was a great deal of money to be made. Could some disruption of the blasting of the Tote Road down the treacherous Kicking Horse Pass lead to a debate in Parliament? O'Brian would be there, calling for a re-examination of the munitions contract, one of the most lucrative in the construction of the entire Canadian Pacific Railway. With Penner acting as foreman for the blasting operations on the Kicking Horse, there was an obvious tie-in to his murder.

Durrant considered his next steps. There was a pressing need to view for himself the Kicking Horse Pass and its precipitous descent so that he might fix in his mind what all this secrecy was truly about. Durrant was coming to understand that the land itself was a player in the mystery surrounding Deek Penner's death. He decided that it was time that he saw this place for himself. Durrant would also need to intensify his efforts to find the distillery he suspected Dodds operated somewhere. And he still had to expose the identity of the alleged Grand Trunk spy. For a moment Durrant wished that he had more men under his command so he could delegate some of the investigative matters. Just then there was a light knock at the door and Charlie stepped inside.

“Did he do it?” Durrant asked. The lad nodded. “Well, let's see.” The boy held up the Mountie's crutch. “Well I'll be. Look at that!”

The peg of the crutch which had been so frustrating to Durrant since his arrival deep in the mountains had been altered by the camp's carpenter. It now bore a block of light-coloured wood four inches square; set in the bottom of this wood block were half a dozen small nails. Like the hobnailed boots that a mountaineer wore to provide purchase on snow and ice, Durrant now had a crutch custom-made for the frozen trails that criss-crossed Holt City.

Durrant stood and leaned on the crutch. The block made it taller, too, so he didn't have to bend so much. “This is splendid,” he said, smiling at the boy. Charlie beamed back.

•  •  •

For the third day in a row the whistle of a freight approaching the end of steel pierced the silent mountains. Durrant and Charlie made their way towards the station, Durrant's stability on the trails greatly improved by the hobnailed crutch.

As the steam cleared and the men milled about, Durrant and Charlie approached a sleigh already half full of workers heading for Kicking Horse Lake, the height of land between the Pacific and the Atlantic oceans. Bob Pen was sorting the men into teams.

“Can we catch a lift up to the Pass with you?” Durrant asked of Pen.

“No reason why not, Sergeant.”

Pen introduced the pair to the teamster, who looked over his shoulder at the motley crew of navvies and labourers who had just disembarked from the westbound train. “Your boy will have to ride in back, but,” he said, sliding over on the sleigh's seat, “you can ride up front here wit' me.”