The End of the Line (31 page)

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?”

“No sir.”

“Do you know a man named Kauffman? William Kauffman?”

The
MP
's eyes were cast at the floor. “I do not.”

“You've never heard this name around Parliament?”

“There are two hundred Members of Parliament, and each has his staff, and there are clerks and the Parliamentary Library . . .”

“So that is a no?”

“I have never heard that name.”

“What sort of business is your family in, sir?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your business. What is your family business?”

“Sergeant Wallace, I am a Member of Parliament.”

“Your business!” Durrant shouted.

“I don't have to answer these questions.”

“Are you involved in the Northumberland Glycerol Company?”

“My name is not associated with that business.”

“But you know it.”

“Of course. It's a prominent business in my constituency.”

“And it employs how many of your constituents.”

“I can't say.”

“Guess.”

“I am not a guessing man, sir.”

“One hundred?”

“Likely many more. It's quickly becoming one of the largest manufacturers of explosives in this country.”

“The fact that the Canada Explosives Company of Mount Saint-Hilaire won the contract for the Big Hill—was a blow to your constituents?”

“What are you saying?”

“Only that losing that contract hurt your riding.”

“We've won many others.”

“We?”

“My constituents.”

“You're not here trying to win back that contract?”

“I am here on Parliamentary business.”

“Indeed.”

“Sergeant Wallace, I am the Vice-Chair of the House of Commons Select Standing Committee on Railways, Canals, and Telegraph Lines. When the Liberals win office again, I will likely be elected Chair. In fact, I may be asked to sit as the Minister in charge of the railway for the government. I am well within my rights to inspect the work here at the end of steel.”

“I am not contesting that, sir. I do find it odd that a man named William Kauffman has been sending cables from the House of Commons to the foreman who was to be leading the explosives work on the Big Hill just days before he died. And that you, sir, represent a riding where one of the largest employers is a rival explosives manufacturer to the one who won the contract for the Big Hill. Tell me, sir, is the Northumberland Glycerol Company a contributor to your campaign war chest?”

O'Brian stood up. “I will not take this any longer, Sergeant. Steele will hear from me, and so will the Minister! This is an outrage!” His face was as red as blazing ember, his massive sideburns wild.

Durrant pushed himself up. His voice was stern and even as he said, “You are
not
here by coincidence, Mr. O'Brian. I can tell you that much. You
are
lying to me. I will find out the truth about why you are here. I can assure you that the law does not require that the killer be present at the murder of a man to find him guilty of conspiracy to commit the crime. Am I clear?”

O'Brian put his hat on his head and left the office.

“Mr. Wilcox?” Durrant called his voice raspy. Durrant stepped from the room, but no one was there.

•  •  •

Before he left the station, Durrant went to the telegraph machine and sent a wire to Fort Calgary to ask that Lieutenant Dewalt keep watch for both Frank Dodds and Hep Wilcox. He gave Dewalt a description of both, and requested a constable meet each train coming from the west until the matter had been cleared. Dewalt would not like the implication of the request—that Durrant could requisition troops—but he had to be thorough. Did he believe that either man had left Holt City? No, he did not. It was, however, possible that they might try, and he needed to ensure his prime suspects didn't disappear eastward before he could brace them one last time.

When Durrant returned to his cabin, Charlie was waiting for him. It was late in the afternoon, and the heavy snow had brought down the darkness early to the deep valley. Charlie stood by the door, the Winchester rifle in his hands when Durrant entered. The boy lowered the rifle when Durrant stepped inside.

“What is it?”Durrant demanded. Charlie put the rifle down and picked up a scrap of paper from the desk and handed it to Durrant. Durrant read it aloud.

“I seen Deek Penner's merder. Meet me in the stables after dark.” Durrant put the note down and looked at Charlie. “There something else?”

Charlie nodded. He picked up the writing tablet. “Someone was in the woods?” asked Durrant. Charlie nodded. “When?” Charlie scribbled. “Alright. We're going to the stables together. Get your coat. We're going to put an end to this.”

•  •  •

The snow swirled before them on the path like something out of the wildest vision of Hades. As night fell the wind picked up, driving the snow against the men as if it were buckshot. Though not as cold as it had been, the wind was bitter and tore at their coats and found its way down their necks, so that by the time they reached the barn and stables, both were shivering.

“Alright, son,” said Durrant, standing before the blackness of the stables. “I'm going to head in and talk with whoever saw Mr. Penner killed. I need you to stay here and cover me. You understand?” Charlie nodded. Durrant handed him the Winchester. “If anybody else comes in through these doors, I want you to fire a warning shot up in the air. If they turn on you, you cut them down. I know this ain't what you signed onto, but we're in this together, and frankly, son, I need your help. I won't ever let you down, and I know you won't let me down, either. Can I count on you?” Charlie nodded.

“Alright, get yourself out of sight and stay as warm as you can, maybe hunker there out of the wind,” Durrant pointed to a snow-covered buckboard wagon. “I'll make this as brief as I can.”

Charlie stepped towards the wagon and crouched down, disappearing up to his waist in the snow. He held the rifle before him awkwardly, but his attention was rapt. Durrant considered how much had changed in his life, that a mere lad was covering his back while he braced a witness.

Many things had changed, though. Two weeks back on the job—the real job—had returned purposefulness to Durrant. Maybe that was why he hadn't asked Steele to send him reinforcements after the incident with the nitroglycerine. Maybe that was why he was relieved now that heavy snow had effectively isolated him and Charlie at the end of track. As he closed in on a possible witness, maybe that was why he was able to stand upright and walk with more ease than he had in three years. He was alive again. Alive, and doing the work that he had signed on to do in order to keep the opaque darkness at bay.

The door to the barn was latched when he reached it. He glanced back over his shoulder at Charlie's shape through the falling snow. The boy still held the rifle before him. It felt good to have someone at his back again.

Durrant reached up and unhooked the latch to the barn. Gravity pulled the door towards him, but then the wind pushed it closed, so that he had to pull hard to open it wide enough to step inside. The scent of hay and horses wafted over him as the wind propelled him into the space. Over the gale he could hear the animals breathing and shuffling. He propped the door ajar by wedging it hard into the snow, then quickly stepped to one side of the room. As he did, he slipped the Enfield from its holster. The British Bulldog was in his outside coat pocket. With the pistol pointed at the dark space in front of him, he walked forward.

The building held twenty horses in two rows of stalls. Durrant moved from one stall to the next making his way towards the back of the barn. He could hear nothing else in the dark over the breathing of horses and the wind howling outside. Halfway to the tack room at the far corner of the barn, Durrant risked a look back over his shoulder. The door was still ajar; snow was swirling in as the wind pushed at the boards.

Durrant looked back down the centre of the barn. He stepped out and moved down two more stalls, the horses shuffling, their heavy flanks pressing against him while he tried to find cover next to their rumps. He heard the wind howl louder and shake the door, and then it slammed shut.

He turned and brought the pistol up before him with a start. The room was dark as the inside of a mine. He didn't move. A muffled sound came from the far end of the barn. He remained perfectly still. The horse next to him jostled his body and he held onto his crutch to keep it from clattering to the floor. There was someone in the barn. He heard a floorboard squeak and then go quiet. He could hear a man breathing. He slowly raised the pistol and felt his finger brush against the trigger. His thumb itched to pull back the hammer, but he feared even that sound would give away his presence. He heard a man draw another breath. He sensed movement in the middle of the barn and levelled the pistol.

The sound of a voice almost caused him to pull the trigger. The voice said, “Sergeant Wallace . . .” It was a small voice, that of a man fearing for his very soul.

“I'm here,” he said, pistol still before him.

“I can see you. Don't shoot me.”

“Who is it?”

“It's Devon Paine.”

“Mr. Paine, I've got the drop on you. Why don't you shed some light on this situation?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paine, and he moved again. Durrant saw a shape pass him in the dark and in a moment, a candle was lit in the tack room and Paine stepped out again. He was holding the candle on a tin plate in one hand and a double-barrelled shotgun in the other.

Durrant drew a long breath. He eased the hammer back, no longer concerned about the noise it would make, his adversary squarely in front of him. Across the forward sight of the Enfield, Durrant watched as Paine seemed to calculate his next move.

“Put down the gun,” said Durrant. Paine did as he was told. “Step over there, well away from it.” Again, Paine moved.

“You write that note?”

“Yes, sir. I did. I saw Deek Penner get killed.”

•  •  •

“I suppose I know the answer to this, but I feel I should ask anyway. Why the hell didn't you tell me this when I first questioned you?” Durrant sat on a wooden tomato crate, his prosthetic extended before him. The tack room smelled of freshly oiled metal and the rich tang of leather. Charlie stood at the tack room door, the Winchester at port, watching the entrance to the barn. He still had his scarf pulled up over his face. Paine sat on another crate with his back to the harnesses on the wall.

Paine looked down. “You don't know these people,” he said. “I was afraid of what might happen.”

“I don't blame you. It would have made things easier if you'd come forward and told me, though.”

“Easier for who?”

“For me, I guess. Did you see the man who killed Penner?”

“Not his face, just the shape. It was dark and I was far away.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, some of it you already know. That bastard Dodds came at me and laid into me pretty good. You understand, Sergeant, I'm not a big man, but in a fair fight I can hold my own. I'm not so bad with my hands, you see. Put a sawed-off shotgun in my possession and I can take care of myself. I used to ride with the stagecoaches down in Wyoming and Colorado. I told you that, didn't I? I think I might even have killed a man once . . .” His voice trailed off. “It was a fair fight. The Marshall told me so. I shot the man right off his horse when he was coming for the strongbox.
That
there's the gun that did it!”