The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries) Page 3

  “And you saw nothing out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hrmphhh.”

  The short officer clearly wasn’t satisfied and probably didn’t believe him. Several days of headlines in the World had informed Granville of the difference between these city police and the upright Mounties he’d dealt with in the Klondike. Vancouver’s latest scandal had involved bribes and other favors some members of the local constabulary were accused of accepting to turn a blind eye to the gambling and the “ladies” on Dupont Street. Wearing a uniform was no guarantee of honesty, though it did mean you held the upper hand.

  “You’re sure you saw nothing?” the second policeman was now repeating.

  “No, nothing,” Granville said.

  The arrival of the coroner ended the questioning. He poked and prodded at the corpse, muttering to himself, then gestured to the two officers to cover the body again. “One shot, missed the heart, looks like he bled to death. Probably sometime yesterday, perhaps last night. Can’t tell more yet.”

  “Can you give us a closer time of death?”

  “Too cold out. I’ll need to do an autopsy. Get the body to the morgue,” the coroner said, and bustled off.

  After the coroner was out of earshot, the taller policeman looked at the other and grimaced. “He’s right, it is cold. Are we done here?”

  The shorter man gave his partner a sharp look, then turned to Scott and Granville. “As for you two, don’t leave town, you hear me?”

  Shortie’s attitude was beginning to annoy Granville. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, but Scott spoke first. “We’ll be here. Can we go?”

  “For now.”

  When they were out of earshot, Granville turned so he could see Scott’s expression in the lamplight. “What was that about?”

  “His name’s Craddock. I knew him back in Chicago and he hates my guts. If he can find a way to pin this on me, he will.”

  “I see.”

  “He didn’t seem to like you much, either.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  “I could tell.”

  Later, Scott and Granville stood on the pier and watched the Empress of India steam into the harbor. She was a beauty, Granville thought, an elegant white steam liner with a clipper bow. As she drew closer, he could see evidence of the storm she’d been through: part of the molding along one side had been stripped away, and one of the metallic lifeboats was staved in. The two men watched the passengers disembark, laughing and chattering, then the unloading of the baggage. Finally, the process of transferring the cargo began. A crane lifted wooden crates from the hold and began to fill the boxcars he and Scott had spent the last two nights guarding. Over the scene the clouds hung low and ominous and the dockworkers hurried to finish the job before the rain began again.

  Funny, Granville thought, silk was something to which he’d never given a moment’s attention. Herrick’s line, how did it go?

  “When as in silk my Julia goes,

  Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows

  That liquefaction of her clothes,”

  Which brought to mind another Julia, who was part of the reason he was here in the first place. “Damn,” he muttered.

  For several more minutes they watched the activity, until the last of the boxcars was full. Suddenly he realized how tired he felt, and that the cold had started to seep back into his bones. A whiskey or two would warm him, and then he could sleep.

  F O U R

  Friday, December 8, 1899

  A gray light was seeping through every crack in the wooden shutters when a loud banging woke Granville from a sound sleep.

  “What . . . ?”

  “Police. Open up.”

  Blinking, Granville stumbled out of bed. Throwing open the door, he glared at the two men standing in the dingy corridor, rain dripping from the brims of their hats. It was the two policemen from the other morning.

  “What?”

  “The Chief has a few questions he’d like to ask you. You’ll have to come with us.”

  Too little sleep and too much whiskey left Granville at a disadvantage. “What questions?”

  “Just come with us. Now.”

  He stared at them, half-hoping they would vanish once his brain began to function. They didn’t. “What time is it?”

  “Half past eleven. And you have five minutes until we drag you out.” Craddock looked as if this was the option he’d prefer.

  Let them try, Granville told himself, then realized he would gain nothing by putting up a fight. Far better to find out what they wanted first.

  In six minutes, the room was empty.

  Glaring at Chief McKenzie, Granville slammed a fist on the desk that separated them. “What do you mean you’ve arrested my partner for murder?”

  McKenzie, a big, heavyset man with deep pouches beneath his eyes, pulled at the end of his thick mustache. “Calm yourself, Mr. Granville. Thumping the furniture won’t help anything. If Sam Scott didn’t kill Jackson, he has nothing to fear. If he did, then he’s right where he should be.”

  “Surely there should have been a coroner’s inquest?”

  “Dr. Barwill held an inquiry yesterday. Warrant was sworn out for your friend right after.”

  “A warrant? On what evidence?”

  “You’ll find that out in court. Until then, Scott will remain our guest.”

  Granville pictured what time in a cell would do to Scott, who hated confinement of any kind. His anger rose. “You cannot simply hold him here. What about bail?”

  “Well now, that would be up to the judge to decide. The hearing should be in a day or two.”

  Granville wasn’t liking the sound of this. “And if there is a trial? When would that be?”

  “The next criminal court date is December nineteenth.”

  Which meant Scott could be facing eleven days in jail. “And which judge would that be?”

  “He’d be brought in front of Judge Thomas.”

  Even after spending only a week here, he knew the man’s reputation. “The one they call the Hanging Judge?”

  “Judge Thomas is a fair man. If your friend is innocent, he has nothing to fear.”

  “And who is to prove him innocent?”

  “Well, I’m thinking you’d best be looking for a good solicitor.”

  If there was such a thing as a good lawyer in this upstart town on the edge of nowhere, Granville thought. “Can I see him?”

  Vancouver’s chief of police looked Granville up and down, while Granville thanked God he’d bought new clothes the previous day. At least he looked the gentleman he’d once been. British Columbia, for all its wilderness, was part of Her Majesty’s empire, with an instinctive respect for the well born.

  “Aye, I don’t see why not. Leave that revolver with us until after your visit, and don’t cause a disturbance. And I’ll thank you to remember in future that this is a law-abiding town. We don’t allow our citizens to carry guns, except in pursuit of their duties.”

  “What?”

  The Chief nodded. “Next time, you’ll be arrested on the spot.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Unless your life is in danger, of course,” the chief continued. “But you’d have to prove that to our satisfaction.”

  A quick glance around Scott’s cell told him that it was dry and mostly draft free, but that was all that could be said for it. Scott sat on the end of one of two narrow bunks, and Granville chose the straight-backed wooden chair for himself. His partner looked miserable, Granville thought. He seemed to have shrunk, somehow, as though his big frame was trying to fold in on itself.

  “Why did they arrest you?”

  Scott shrugged. He was not meeting Granville’s worried gaze.

  “They have to have told you something!”

  “Said they figured I had the most likely motive for killing Jackson. And I was there.”

  “Motive? What motive?”

 
“Maybe I owed him money,” he said, his voice so low Granville had to strain to hear him. “Maybe Jackson was harassing me about it.”

  “How much did you owe him? And why did you mention nothing of this?”

  Scott was silent.

  “Dammit Scott, I want to help you. If a hearing doesn’t clear you, they’ll be bringing you in front of the hanging judge.”

  Scott still said nothing.

  “Look, I don’t know the rules here. How likely is it that the hearing will get you out of here?”

  “Not very likely.”

  It was what he’d been picking up from McKenzie. “Sam, I don’t want to stand by and see you die. If I’m going to get you out of here, I need to know what’s going on. You have to talk to me.”

  “I owed him—Jackson—six hundred dollars,” Scott said, each word like a pebble dropping into the silence. “And he was hounding me for it.”

  Granville shook his head in disbelief.

  “Yeah.” Scott’s voice was still low. “I didn’t trust him, but I had no choice. I needed that money bad. Nobody else was going to give it to me.”

  “Why did you need it?”

  The only reply was further silence, and a stubborn look.

  Scott wasn’t just holding out on him, he was lying about something, Granville was sure of it. Dishonesty was completely out of character for his blunt friend. Granville had never seen Scott back away from a fight, and he’d never seen him lie for his own gain. So why was he lying now? Looking thoughtfully at his jailed partner, Granville could think of only one reason—to protect someone else. But whom?

  “What was Jackson like?” he asked, changing his tactic.

  “A bully. Benton counted on him to do his dirty work, but Jackson made sure he had sidelines of his own.”

  “Sidelines. What sort of sidelines?”

  “He had money in a couple of the houses over on Dupont.”

  “Prostitution?”

  Scott nodded.

  “What else?”

  “You name it. But that’s the one I know about for sure.”

  “So he must have made some enemies.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Scott answered anyway. “He did.”

  “Then why are they pinning his murder on you?”

  “Craddock hates me?” Scott said, making an attempt at humor.

  “You did mention that. But whatever did you do to the poor man? Beat him at arm wrestling?”

  “Not exactly.” There was an odd expression on his face.

  “Well, we both know there has to be a reason the police focused on you so quickly?”

  “The money. Plus I was nearby when Jackson died. They don’t believe you when you say we were together.”

  “Yes, I had rather gathered that,” Granville said. But he was thinking about the strange expression he’d seen cross his partner’s face. Something was very wrong here, and he didn’t know what. Or what he was going to do about it. He just knew he had to do something.

  None of Granville’s thoughts showed on his face. “You have nothing to worry about,” he told Scott with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You’re innocent, and I intend to prove it if I have to find Jackson’s murderer myself to do it.”

  “But can you prove it in eleven days?”

  Granville shrugged. “You know I love a challenge.”

  F I V E

  Four hours later, soggy and frustrated, Granville sat nursing a whiskey in a grimy saloon by the docks, already wishing he’d never taken up the challenge of freeing Scott. He had eleven days to save him, ten and a half now. It had seemed longer this morning, before he’d found out exactly how hard it was going to be to pry information loose in this town.

  No one was willing to talk about Jackson; even dead, he seemed to beget fear. And apparently the man had been invisible; no one remembered him, no one had seen him anywhere near the docks, no one knew where he had been or was going. Nothing Granville asked could shake their stories.

  Without money to grease their memories and overcome their fear, he wasn’t going to get anywhere. And because he didn’t have money, his friend could die.

  For the first time Granville regretted his stubborn refusal to accept the remittance from home that most emigrant gentlemen of his class depended on. He’d always been too proud, too determined to prove he could succeed on his own. And now it was too late. If he asked for help, and if his pompous ass of an eldest brother honored their father’s wishes and sent the money, it would take too long —Scott would be dead.

  It also didn’t help that he was new to Vancouver. In Dawson City, he would have known exactly whom to talk to and how to get them talking. There he knew most of the invisible connections that tied people together, while here he only knew Scott and Blayney, one of whom was in jail and refusing to tell him what he needed to know, while the other for the moment had vanished.

  Someone had killed Clive Jackson, and probably for good reason, but Granville was damned if he knew what that reason was. He had spent hours on the docks without getting a single answer he could use.

  Even the paper he’d found in the dead man’s pocket hadn’t given him a lead. It was a cheaply printed handbill for a burlesque performance at a place called the Carlton, on Columbia. “Don’t miss Franny from Frisco,” it screamed. “Two shows nightly, ten and midnight.” He’d gone to look at the place right after talking to Scott. It had been deserted, though, meaning he’d have to return this evening. Until then he had time on his hands and no idea where to look next.

  Granville swore and called for another whiskey. Watching the bartender pour the drink, he was struck by how often he’d watched that same action. In how many bars, in how many cities? And for all the griminess of this one, with the wind blowing through the cracks, how different was it from all the others?

  The door over there probably led to a back room, with the inevitable poker game. But it was too early. Just thinking about it, though, made the tips of his fingers tingle. It had been too long since he’d handled the cards, felt the crisp snap of the pasteboard.

  He picked up his glass, stared at it, slammed it back on the counter. It might make him fell better, but it wouldn’t save Scott. He paused, considered. There might be another way to proceed. But only if he was prepared to forgo the oath he’d sworn on Edward’s grave.

  A second death would hardly make the first any more bearable, or his conscience any easier. He signaled the bartender, his decision made. He knew how he’d make the money to clear Scott.

  When the bartender looked from the half-drunk whiskey to him, Granville put two quarters on the bar and leaned forward. “I’m partial to a good game of poker,” he said in a low voice. “Can you tell me where I’d find one?”

  The bartender looked hard at him, then half nodded. “Sure can. Low or high?”

  “High.”

  “Try the bar at the Terminus Hotel or the Balmoral Club.”

  “And where would they be?”

  “Terminus is straight up Westminster on Hastings, Balmoral Club’s in behind the Savoy.”

  “And do the games run all day?”

  “High ones start around seven or so. Just watch out for the law.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be sure to do that.”

  The bartender was right. Granville found the action in a small back room off the Terminus bar. It was loud, smoky and frantic, the cries of the winners and groans of the losers echoing off the battered, pine-clad walls.

  He circulated slowly through the crowd. Most of the gamblers were gathered at round tables, either placing bets or watching the action. He found the game he was looking for on the far side of the room, partially screened by thin painted partitions.

  Granville ordered a drink and lit a cigar, watching the faces. He’d seen them all before—the predators, the reckless ones, the ones hooked on the hope of easy money—but none of the players were familiar. He hadn’t really expected them to be, though he still hoped to find Blayney.

  Watching th
e play, he suddenly felt the old sensations. Now, here, he could give in to them. With a fervent apology to Edward’s ghost, Granville sat down at a table where a new game was being dealt.

  Five games, one whiskey, and two cigars later, Granville folded his cards, picked up his winnings, and pushed back his chair. He had the money he needed to pursue Jackson’s killer, and he felt a bone-deep satisfaction in knowing it. Making his way back through the equally crowded bar, sawdust crunching under his feet, he exited into the crisp night air with a feeling of relief.

  Turning his collar up against the light rain, he walked south on Westminster and turned west on Dupont. In just one block the air went from damp but fresh to a thick dankness that proclaimed its origin in the mudflats the street was built on. Known as Chinatown, this was also Vancouver’s red light district. It was likely most of the landlords on Dupont were Chinese, Granville thought cynically. It’d be the only place they were allowed to buy, on land nobody else wanted.

  Walking briskly, Granville kept a careful eye on the shadows between buildings. Electricity hadn’t reached this part of town, and the oil lantern streetlights were few and far between. He passed a butcher shop, a decaying rooming house, two white-painted bawdy houses with red lanterns glowing over their doors, an opium den with its row after row of beds clearly visible through the open door, a laundry, another white-painted house, several dilapidated shanty houses, and a produce store. Light seeping from doorways and partially curtained windows cast odd shadows on the men, both white and Chinese, who hurried by. The tinkling of pianos played in the parlors of the bawdy houses provided an odd background to the eerie scene.

  The Savoy Hotel was the second to the last building on the block. There was a dark narrow passageway running beside it. Granville left the street and turned into that narrow lane, his senses alert for danger, his hand on the knife he always carried. The passageway was Stygian, with only an occasional light in a high window to break the gloom.

  From this vantage point, the Balmoral Club was hard to miss; light streamed from its windows and he could hear a babble of voices. It was a ramshackle wooden building, two stories high, that ran the full length of the Savoy and the hotel beside it. Someone had slapped on a coat of white paint, but it didn’t look like they’d been serious about it. Here and there strips of raw wood showed dark in the lamplight.