The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries) Page 6

  “My name is Trent,” the boy said as he followed him.

  The sun was pouring in through the big windows in Mary’s Café. It still seemed too bright, but by the time he’d finished six flapjacks, three eggs, two rashers of bacon, and his third cup of coffee, Granville felt revived. Until a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “We’ll be asking you to come down to the station now.”

  Granville had known someone was behind him from Trent’s widening eyes, so he didn’t jump. He didn’t even turn around, didn’t need to. He recognized the voice. “Morning, Craddock. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s been another murder, and you’re wanted for questioning.”

  “I see. Well, I’d suggest that you remove your hand from my shoulder before we discuss the matter. Unless you want to lose it, of course.”

  Granville could see the admiration in Trent’s eyes and sighed to himself. “Thank you. Now, what was it you wanted to discuss with me?”

  “We have some questions about a man whose throat was slit last night.”

  Granville sighed again. He didn’t have time for this; perhaps he could cut short the dance he was sure Craddock was dying to start. “Practically the only person I know in this town is Walter Blayney. Unless he’s your victim, I suggest you look for someone else to question, someone who might have a motive.”

  It was a brilliant strategy, with one small flaw.

  “Tell me again where you went after Blayney let you go,” Chief McKenzie said, both face and voice expressionless.

  “I’ve told you. Three times. Nothing is going to change if I tell you again.”

  McKenzie merely repeated the question.

  Granville groaned. “I watched the show at the Carlton, went to a few bars. I don’t remember the names.”

  “Why?”

  “As I said earlier, I was asking questions. I’m trying to help my partner, whom you’re holding here. You already know that. I would have been happy to run across Blayney and in a few places even inquired after him.”

  “Why, when you’d already seen him?”

  “I’d thought of a few more questions for him.”

  “And what did you do when you found him?”

  “I didn’t find him.”

  “Why did you kill Blayney?”

  This was getting tiresome. “I didn't kill him either.”

  McKenzie leaned forward. “You’re not cooperating here, Granville. Guess we’ll have to let you think for a bit.” He nodded at Craddock, who was standing stiffly by the door. “Put him in with his pal.”

  “Hey! You can’t arrest me.”

  “I’m not arresting you. You just need a little time to cool off.”

  “I haven’t done anything.” Granville looked from McKenzie to Craddock and back. “I want my solicitor.”

  McKenzie squinted at him. “Solicitor, huh? I hope he’s good. What’s his name?”

  Granville said nothing. It had been a bluff. He hadn’t even begun making inquiries about hiring a solicitor for Scott. Obviously it was past time he did so.

  Chief McKenzie let the silence drag on for a moment. “That’s what I figured.” He motioned to Craddock. “Lock him up.”

  Scott opened one eye at the noise of the doors being unlocked, then sat bolt upright as Craddock shoved Granville into the cell across from his.

  “Look at you,” Scott said ironically. “One day you’re trying to get me out of here, and the next you’re locked up, too.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Turning around, Granville pounded on the iron bars. “Hey. Any chance of some coffee in here?”

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  “I’ll take my chances. But more important than coffee, why the hell didn’t you ever say that you had a sister?”

  “It never came up,” was the answer. “I take it you’ve met Frances.”

  Granville sat down on the other narrow bunk, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. “So how does she figure into the mess you’re in?”

  “The mess I’m in? Looks to me like you’re in the same mess.”

  “Answer my question.”

  Scott went back to contemplating the rough weave of the gray blanket he sat on.

  “I had a rough night, and I’m not a patient man at the best of times. I need answers, Scott.”

  The big man wasn’t intimidated.

  Granville tried another tack. “Frances says she grew up in Denver. I thought you were from Chicago?”

  “I grew up in Chicago. Pa moved the family to Denver when she was eleven or so.”

  “You’re how much older?”

  “’Bout seven years.”

  “So you were eighteen when you left Chicago?”

  “Nope. They moved, I stayed. Didn’t head west till I was twenty-two.”

  Nine years ago, Granville thought. “Where did you go from Chicago? Denver?”

  “San Francisco. I’d heard good things about the city.”

  “Did you go to join your sister?”

  Scott shook his head. “She was still in Denver.”

  “I thought Frances was from Frisco.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, standing and pacing the cell. “She came to San Francisco a couple of years after I did. Looked me up.” He paused and shot a grin over his shoulder at Granville. “You should’ve seen her there. She was a huge success in San Francisco. They loved her.”

  “I’ll bet.” Granville was turning over these facts. “What about your parents?”

  “They stayed in Denver. Died a few years later. Influenza.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Scott’s face was blank.

  Time to move to something less personal. “So you knew Craddock in Chicago?”

  “Yup. We bumped into each other now and again. Then I had a little run-in with the law. Figured it was time to get out of town.”

  “Craddock was the law there, too?”

  Scott let out a crack of laughter. “Craddock? Not likely. He was part of a gang tried to wipe out me and my pals.”

  “Let me guess. He lost.”

  “He’s hated my guts ever since,” Scott confirmed.

  “I don’t suppose Craddock went to San Francisco, too?”

  “Nope. I heard later he’d gone to Denver.”

  That seemed to dispose of Craddock. “Did you know Jackson before you moved here?” Granville asked.

  “No.” Scott shifted on the bunk, his gaze fixed on a spot behind Granville’s head.

  “Your sister says she introduced the two of you.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “That if I wanted to know anything else, I should ask you myself.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  He was getting nowhere, Granville thought in frustration. “How did she meet Jackson?” Before Scott could say anything, Granville held up one hand. “And don’t tell me that I need to talk to her about it.”

  “You do need to talk to her about it.”

  “Do you want to die? Is that what this is about? You fought like a madman so we wouldn’t freeze to death last winter. Now you want to be hanged by the neck until you’re dead?”

  Scott shook his head. “Just let it be, Granville. There’s stuff you don’t know, stuff I can’t tell you. If they end up hangin’ me, then that’s how it is.”

  “I can’t let it be. Don’t you understand? I can’t just stand by and watch you die because you refuse to explain your actions to anyone. I cannot do it. I will not do it. You’re my friend. I owe you my life, and I am getting you out of here whether you like it or not.”

  Scott grinned. “Maybe you should worry about getting yourself out, first.”

  “Oh hell.” Granville stood up, strode to the barred door and began banging on the bars. “Jailer! Hey, Jailer! I need to talk to the chief. Now!”

  Granville looked from the imposing stone facade to the turret that sprung from the building’s side, then checked the address. In this section of town, all of the houses looked al
ike, right down to the monkey puzzle trees imported for the express purpose of keeping up with the neighbors.

  It was the right house. He strode up the stone steps and across a wide veranda, then pulled the door chimes. After what seemed a long wait, a maid in cap and apron opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Mr. Turner in? I have business with him. My card.” Granville said, handing over the all-important calling card he’d just had printed. The address, though fake, was in the right area of town.

  She looked him over, taking in the closely cropped dark hair, the new suit. Her eyes slid to the small pasteboard rectangle she held, and she opened the door wider. “Please come into the parlor, sir, and I’ll see if Mr. Turner is at home.”

  Granville followed her into a room on the left, pausing at the doorway. He could be in England. From the heavily carved furniture to the elaborate wallpaper, everything was familiar, especially the bric-a-brac that thronged every surface. Unsettled, Granville strode to the fireplace and stood looking into the small fire on the grate. Mentally he began to run through the questions he needed to ask.

  Since Scott wouldn’t tell him what he needed to know, he had to find out everything he could of his friend’s actions since his arrival in Vancouver. Starting with his employer. He’d have preferred to meet with Turner at his office downtown, but on learning the man wouldn’t be in that afternoon, he’d decided he couldn’t afford to wait.

  “Mr. Granville?”

  The voice from behind him made Granville turn. Standing in the doorway was a plump man of medium height. He had dark hair, a full beard cropped close to his chin, and a considering expression.

  “Mr. Turner?”

  Now Turner was frowning slightly, his bushy brows almost meeting. “Do I know you?”

  Granville moved forward, hand outstretched. “John Granville. You employ me.” He savored the man’s confused look for a moment, before adding, “Sam Scott is my partner.”

  Angus Turner’s frown deepened.

  “Scott and I guard the silk cars.”

  Turner nodded. “Yes, I know. This is not a place of business. Why are you here?”

  Turner made no move to ask him to sit down, Granville noted, wondering whether it would have made a difference if his card had carried his honorific as well as his name.

  Even as a fourth son, he was the Honorable John Granville. Glancing at the pretentious room, he decided it would have made all the difference, but everything in him balked at trading so blatantly on his family name. “I am sorry to disturb you at home. The matter is of some urgency.”

  “Urgent enough to disturb me here?”

  “Indeed. Scott has been arrested.”

  Turner nodded again. “Yes, so I’ve heard. Under suspicion of murder, I gather?” His nostrils pinched slightly together as he spoke, as if he’d smelled something nasty.

  The man did not seem at all concerned about Scott’s probable fate, or even whether he was guilty. Granville fought to keep his voice level. “That’s correct. I’m investigating the death, working to clear Scott’s name.”

  “Admirable. And?” And why are you bothering me? lay unspoken between them.

  Granville gritted his teeth. “Since you’re Scott’s employer, I’d like to ask you a few questions. If I may.”

  Turner pulled out a heavily engraved gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it. “I suppose I have a few moments. What did you want to ask?”

  “When did Scott join your employ?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “How did you come to hire him?”

  “I advertised the position. He answered the ad.”

  “Did he give references?”

  One corner of Turner’s mouth twitched. “He gave Jackson’s name. And a Mr. Gipson, as I recall.”

  Gipson. That was a name Granville hadn’t expected to hear. He filed the questions it raised away for future consideration. “And did you check those references?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t see that is any of your business.”

  “It is if I don’t want Scott to hang.”

  Turner looked disconcerted, but only for a moment. “Mmph. Very well. Both references were good.”

  “What did Jackson say?”

  “That Scott was reliable. The rest I could see for myself.”

  He was referring to Scott’s size and muscle, of course. Well, Granville had no quarrel with that. “And Gipson?”

  “Said much the same.”

  No help there. “In the three months Scott worked for you, was there ever trouble? Apart from the little matter the other night, that is.”

  “What little matter?”

  “A failed attempt to tamper with one of the silk cars while it stood empty in the station. We intervened and ran them out of town. Surely you heard about it?”

  “No, I did not hear about it,” Turner said, his voice sharp. “Why were the police not called in?”

  “They weren’t very efficient thieves. In the Yukon, idiots like that were given a blue card and run out of town. It seemed to be an effective solution.”

  “As I have told your partner on several occasions, this is not the Yukon. Vancouver has a police force and a justice system. I expect him, and you, to make use of it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, very clear.”

  “Now, if that will be all . . .”

  “I just have one or two more questions about Scott’s references.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “Had you dealt with Jackson before?”

  “No.”

  Some subtle change in the man’s expression prompted Granville to probe further. “Not even in some minor way?”

  “I said ‘no.’” He ostentatiously he consulted the watch he still held. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time for any further questions.”

  Granville watched this performance with interest. “What about Gipson? Had you ever dealt with him?”

  Turner walked to the door and opened it. “Good day, Granville.”

  Deciding further questions would be a waste of time, he inclined his head slightly as he strolled out the door. “Good day, Mr. Turner. Thank you for your time.”

  Three pairs of eyes watched him go. Angus Turner stared after Granville’s departing back. Sally, the maid, peeped at him from the passageway to the kitchen. “He was ever so nice-looking,” she would later tell the cook. And Emily Turner, the youngest daughter of the house, watched him from a nook beside the parlor. She’d sought refuge there when she’d realized her father was about to open the door against which her ear had been pressed.

  When the door had closed behind Granville, Emily allowed a few moments to pass, then bestirred herself. “What was that about, Papa?” she asked, strolling into the room.

  Her father gave a start, turning from the fireplace into which he’d been gazing to give his too-inquisitive youngest daughter a sharp look. “What was what about?” he echoed her.

  “The man who just left.”

  “Merely a business acquaintance.”

  “Oh, does he work for the CPR, too?”

  Past experience had taught Turner to be wary of where Emily’s questions might lead. This one seemed innocent enough, however, so he answered her. “In a way. He was hired by a man I hired.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “No one you know.” But Emily’s determined expression told him it would be simplest just to tell her what she wanted to know. Unlike her two sisters, she was not easily discouraged. “A man named Sam Scott.”

  “Sam Scott. Is he not the man who was recently arrested for murdering a Mr. Jackson?”

  Turner’s face darkened. She’d been reading his paper again. He’d thought he’d put an end to that the last time. “You should not even know about such matters. And I will not encourage your unladylike interest by answering any further questions. Now, go and find your mother.”

  “But, Papa. . . .”
<
br />   “Never mind, young lady. Just do as you are told. For once!”

  There was no arguing with him when he had that look on his face. But the questions the visitor had been asking had made her want to know more. Not for the first time, Emily wished her father wasn’t so incredibly old-fashioned.

  It was nearly a new century. How could Papa expect her to remain in ignorance of the things that were happening in the world? It was her world, too! And a far more interesting one than that of the afternoon teas and society dances she was expected to confine herself to.

  Walking slowly up the stairs, Emily relived the shiver that had gone through her when she’d read about the murder. It hadn’t been excitement so much as a kind of awe that life could be so dangerous outside the safe little circle she occupied. Now the partner of the arrested man, this John Granville, had come to ask questions of her father. Something about Mr. Granville intrigued her, and it wasn’t just his arresting features.

  Emily entered the sewing room on the second floor, where her mother and sisters sat working on their embroidery and chatting. Picking up her embroidery hoop, she let out a small sigh.

  “What is it now, Emily?” her mother asked. “And where did you go?”

  “Nothing. I just had a question to ask Papa.”

  Margaret Turner, a small blond lady as plump as her husband but with rather more brain, gave her daughter a hard look, then resumed her stitching without comment. Emily stabbed her own needle through the fine linen and tried to pay attention to what she was doing.

  Striding away from the Turner residence, Granville was unaware of the extent of the interest he’d stirred up. Oh, he’d seen the glance the maid had given him, but he had no inclination to follow up on it. He needed to talk to Gipson, and soon, except he had no idea where to begin looking for him.

  Blayney had been his only point of contact, and Blayney was dead. Waiting for the electric streetcar to take him back downtown, Granville considered the question. The solution, when it came to him, was glaringly obvious. Gipson would be listed in the new telephone directory that everyone was so proud of.

  And listed he was: George W. Gipson, Private Banker and Broker, with an address in the heart of the business district. A larger ad proclaimed that he specialized in making advances on mining stocks and insurance policies, as well as selling stocks and mortgages.