The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries) Read online

  Granville particularly liked the “advances” on mining stock. It was the perfect setup for a con man. It would be enlightening to know exactly which mines Gipson had an interest in, and whether they even existed. Whatever Gipson was up to, Granville didn’t believe the man had the moral fiber to have turned respectable, not unless it was part of an elaborate confidence game he was perpetrating.

  N I N E

  Twenty minutes later, Granville was seated on one side of a vast expanse of mahogany, staring at this latest incarnation of his former antagonist. Who would have thought the old weasel would clean up so well? Dressed in a nicely-cut suit, with his hair and beard clean and neatly trimmed, Gipson certainly looked businesslike, even distinguished. His fourth-floor office was opulent, with thick rugs, carved furniture, somber landscape paintings, and a corner window looking out to the harbor.

  It was an impressive facade, and as far removed from the mud and sweat of the goldfields as it was possible to get. The only incongruous note was a large lump of quartz shot through with glitter sitting on the Gipson’s desk. Granville’s experienced eye recognized it immediately as iron pyrite. Fool’s gold. The corner of his mouth twitched. How apt.

  “And what can I do for you today, sir?”

  Even his voice was mellow, the vowels round and full. For the first time, Granville wondered about Gipson’s background, the years before he’d washed up in the Yukon broke and bitter. Whatever he seemed to be now, under all those fine clothes was a twisted soul.

  Gipson obviously hadn’t recognized him; he’d be calling him something much less polite than “sir” if he had. Wordlessly, Granville handed over his card, watching closely as he read it and looked up, his eyes narrowed. “Granville, is it? And why are you here to see me?”

  Now Granville recognized the Gipson he’d known in Dawson City, the man who’d tried to steal another man’s claim, then poisoned and nearly killed him when that failed. Gipson had loudly proclaimed the poisoning to be accidental and the Mounties had been unable to prove otherwise. But no one had believed him innocent.

  “Sam Scott, my partner, has been arrested for the murder of Clive Jackson. I intend to prove him innocent. I hoped you would be willing to answer a few questions.”

  Gipson’s expression didn’t change. “Why come to me?” He was keeping up the pretense of no shared history.

  This was the hard part. Granville had considered what approach to take and decided on honesty. No matter what he said, the man sitting in front of him would be expect him to have a hidden motive and by sticking to the facts he’d at the very least keep his story straight. “Scott gave your name as a reference when he applied to the CPR.”

  Gipson gave him a smile that would have looked well on an adder. “What are your questions?”

  “Why did he give your name as a reference?”

  “Because he didn’t know anyone else in town. And because he’d done some work for me.”

  Scott, working for Gipson? Granville couldn’t picture his partner, the man he’d thought he knew so well, working for this fraud. “When was that?”

  “Nearly four months ago. When he first hit town.”

  Granville had known Scott was broke when he left Dawson City—they both were—but he hadn’t known his partner was desperate. In fact, he would have sworn he wasn’t, so what had changed when he got to Vancouver? Would it have had something to do with his sister? “How long did he work for you?”

  Gipson chuckled. “Well, now, I didn’t say Scott worked for me. I said he’d done some work for me.”

  “What sort?”

  “Loading shipments, shifting the supplies in my warehouse, that kind of thing. I hired him when I needed heavy loads shifted.”

  Gipson had never been subtle, Granville reflected. This new version of Gipson had just made clear his low opinion of Scott, and his expression said that opinion extended to Scott’s partner. Granville decided to see if he could shake that smooth facade. “Yes, I’ve seen your warehouse.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Now that was interesting. How had Gipson known Blayney had discovered him at the warehouse, unless Blayney had told him? And Blayney had been murdered later that same night.

  “Anything that happens in this town that concerns me, I know about,” Gipson was quick to add.

  “Like Blayney’s murder?”

  “Yes, poor fellow.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Blayney? Day before yesterday.”

  Then how did you know I was in your warehouse? Granville thought. “Do you know how he died?”

  “I know someone slit his throat, but not why, if that is what you’re asking. I also know that the perpetrator will be caught, and hanged.” He paused. “And I know that the police were very interested in talking to you,” he added, eyes watchful. “Yet here you sit, free.”

  Granville nearly grinned. Chief McKenzie had been unimpressed to learn that Granville had an alibi in the form of Trent, but he’d had to let him go. Not without warning him not to leave town, however. Granville hadn’t wanted to involve the kid, but when Scott still wouldn’t tell him what was going on, he couldn’t afford to waste any more time cooling his heels in jail. “They wanted to ask me a few questions,” he said.

  “Hmmm.”

  Time was running short, and Gipson still hadn’t told him anything useful. He needed answers. “How long did Scott work for you?”

  Gipson gave a half shrug. “Two weeks? Three? I can’t recall exactly.”

  Which would put it around late September, and Scott hadn’t been hired by Turner until October. “Why did he stop working for you?”

  “He was no longer interested in the wages I was prepared to pay.”

  Or he couldn’t stand being on your payroll any longer, Granville thought. “Did you know Jackson?”

  “I knew who he was, of course.”

  “And who do you think killed him?”

  “Well, I know Scott hated Jackson, and I gather they had words last week, though I don’t know what the problem might have been.”

  And you wouldn’t tell me even if you did know, Granville thought, raising one eyebrow. “Well, I expect that explains why Scott was arrested.”

  “I’m afraid so. And the only one who knows the full story is your partner. You did say you were still partners?”

  Now the old weasel was pretending to look compassionate, and there was no way Granville was going to stand for that. “That’s right. We’d just formed our partnership, but it’s a new one. We’re opening our own detective agency.” He had no idea where the words came from, but he needed something that would wipe that phony look off Gipson’s face.

  It worked, too.

  “A detective agency? Well, now, that is interesting.”

  “We think so.”

  “A little difficult to start a business, though, wouldn’t you say, with your partner slated to hang for murder?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. When I trap the killer and clear Scott’s name, it will be a perfect advertisement for our new business, particularly when I expose Blayney’s killer at the same time.”

  Let’s see what he makes of that, Granville thought. But for once Gipson was speechless, which gave Granville a deep sense of satisfaction, the first he’d felt since Scott’s arrest.

  Granville stepped outside the brick-and-plaster block that held Gipson’s office and looked around him. Christmas lights blinked red and green in the display windows of the Hudson’s Bay store across the street. With worrying about Scott, he had forgotten it was nearly Christmas. He considered the oblivious faces hurrying by, none of whom seemed to be in a festive mood, any more than he was, then shrugged. Unless he could get Scott free, he wouldn’t be doing much celebrating.

  The temperature had risen several degrees but it was misting slightly. Granville turned up his collar against the damp, and settled his hat a little lower on his forehead. Now what? Why would his partner have accepted a position with Gipson?
Scott said he’d needed money badly enough to have borrowed from Jackson. Granville wasn’t sure he believed that story, but there were too many facts he didn’t have yet, such as why Scott had needed the money, and why he’d hated Jackson so much. He wasn’t going to get any answers from Scott, nor from Frances, so where did that leave him?

  Paying a call on Benton, that was where. It wasn’t enough to uncover the problem between Scott and Jackson; Granville had to find Jackson’s killer, and after a day and a half of asking questions, he still knew virtually nothing about Jackson. He knew little more about Scott’s relationship with the dead man. Perhaps the spider at the center of the web could be persuaded to tell him more.

  He had no trouble getting in to see Benton, which increased his conviction that Benton held some of the answers to this tangle. Benton’s office could not have been more different from Gipson’s. Located in one of the busy lumber warehouses on Alexander, it was on the second floor, up a flight of wide wooden steps. On the main floor, the air smelled of freshly cut pine and cedar and echoed with the shouts of the men unloading lumber, but the office itself was oddly quiet, thick walls shutting out most of the noise from below.

  The man himself was a surprise. Robert Benton was short, barely reaching Granville’s shoulder, and sturdily built, with solid muscle evident in his shoulders and the thickness of his neck. Clad in a dapper black suit with a black bow tie, he had a strong handshake and an engaging smile. Granville found himself smiling back without intending to do so.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here about the death of Clive Jackson.”

  “Oh? I know most of the local police constables. You aren’t one of them.”

  Granville could tell Benton was toying with him and prepared to enjoy it. He decided to play the game. “You’re correct.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “My partner and I have been retained to look into the matter. We’re private detectives.” The fictional business he’d concocted for Gipson might just prove useful, Granville thought.

  “Ah, I see. But I’m not familiar with your name, Mr. Granville.”

  “We’re new in town.”

  Benton gave him a sharp look, then nodded. “What d’you want to know?”

  “When did you last see Jackson?”

  “Mmmm. Let’s see.” Benton reached across his desk and pulled out a leather-bound book. Flipping through it, he paused on one page, then turned several more. “Ah yes. That would be on the Tuesday, the fifth.”

  Granville strained to read what was on the page, but Benton was holding it so that he couldn’t. “What time?”

  Again the sharp look. “Jackson was killed the next morning, wasn’t he?”

  “Or later that night.”

  “Whatever. He was here that afternoon, at four.”

  “And did Jackson have any enemies?”

  Benton’s eyes gleamed. “Did Jackson have enemies? Ah, now there’s a question.”

  Granville crossed one booted leg over the other. He waited.

  Benton watched him for a moment. “Putting it bluntly, he was a bully. I found that useful in an employee, for reasons I’m sure you can imagine, but he made enemies. In fact, Clive Jackson had more natural ability to make enemies than any man I’ve ever met.”

  “Any of them want him dead?”

  “Oh, yes. Most of them, in fact.”

  “Then perhaps the question should be, why did he live so long?”

  Benton smiled. “Fear of repercussions. Jackson was my man, you see.”

  Granville revised his initial view of the man: it took someone very sure of his own power to be so honest. Benton was more dangerous than he’d first thought, a puma to Gipson’s weasel. “And now your man is dead. What are you doing about it?”

  “It’ll be handled, never fear.”

  Watching the way Benton’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, Granville was sure of it. “And what of the man who has been arrested?”

  “Scott? He’s not my business.”

  Granville pounced on the information Benton had just given him, intentionally or not. “Then you know Scott is innocent of killing Jackson.”

  The corners of Benton’s mouth quirked upwards. “I didn’t say that. That’s a matter for the police.”

  “But whoever killed Jackson is your business.”

  “Oh, yes. I can’t allow someone to go around killing my people. It’d send the wrong message.”

  Granville felt a surge of relief, and in that moment, he realized he hadn’t been entirely sure Scott hadn’t killed Jackson. “Proving Scott innocent is my business.”

  Benton raised an eyebrow.

  “Perhaps you can tell me about the relationship between Jackson and Scott.”

  “As far as I know, they didn’t have one.”

  “I heard they had a public quarrel not long before Jackson was murdered.”

  “That I didn’t know.”

  Granville didn’t believe him. The man had too much information not to know about the quarrel. “And Scott’s sister?”

  Benton’s expression didn’t change. “The lovely Frances? She isn’t involved in this.”

  “Her brother is charged with murder and she isn’t involved? Come now, you can’t expect me to believe that.”

  “She isn’t involved.”

  Benton’s face had hardened and his tone was flat. He was showing more emotion than he had since the conversation began, and it was over Scott’s sister. Time to push a little. “But she did know Jackson, didn’t she?”

  “Only as my employee.”

  “Funny. She said she introduced Scott to Jackson.”

  Benton’s eyes turned flinty. “Maybe she did, but I wish to keep her out of this. You understand, I’m sure.”

  It was not a question, but Granville couldn’t leave it alone, not now, when Benton finally had lost his detached air. “She’s involved as long as her brother is in jail. Perhaps if you told me who killed Jackson, I could get Scott out of jail. Then she’d be involved no longer.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “And if I cannot do that?”

  “Then you’ll be buying yourself a lot of trouble. That would be stupid, and I don’t think you’re a stupid man.”

  “Stupid or not, I do have a job to do.”

  “Find some other way to get Scott out of jail. With a one-armed jailer guarding him, how hard could that be?”

  “I prefer to work within the law.” Unless I have no other choice, Granville added to himself.

  “Noble of you. Foolish, but noble.”

  “If Jackson’s killer is a dead man anyway, why not just tell me who he is?”

  “I think this meeting has reached its end,” Benton said, standing. He extended his hand. “It’s been very interesting meeting you, Mr. Granville. I have a feeling you’re going to contribute to our little town, and I’ll watch you do so with some interest. A word of caution, though—it’s easy to get ahead of yourself here. See that you don’t.”

  It was raining again when he left Benton’s warehouse. The streets were nearly empty, with only the occasional wagon lurching past. Granville barely noticed. The interminable Yukon winter had increased his tolerance for short days and long evenings, and his mind was focused on the puzzle Benton had presented.

  The strange thing was, he had actually liked the man, threats and all. There was no question Benton was dangerous, or that he would have him killed without a second thought, but Benton was also intelligent and he’d been honest. Both were qualities that Granville valued, but found all too rarely in his fellow man.

  Why had Benton refused to name the killer? He’d been open enough that he intended to deal with him, so what would Benton have to lose in disclosing his name? Assuming he actually knew it, that is. Could it have been an elaborate bluff, designed to dead-end Granville’s investigat
ion?

  That question occupied Granville’s thoughts so thoroughly he nearly missed the whistling sound. Only reflexes developed through endless hours in London’s boxing saloons enabled him to duck in time, the blow narrowly missed his head. He spun to face his two assailants just as the second slashed at him with a knife. The blow caught him in the upper arm, and he felt it burn, then a gush of warm blood. Ignoring the blossom of pain, he kicked the knife-wielder in the crotch, then ducked another blow from the cudgel.

  From the cold numbness of his arm, Granville knew he was losing blood; he needed to end this fight. The slighter of the two assailants was still doubled over, but the bigger man was winding up for another blow and Granville’s own knife would be useless against that cudgel.

  He scanned the area. They stood at the entrance to an alley, piled high with old crates and empty barrels. If the first assailant was as slow as he seemed, it might be enough.

  Granville grabbed for a crate, yanked it free, and flung it in the direction of the cudgel. Then he leaped clear, while with a groan and a rattle, half a dozen barrels tumbled free, each one hitting its mark. With one hand clutching his bleeding arm and a satisfied expression on his face, Granville set a fast pace toward a better-lit section of town. Experience told him the cut wasn’t too serious, but thugs too often have buddies.

  Alert for any sound from behind, he thought about his assailants. He’d never seen the one with the knife before, but the other was one of the bookends from the warehouse the previous night. So Gipson had sent them.

  Granville smiled a grim little smile. If Gipson had thought Granville was a threat before, he was in for a shock. “I’ll see him hang this time,” Granville vowed to the empty street.

  Under the dim streetlights on Cordova, the three- and four-story brick buildings lining the street looked shadowy and menacing. His hotel loomed ahead. Most of the rooms were dark and shuttered, though the bar on the far corner was still open, judging by the lights spilling out.