Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 30

Graham Donohue instinctively pulled his hands back from his chips and clutched his cards to his chest. “I’m busy at the moment.”

“Too bad,” Inspector McKnight said. “I intend to talk to you. We can conduct our business here, if you like.”

The dealer’s eyes opened wide, and he looked at me for instruction.

I gave him a shrug. I had no better idea than he as to what we should do.

“We’re having a serious game here,” a poker player growled. It was the Indian fighter I’d noticed before. Probably not the sort of man who had a healthy respect for Her Majesty’s Officers of the Law.

“Graham,” I said, sensing trouble brewing, “I’m sure it won’t take long to answer Inspector McKnight’s questions. And then your game can continue.”

“You leave this table, pal, game’s over,” the Indian fighter said. He fingered his belt, looking disappointed not to find a six-shooter, or whatever they called it, resting there. Guns were banned from town. The two other players appeared relieved at having their game interrupted. I surmised that they didn’t have promising hands.

“If you don’t come willingly, Donohue,” McKnight said in a low voice, “then I will be forced to place you under arrest.”

Graham tossed his cards at the dealer and gathered up his chips. The Indian fighter growled, deep in his chest.

“If you interfere in this matter,” Sterling said to him, “you’ll find yourself under arrest. Dealer, portion out the remaining chips. This game is over.”

Graham got to his feet with a heavy sigh. The Indian fighter threw his cards on the table. “Don’t know what sort of town you’re running here. I’ll be on the next boat out.” He stuffed his chips into various pockets.

But he didn’t mean “next” in the literal sense: he joined the game at the faro table.

I hurried out the door in pursuit of Graham and the Mounties. The police stood on either side of my friend. Richard Sterling rested a hand on one of Graham’s elbows. The life of the bar swirled all around us. In the dance hall, Betsy’s voice reached a high note, reminding me that I should be in there, watching. Ray was occupied peeling a man up off the floor.

“Do you have a place where we can talk to Mr. Donohue?” McKnight asked. “In private.”

“No,” I said.

“For heaven’s sake, Fiona,” Graham pleaded, “say yes. I want to get this charade over.”

“Very well. You can use my office. Follow me.” I led the way up the stairs. All conversation stopped as every man in the room watched us. And not just those who were hoping to get a peek at my ankles.

I threw the door to the office open, and the three men marched through. I debated leaving, but decided on principle—it was my office—to hang around until they told me to go. I closed the door.

“Sit,” McKnight told Graham. Graham walked around my desk to sit in my chair, facing into the room. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his hands shook as he pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. He avoided looking at me.

McKnight took the visitor’s chair. A match flashed as Sterling lit the lamp on the bookcase before leaning up against the wall.

“It has come to our attention, Mr. Donohue,” Inspector McKnight began, “that you were in a fight with the late Mr. Ireland the day he arrived in town.”

“So?”

“You want to tell me what you had against the fellow?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“If you were under arrest, Mr. Donohue, we wouldn’t be having this conversation on the second floor of a dance hall. I can arrest you if you’d prefer.”

“I met Ireland years ago. I was working at the New York World when they hired him on.”

“Year?”

“Late ’85, early ’86. Around then.”

“Go on.”

“Ireland arrived at the World as if he were cock-of-the-walk, big man around town, instead of the washed-up hasbeen he was even then. He was a right bastard.”

I expected Sterling to reprimand Graham for his language. That he didn’t made me truly understand the seriousness of the situation. What was vile language from someone facing possible murder charges?

“Lots of unpleasant men around,” McKnight said, quite sensibly. “Why’d you dislike this one so much?”

Graham shrugged, trying to appear casual and unconcerned. Which only made matters worse; he looked like a man with something to hide.

Worry touched at the front of my mind. Could he be hiding something?

“Constable,” McKnight said, “take Mr. Donohue to Fort Herchmer. Perhaps he’ll talk to us in the morning.”

“He besmirched the reputation of a gentleman of my acquaintance,” Graham snapped.

“And you’ve carried a grudge for what, almost fifteen years? Seems a bit much. We’ve been told that you had several run-ins with this Ireland since he arrived in town only a couple of days ago. People said you attacked him the moment you first laid eyes on him. Must have been some besmirching, wouldn’t you agree, Constable?”

Sterling grunted. He wasn’t looking any too happy either. He and Donohue weren’t exactly friends, but I’d always believed that they respected each other, perhaps even trusted each other, as much as a police officer and a newspaperman can. The constable glanced at me, then his eyes slid away.

“It was my sister’s husband, my brother-in-law,” Graham said, “who Ireland accused, in print, of knowingly selling faulty rifles in the war.”

“What war would that be?”

“The War Between the States, you fool. What war do you think?”

McKnight didn’t respond to the insult. I suspected he’d deliberately provoked it. “Plenty of wars to choose from. Did he?”

“Did who what?”

“Did your brother-in-law sell faulty rifles? Knowingly?”

“No, he did not.”

Sterling spoke for the first time. “Your sister’s husband must be a good deal older than you. That war ended more than thirty years ago.”

“He was. My sister, named Garnet after our mother, was eighteen years my senior and more of a mother to me than a sister. She raised me after our parents died when I was a baby. She didn’t marry, spent her youth caring for me. She was forty when she met Jeremiah MacIsaac. He was widowed, had grown sons he didn’t care much for, loved her enough not to mind her age. She was happy. They were happy. Until that bastard Ireland ruined it all.”

“Did the newspaper publish the story?” McKnight asked.

“Yes. Jeremiah sued. And won. Ireland had forged some of his documents. The World fired him.”

“So it ended happily.”

Graham leapt up from his seat, knocking the chair to the ground. His dark eyes blazed. “No, it didn’t end happily, Inspector. Some people believe everything they read in the papers. And a good many more don’t care whether it’s true or not. The scandal put an enormous strain on Garnet. Acquaintances cut her dead in the street; friends closed their doors in her face. Naturally, she was delighted when Jeremiah was vindicated, but she was never the same again. The affair broke her heart. She died about a year later.”

I believed him. I’d seen Ireland at work; his story about Helen Saunderson, lies interwoven amongst the truth, would have killed the woman’s reputation if anyone in Dawson were inclined to care about such things.

“Please, Mr. Donohue,” McKnight said, “sit down.” He hadn’t batted an eyelid at Graham’s explosion, just sat in my visitor’s chair as if he were ordering cucumber sandwiches for tea.

Richard Sterling expressed my thoughts. “Sounds like Ireland to me, sir. Fellow hadn’t been here a day before he was stirring up trouble and threatening a lady’s reputation.”

For the first time since we’d entered the room, McKnight glanced behind him.

“Not me,” I said, answering the question in his eyes. “I don’t have a reputation worth threatening. My charwoman, Helen Saunderson.”

McKnight turned back to Donohue. I guessed he’d be talking to Helen next.

“Now that we’ve established that you had a motive for the murder of Jack Ireland…”

“What the hell? Are you trying to frame me?”

“Sit down, Mr. Donohue. I’m not attempting to frame anyone. Her Majesty’s North-West Mounted Police don’t operate in that fashion.” He didn’t bother to mention what police forces he thought did operate in that fashion. “Where were you yesterday in the early afternoon?”

“When?” Graham’s eyes shifted at the question. The colour rose in his neck, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His moustache drooped. He looked down at his hands, folded neatly across my desk. The knuckles were white.

“Sunday between, say, noon and three in the afternoon? Where were you?”

“I, uh, don’t remember.” “You don’t remember? That’s odd. It was only yesterday. I remember perfectly well what I was doing yesterday afternoon, although I might not remember a month from now. What were you doing yesterday at noon, Constable?”

“Me? I was in my bunk writing a letter to my sister.”

“Mrs. MacGillivray? Can you tell us what you were doing yesterday in the early afternoon?”

I didn’t want to. It was none of their business; let McKnight prove his point without involving me. I hesitated. McKnight didn’t bother to turn around to look at me. Graham studied his hands, his expression unreadable. If I said I didn’t remember, then I would be the one looking as if I had something to hide. “I took a stroll through town. I spoke to Mr. Alex McDonald and Miss Belinda Mulroney. Among others. I then…”

“Thank you, Mrs. MacGillivray. That will suffice.”

“Do you want to tell me what you were doing yesterday, Sunday, between noon and three o’clock, Mr. Donohue?”

Graham looked up. His eyes darted around the room. He looked at Richard; he looked at McKnight. But he didn’t look at me. One of the people I’d seen on my Sunday stroll had been Graham Donohue, slipping down a side street as if he wanted to avoid me. I gripped my hands behind my back and said nothing, willing Graham to speak up. He had been out for a walk on a pleasant afternoon. Like half the town, including me. Why wouldn’t he say so?

It was very close to the Savoy that I’d seen him.

“Writing.” He shouted out the word. “I remained at my boarding house, writing my regular dispatches to the paper. All day Sunday. Until about six, when I put down my pen and went in search of my dinner. There. Now I remember.” He looked at me at last. His smile was sickening.

Not one of us believed him.

“Can anyone confirm that? Your landlady, or a fellow border?”

“Nope. No one. When I’m writing, I keep to myself. Don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Did you send a boy to get you food, perhaps?”

“Didn’t see a soul, not all the day long. Not till dinnertime. That’s how I always spend the Lord’s Day.” He looked pleased with himself. If I couldn’t tell by the expression on his face that he was lying, the story was proof enough. He’d told me he got ravenous when writing his newspaper stories and kept a messenger boy occupied most of the day running back and forth to his favourite restaurant, ensuring he was constantly supplied with a stream of hot meals and sandwiches, snacks and coffee.

“Very well, Mr. Donohue. That’s all for now. You can leave.”

They weren’t arresting him? “I would hope so.” Graham got to his feet and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. He stroked his moustache and pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time. “Won’t say I’m sorry the son-of-a-bitch is dead. But if I’d killed him, I’d be bragging about it all over town.”

I opened the door and stepped aside, searching Graham’s handsome face to see if the truth were carved there. He avoided looking at me, which was enough to convince me of his guilt. Graham loved looking at me.

“One more thing, Mr. Donohue.” Graham stopped but didn’t turn around. The tension running across his shoulders and in the hand that rested on the doorknob was almost painful to observe.

“Don’t leave town.” Graham didn’t shut the door behind him. Downstairs, a >man called for a round for everyone. In the dance hall the lively music ended abruptly, and the orchestra picked up a sad, melodious tune. Time for Irene’s big number, the one that always left the men sobbing into their dust-covered shirtsleeves and unwashed handkerchiefs.

“He’s lying,” McKnight said.

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid he is.”

“But men have lots of reasons to lie, Constable. And not all are to do with murder. Find out where he was yesterday.”

“Yes, sir.”

But while we’re here, let’s talk to Walker.”

“Sir?”

“Walker, the bouncer. Go and get him.”

“Yes, sir.”

We listened to the heavy tread of Sterling’s boots on the loose floorboards, followed by the creak of the steps.

“What do you think happened here yesterday, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

“You’re asking me? Why?”

“Because I sense you’re a woman who notices everything that happens around you. You may pretend to be the empty-headed, self-obsessed beauty, but you wouldn’t be here, in Dawson, owner of this establishment, if such were true, now would you?”

I smiled at him. “You never know, Inspector. You seem to think everyone is the possible killer. Why not me?”

“Because you’re much too intelligent to leave a body on your own doorstep, Mrs. MacGillivray. I have not the slightest doubt that had you decided Ireland needed to die, he would be so. This town hangs on the edge of the wilderness. Plenty of ground in which to hide a body, plenty of wildlife to make sure it stays hidden.”

“You flatter me, Inspector.”

“That is not my intention.”

I smiled again and dipped my head, disguising, I hoped, the shiver of fear that passed through me. I hadn’t met many men who didn’t try to flatter me, and few of them meant me any good. If the Inspector decided to investigate my past, I might have to vacate town without delay. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I liked it here. And Angus loved it.

Leaving town in a hurry was almost a habit of mine. When I was ten years old, frightened and confused, I’d left Bestford, the great estate on Skye where I’d been born, in the company of a group of travellers, with nothing to call my own except the clothes my mother had laid out for me that morning, the last morning of her life. At twenty-seven I had departed London ahead of a particularly vengeful Lord of the Realm and his team of hired inquiry agents. But that time I was not alone: I had a diamond and emerald necklace concealed in my petticoats to smooth the way and a seven-year-old child to complicate matters. I sailed to Canada and settled in Toronto under a new name, but four years later I was on the first available train out of Union Station, which happened to be going all the way to Vancouver, with a scented cedar box crammed with jewellery and a son of eleven.

Every time I’m driven out of town, I do at least manage to leave in a better situation than the last time.

We heard Ray complaining all the way up the stairs. “Busiest night of the year so far, got to keep an eye on the lads every minute.” He burst through the door in a whirlwind of tiny Scottish fury. “I’m a busy man, Inspector. Make it fast. Fee. Wondering where you’d gotten to.”

“We can make it as fast as you want, Walker. Please sit down.” McKnight gestured to the chair behind the desk.

Ray sat. His small eyes moved from one of us to the other, wet with suspicion. Sterling took his post against the wall, and I settled back into the door. Interesting that McKnight again took the visitor’s chair, the one facing away from the room, looking out over the street, instead of the much better one behind the desk.

Interesting also that he allowed me to remain in the room.

“As soon as you tell us where you were yesterday in the early afternoon, you can get back to your business.”

Ray’s face almost collapsed in relief. “That’s it? That’s all you want to know?”

“We talked last night. So for now, yes, that’s all I want to know.”

“I got outta bed around ten. Had breakfast at the Regina Café, good food there, and lots of it. Met a man from my hometown, can ye believe it? an’ we spent most of the day walking around town, talking about Glasgow and the old days. Turns out we know a lot o’ the same people. His granny was great friends with me aunt. Small world, isn’t it?”

“This fellow’s name?”

“Johnny Stewart. Nice lad.”

“What time did you and Mr. Stewart part company?”

Ray shrugged. His face was unlined, untroubled; his eyes were clear. He was telling the truth: I would bet my life’s savings on it. Come to think of it, Ray and I were so intertwined in the business, I already had.

“Sometime after five, probably. We went back to the Regina for a wee bit o’ supper around four, ’cause Johnny had to be in bed early. Wanted to have a good night’s kip.”

“We’ll need to speak to Mr. Stewart.”

“He’s gone up to the Creeks. Prospecting. That’s why he needed to get himself to bed early. He was leaving with a bunch of cheechakos this morning, first light. Told him the next time he’s in town, we’d treat him real special at the Savoy, Fee. Maybe even give him a room. That all right with you?”

“Any friend of your grandmother, Ray, is welcome here.”

“My aunt Lenora,” he corrected me.

“Are you saying that this man has gone to Bonanza Creek?” McKnight interrupted.

“Yup,” Ray said, getting to his feet. “Told him he was wasting his time prospecting. More money to be made here in town, I said. But he has his heart set on finding gold and going back to Glasgow a rich man.”

“And once you and Mr. Stewart parted company, where did you go?”

“Back to me room. Where I was when Angus came and fetched me.” The slightest of clouds passed over Ray’s face, and his eyes darted around the room. Once again someone was looking everywhere but at me. “If that’s all, Inspector? It’s a busy night downstairs.”

“We’ll want to talk to Mr. Stewart. Can you describe him?”

Ray shrugged, not particularly concerned. “Bit shorter than me. Skinny. Clean shaven. Lost most of his hair on top.”

“Age?”

“Thirty, thirty-five.” Ray shrugged again.

“That’s all for now, Mr. Walker. Thank you.”

Ray left, still avoiding my eyes.

“I hope you got most of that, Constable. Was the man speaking English? Mrs. MacGillivray, did Walker confess to murder?”

My attention snapped back. “What? Of course not! Oh, you’re making a joke.”

McKnight may have smiled. Beneath that overgrown moustache, it was hard to tell. “My mother came from Paisley. That’s near Glasgow.” He took off his glasses, pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at the lenses.

“I know where Paisley is.”

“Now, your late husband, Mrs. MacGillivray, he must have been a true Scottish lad. Although you’ve got a hint of the Highlands yourself when you get overly emotional.”

I was about to say something—a nice chat about the old country, keep the tone friendly—but at his last comment, I snapped my mouth shut. I have never been overly emotional in my life. And if McKnight could hear Scotland in my voice, he had a very good ear indeed. Next, he’d be reading my mind.

Sterling extinguished the lamp, and we left my office. McKnight placed his glasses back on his nose and chatted merrily about the variety of accents he’d heard in his travels.

I wanted to tell him to shut up: I had things to think about. Instead I slapped on my most gracious dance-hallowner smile and ran my pearls through my fingers.

We stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Find out what Donohue was up to, Constable. No good, I’m thinking,” McKnight said, pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket. “Tomorrow you can head for the Creeks. Locate this Scottish fellow, Stewart. Make sure he backs up what Walker said. Probably not necessary. I’m pretty sure Walker’s story was accurate. That part of it at any rate, the part that covers the time we’re interested in. But something happened once he and Stewart separated that Walker didn’t want to talk about, and I don’t like not having all the answers.

“Mrs. MacGillivray.” He nodded politely, bit down on the end of his cigar, and made his way through the crowd.

Constable Sterling raised one expressive eyebrow.

“And after you’ve finished that,” I said, “you can find out who really killed President Lincoln and in your spare time identify the leaders of the Fenians.”

“All in a day’s work,” he said with a gentle smile.

“You don’t really think…”

“I don’t think anything, Fiona. Mrs. MacGillivray. I’ll dig up the facts and let them think for themselves. Good night.” He touched the brim of his hat.

“Good night, Constable.”