The Man Who Killed (2 page)

Couldn't tell if he was joking or no. I peered about. The street was quiet, suppertime for most. My eyes adjusted. I made out the figure of the stranger as it resolved in low light. He was a small slim man with a spare moustache, nervous-seeming. He wore a bowler, a bowtie, and clutched a furled umbrella though it hadn't rained in a week. Cocking my ears for any footfall I heard metal tapping, and then Jack's voice.

“Brown.”

There Jack was, legs akimbo, hands on his stick planted between the bricks.

“Aye,” said the man.

“No one's very happy with you. My lords and masters least of all. You know to do as you're told.” Spoken calmly, the faintest mocking lilt to his voice.

Brown spluttered to life. “Now look here ye manky bastard, you canna talk to me like that.”

“Your slip's showing.”

“You've no bloody right to speak to me like this way.”

“We own you Brown, and no mistake.”

“You own me? Is that so? I'm an agent of the Crown, ye bloody weskit.”

“Aye, but ye take the King's coin, ye soldier for tha' King.”

“Pah. You canna make me do a Goddamned thing, you Goddamned guttersnipe.”

Here Jack's stick flashed an arc up and Brown went down, clutching at his face, letting out a shriek. Jack pushed him from the alley wall to the ground and onto his back. He put his foot on Brown's chest and placed the tip of his stick near the man's aorta. Anatomy, simple.

“Listen close,” he said. “Chicago bought you and your waistcoat, and you'll do as you're told. Happily. Tonight. In for a penny, in for a fucking pound.”

Jack stepped off Brown and pulled out a wad of banknotes. He peeled off and dropped a flutter of bills over the now silent, cringing form. The little man was frozen, his hands protecting his phiz.

“My advice, Brown? Keep that dirty trap of yours shut, respect your elders in the kirk, and tie your bootlaces.”

This was not an especially encouraging turn of events. My hackles rose and I looked around for an eyewitness. No one. Brown keened in his pain. Ugly. Watch your step, boyo. My mouth spat aluminum-tasting saliva out onto the alley wall.

Jack came to me where I waited at the entry. He took a handkerchief from his sleeve and carefully wiped blood off the shaft of his stick. Done, he dropped the rag on the sidewalk. Was I terribly shocked by what had happened? Life had thus far shown me much worse. Together we went west.

“Let's grab a 'cab,” he said.

St. James opened up at Victoria Square and at the foot of Beaver Hall Hill Jack whistled a motor-taxi over. We climbed in and Jack directed the driver to wheel us to the Derby. He whistled an old-fashioned tune as we rode, “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.”

“Who was he?” I asked.

“A useful useless man,” said Jack. “He's been trying to spit out his hook.”

“Scotch,” I said.

“No kidding.”

“No, here.”

My very last chattel. From its secret place I took out a flask of blood-warmed liquor and offered it to Jack. He took a pull and made a face.

“Christ in heaven. You must be broke.”

“And how. One question.”

“Shoot, lad.”

“What's that, your stick?”

“Ah.”

His eyes lit as he stroked it.

“Shark's spine.”

AT THE RESTAURANT Jack paid the 'cabman and we got out. For a moment I worried about my mien. My suit was starting to shine at knee and elbow. I'd left my overcoat at my digs as a sort of hostage. Quickly I checked my fingernails and brushed my front, then tightened my necktie. To hell with it. Set your hat straight and march on in. Do as Jack does. At the door they straightaway took our toppers and Jack's damned stick. The maître d' led us to a lowlit booth of deep brown leather. We sank in.

“Peckish?” asked Jack.

My salivary glands winced at the aroma of good food.

“Like that Russian's dog,” I said, and let out a strange unbidden laugh.

Jack gave me the once-over.

“Here.”

He offered me his fancy case. I read Rameses II in blue ink on the oval cigaret I removed. Jack lit his own in the heat of a little oil lamp on the table. Convection. He hated wasting a match, I knew. The drinks steward came 'round.

“Claret,” said Jack.

We settled in and smoked and looked at what was offered in the table d'hôte. A waiter minced by.

“Oysters,” Jack said, looking at me. “For starters.”

I shrugged.

“A clear soup, some cucumber, the roast beef with new potatoes, a celery, then the cheese and the rest. Sound good?”

I nodded. Wine soon appeared. The steward poured and Jack raised his glass. I looked through the ruby fluid to the flame.

“Your wealth and hell-being.”

We drank. A cart rolled by bearing a silver salver. I caught my distorted reflection in the metal, dark and sour. Compare and contrast with Jack. He was hale, full of vim and vigour. Jack ran a large hand over his carefully combed red hair. My next question formed itself.

“How'd you find me?”

Smiling, Jack exhaled plumes of smoke out his nose thirls. The answer poured over me like cold water. Only one person on this earth.

“Laura,” I breathed.

Jack raised his eyebrows. The oysters were set down.

“A good thing it was too,” went Jack. “You're off the reservation. Tried the school, Smiler and the rest. Thought you might've skipped town.”

“I'm out.”

“How long?”

“Since the end of last term.”

“Smiler suspected as much,” Jack said. “What's this place you're staying now?”

“Rooming house. What is it Leacock says? ‘All rooming houses are the same rooming house.' He's right, as always.”

“Ran into him on campus as well,” said Jack. “You tell your old man yet?”

“No point.”

“And Laura?”

“Don't ask. Where'd you see her?”

“Dance out at Victoria Hall. Pure chance. She was being squired about by some local likely. Stole her and took her for a spin or two myself.”

This wasn't news I liked the sound of. Jack's manner was bland and still. I knew better than to ask him anything, mostly because I didn't want to know. Ever thus he played the amused monarch, nature's aristocrat. As evidenced by the beaten man he'd left behind, power over others was Jack's meat. Try not to let suspicion eat at you. Say something.

“Doesn't matter now. She won't have a thing to do with me.”

Jack smiled again, but did I detect contempt in his eyes? I toyed with a glass.

“So why'd you stay in town?” he asked. “Hike down to Hogtown or head back home. I would.”

“To face down the Pater? No thank you. Besides, I'm skint. And there's something else.”

“You're hung up on her. I understand. But where in the hell've you been since April? Could have used you before now.”

“It's a fine question and I'll ask you the same.”

“Ah,” Jack said. “There you go.”

A pause while we drank. Funny how quickly we returned to the shorthand of youth, a Pitman's of our upbringing. At length I said: “I went to ground. Her people summer down in New England somewhere so I got a shack at Memphremagog and sweated it out.”

“Did the school push you or did you jump?” asked Jack.

“Both.”

“What was it?

Here I took a drink and lit another of Jack's cigarets. He watched me. My hand remained steady. I breathed out slowly and told some of the truth. I'd been stealing morphine, mostly, from the hospital dispensary. They were never able to nab me outright but had come close. It was that and my grades. In the end I'd held a trump card and between the board of governors and myself was forged an understanding. I'd ducked a censure or quodding, but there'd be no medical degree for myself from McGill, and that was a fact everlasting.

There, I'd said it. It'd been bottled up long enough, and the confession was a relief, in its way. I drank more wine.

“How much did you pocket?” asked Jack after a spell.

“More than enough for me and to sell. You'd be tickled to hear my clientele. A few real hyas muckamucks. Some Chinamen from time to time. When I lost my entree I had to shift gears. It was none for them, then after awhile none for me. I had enough saved up for the shack by the lake. Read my Tacitus and had my fishing rod and thought I'd wait for her to come back in September to try again.”

“She'll never marry you,” Jack said.

“I know.”

To counter the rising bile I swallowed more wine. Rancour. Jack squeezed lemon juice over wet bivalves. It was far better not to speculate on what you cannot control. That woman, the ache of my heart. Instead observe your present surroundings. Looming above were dark heavy beams bisecting white plaster. It was all cod-Tudor and pretense at the Derby, Old Blighty transplanted to the colonies. Best roast beef to be had, however.

“Look at this place,” I said. “Do you know what it reminds me of?”

Jack tipped an oyster into his mouth.

“Remember the Royal Ensign? Seventeen Mile House on the Island?” I asked.

Jack peered about.

“You're right,” he said. “When was that now?”

“Boat race weekend it must have been. Why else would we have gone over? Six, seven years ago. Swiftsure.”

“We had bathtub gin with those two doozies, what were their names...”

“Elizabeth and Rebecca,” I said.

“Then borrowed Billy's Ford and the keys to his pa's cabin.”

“That cabin.
Quel bordel,
” I said.

“They got sick on the booze. You broke the gramophone.”

“You chopped down a totem pole in Sooke Harbour,” I countered.

Jack put his hand to his face in mock shame. “Ye gods.”

“Timber!”

My elbow was on the spread cloth and I let my forearm fall. When my hand hit the tabletop it rattled the oyster shells on the plate. Heads turned: old buffers with mottled faces. I chewed over a bland smile. Seventeen Mile House was far out on the road to Sooke, western Vancouver Island. The shores of the Pacific, our home at the edge of the world. They'd been good times together, years ago now, fresh back from the war.

“Liz and Becky. You burned their knickers in the stove, didn't you? Wonder where they are now,” I said.

“Probably knitting booties,” said Jack.

“Those were the days.”

“And look at us now,” he went.

We were back in the past for just a moment, until the soup came. We spooned it up. More wine. At last the meat arrived, good and rare and red. Spuds, celery as requested, squab and cress. Warmth coursed through me. A plate cleaned in steady, animal hunger, at last I leaned back, replete, and listened to other diners chewing. Heavy sterling fork tines squeaked on china. Gustatory grunts, a cork popping, a woman's laughter, the human hum of conversation and pleasure eased by money. Dark-suited men and gowned ladies gestured as waiters passed to and fro. Jack pushed his plate away and lit another cigaret. He demanded coffee of a flunky. As an aside to me he said: “Pass me your flask when it comes. For the
trou normand.
Bloody law, wine but no spirits.”

“Break it then,” I said.

Jack shot me a look.

“Knew that you were my man. If only you'd been around for the election last spring. That would've been something.”

“So what is it now?”

“Guess.”

“You said Chicago.”

“You heard right.”

“And Brown, who's he when he's at home?” I asked.

“Brown is a wee man who needed the fear of God put back in him. He's the worst kind of Caledonian, stubborn as a mule, but amenable to our ends.”

“And those are?”

“I'll respect your intelligence and assume you've figured it out.”

“Booze.”

“On the money.”

“The monkey at the quay,” I said.

Jack laid out the rudiments. Rich wets down south don't like to drink piss. Leave the furniture polish for the punters. They wanted the real McCoy. The good stuff was supercargo shipped straight out of Glasgow or Liverpool as ballast or coal or what-have-you into Montreal, port of call. The monkey took care of the crew when they made land, and Jack indemnified the harbourmaster when the ship came in, as it did today. Brown was paid to look away and not make a peep.

“He's Customs?” I asked.

“Correct. We've exploited his vice, but a little reminder is always in order for that type. He's a weakling and a physical coward. In any event, tonight's the night, hence your presence.”