Prologue and Chapters 1 through 4

No man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.

Abraham Lincoln

God has given you one face and you make yourself another.

William Shakespeare

Istanbul

Prologue

May 13, 1942. Istanbul. A day when the promise of warmth called lovers to stroll along the Bosphorus and the threat of war seemed a distant threat on a compass. A day like any other in a city spanning two continents, east and west, the rational staring warily at the mystical; a day of warmed blossoms upon the air; the hint of yellow and purple blooms on bougainvillea; tulips basking in the their reds, blues and orange and crocuses standing tall in colors too numerous to count. In the casbah, conversations under the sun with a hint of optimism and even the old and grizzled sellers seemed happier, if not for the warmth, then at least for a greater number of shoppers, buoyed by the promise of a fine day. 

But the foreign agents, the saboteurs and Nazi collaborators, American spies—what have you, these people took no notice of the sun beating down upon them. For them, just another day of tailing each other, or traitors, or whomever might be selling information. And on this particular morning, a pair of German operatives moved through the market stalls, tailing their subject, an American. 

The American wore the traditional clothing of the peasant class. He was nearly impossible to miss, so magnificently festooned in his red fez and blue yelek—the ubiquitous waistcoat worn by all Turkish men. Almost a caricature bordering on the humorous, if the circumstances weren’t so dire. Even though he had darkened his face and hands with dyes he was unmistakably European. One cannot alter their ancestry as successfully as their garb. He weaved his way around crates of oranges and dates, rabbits skinned and hanging (their malodorous fug wafting over his way), bolts of fabric, pots of hammered copper and turned into an alleyway, looking over his shoulder. Had he lost them? He was clever, this one, or so he thought but, unfortunately for him, the Germans were aware of his intended destination. He returned to the casbah by another alley and eventually found himself outside the tavern, the meeting place where he sold his country for a few dollars. The Germans tailing him had arrived earlier and had taken up their position in an abandoned store, across the street.

A light mist with a hint of salt air drifted across the bare concrete plaza, leaving a shimmer on the wicker chairs sitting empty outside. Beside the chairs stood a lone fig tree, starved of light, its new leaves paled by shade. From the balcony, a view of Galata Tower, grey against the steel blue of the Marmara Sea. Rays of late light spilled over the rough-hewn stone floor and bathed whatever it touched with an iridescent orange glow. Inside the tavern, a ceiling fan slowly turning, shrouded in smoke, the repeating thud of a loose blade unnoticed by the local patrons. A few men talked loudly at the bar and a young man sitting next to them was staring into his glass, seeing nothing. And in the corner, the American hid among the shadows, between shafts of light piercing the opium-laced air. To the locals he was yabanci—an outsider and as obvious as a fox in a hen house. He reached for the hookah and inhaled the sweetness. Smoke drifted above his head and the hashish further dulled his senses. Then came a belly dancer weaving a seductive trail around him, leaving him aroused. He crawled over to the dancer, wanting a taste of her body.

Outside a magnificent black Grosser Mercedes pulled to the curb. A tall man dressed in a black suit (in need of ironing) unfolded himself from the back seat. He wiped the sweat from his face, then put his hat on. As to his identity, if the jackboots weren’t sufficient, the swastika’s fluttering on the Grosser Mercedes’s bumper was. He was met by his two agents from across the street. After a brief conversation and sufficiently assured his contact was alone, he pushed open the door to the bar. 

The man in black squinted, adjusting to the dim light of the room. No one took notice of him: just another yabanci like the fool in the corner. He spotted his contact and shook his head. Not only was he dressed in a way that advertised his stupidity but now he calling attention to himself as he tried to grope the dancer. The German skipped any pleasantries to be had—he loathed Neufeld. In fact, the Gestapo officer’s dislike of his spy increased with each meeting. If it weren’t for the intelligence provided, he would’ve dumped his body in the Bosphorus long ago. 

“There are five hundred American dollars taped to the underside of the table. What do you have in exchange?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The man laughed. “Always the belligerent one, Major General.”

The waiter brought the tea and set it on the table. The man took a long, slow sip. 

Neufeld removed a small canister from his robe. 

“You have the entire set of blueprints?”

Neufeld nodded, focused on the belly dancer. She knelt in front of him, teasing. He reached for her breast but she pulled away, laughing. 

The officer stood to leave. To him, Neufeld was a pathetic waste of a man. If this was America’s finest, Germany would win this war without a doubt.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Part one

December 1- 4, 1943

Whitehorse & Blue River • Yukon

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Chapter 1

Whitehorse, Yukon. December 1, 1943. Twenty-four days to Christmas, the season of celestial glad tidings and good news. But in 1943, good news was in short supply—the airwaves and newsprint seemed to also be subject to rationing. In fact, there had been very little ‘good news’ for the past three years. The war in Europe raged on; Germany refused to surrender. What people needed was a greater hope than rumors of Germany standing on the brink of defeat. 

This season of Christmas should have been salve for the soul, but for Inspector Karl Schubert, RCM Police, there was little to celebrate, either divine or mundane. The transfer from Toronto to the frontier outpost of Whitehorse hadn’t gone well. During his first summer, a plague of black flies and mosquitoes tested his patience and his sanity. For one short month in autumn, the black flies and mosquitoes died and he was able to enjoy the daily walk to work. But come November and the onset of winter, it felt as if the plague of insects had simply been replaced by mountains of snow and bone-crushing cold. He quickly deduced there weren’t enough words in the English language to adequately describe the cold that emerged during December: it was paralytic, like going on a bender one might never wake up from.

But on this night, Schubert stood on the porch, his face pointed to the sky. He tapped the thermometer: it held steady at twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Perhaps a rise in temperature would ease his mind, maybe create a thaw in his relationship with his wife, Louise. Autumn had been beguiling, like the slow caress of a lover you hoped would never leave. Those were good days with Louise, at least when they were in-doors. Winter, on the other hand, was this new love telling you the honeymoon was over. And Louise hated the winter, the darkness, the never-ending cold.

His thoughts were filled with dread, like a prophecy of a coming disaster. A shiver coursed though him. He thought (disingenuously) it was because he stood outside, but he knew what it was: a premonition. He struck a match on the porch rail and relit his pipe. The cloud of black Cavendish rose lazily around him. His breath pooled above, a shroud for his thoughts: he was 3500 miles from where he wanted to be: back in Toronto. No sense dreaming, he told himself. Finally, the cold coaxed him indoors. Further introspection could be better entertained sitting next to the wood stove. 

The cast iron stove burned hot and steady and pulled him in with a wave of warmth. His single malt (a daily ritual ) sat at the ready on the coffee table. It was one luxury he allowed himself because in Whitehorse there were no other luxuries to be had. Louise reclined beside the stove, bundled in a down quilt, the Globe and Mail spread around her. She appeared to him like a general surveying battle plans.

“Any news of late?” he enquired. He already knew there was none: the paper had arrived a week late and was by now, a week old. 

Louise glanced his way. “Glenn Miller is still missing and the Yanks are having a rough time in the Ardennes.”

Music and warfare—my two irreconcilable forces conjoined, he thought. 

“Which concerts have we missed this season?” he asked, attempting a conversational detente.

Louise ignored him. “I’m off to bed. Coming?” she said, avoiding the chance for a reply. 

They both knew it to be rhetorical, something to fill idle air. Instead, he slowly sipped his drink, savouring the malt. 

His thoughts took him back to London, England, to those heady days when he earned his living by singing. He’d been preparing a concert of Handelian opera arias. After one particularly grueling rehearsal he stepped out to get a coffee down the street from the Royal Albert Hall and that was where he first saw Louise. She was traveling through Europe, apparently not her first time, either. She was nearly five-foot ten; straight jet-black hair cascaded around her shoulders; a small gap between her front teeth tipped the scales from stunning to absolutely gorgeous. Her lips were full and red and the few freckles that refused to depart her dark, tanned complexion completed her look of mischief and beauty. She was “Barbara Allen” and he would have died for her, right then and there.

Louise’s footsteps echoed through their small house, receding in volume and tempo.  Just like our love for each other, he thought. He set the pipe down on the coffee table, next to the malt, cursing his stupidity. O wüßt ich doch den Weg zurück, he thought, Johannes Brahms’ song coming to the fore. How do I find my way home when I don’t know how I got lost? 

A book of Schumann Lieder caught his eye. He thumbed through the octavo, more a formality since he already knew which piece he wanted to play: the first song from Liederkreis, titled Aus der Fremde. In a Foreign Land. The book was like an old friend, well-worn with markings from his university days and coaching sessions; comments from various teachers filled the margins. 

“Aus der Heimat hinter den Blitzen rot. . .” 

He began to sing. Their house was small and his voice easily filled the room, probably spilling out onto the street. The neighbors disapproved of his singing German art songs but he wasn’t about to stop. Singing had once been Schubert’s life-blood, as necessary for survival as air itself. That is, before war and disease silenced it.

“From my home, behind the red flashes of lightening come the clouds but mother and father are long dead and I am forgotten,” he sang. 

The low undulating arpeggios threatened to bury him. He wanted to hammer the keys, maybe bash them with his  fists. 

“How soon, yes how soon comes the quiet time when I shall rest. Above me the beautiful, still forest rustles, and no one knows me here anymore.”

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie into melancholia. Schubert hesitated, the spell, broken. Through the window, he recognized one of his officers, Bart Peters. Peters also disapproved of Schubert’s choice of music and on more than one occasion had suggested he start singing English songs, if he had to sing loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. 

“Evening Peters,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his shirtsleeve. “Please, come inside.” 

Bartholomew Peters, aside from being Schubert’s finest constable, was the closest person he could call a friend.

Peters nodded. “Thanks,” he said, noting the red-rimmed eyes. He wiped his boots on the mat while Schubert hung his coat in the hallway.

“Whisky?” Schubert offered, trying to sound casual after Schumann had dredged up the anger. Peters sensed other emotions emanating from his boss. 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” He removed his beaver pelt hat and gloves. “By the way, I could hear you half a block away,” he called out from the front entrance.

“Free concert for the community,” Schubert said, pouring drinks in the kitchen. “And bloody cold out there, too,” he added. 

Schubert returned from the kitchen, glasses in hand. “Not cut glass or crystal, I’m afraid.”

“Not bad,” Peters replied evenly.

“What? The glasses?” 

“No, the cold. Winter has yet to show its face.” 

Peters enjoyed the status of a what the locals called a “sourdough,” someone born and raised in the North. 

“Lovely,” Schubert replied, unable to disguise his sarcasm. “That wasn’t what I had hoped to hear.” 

Peters raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Schubert drank and waited for the Aberlor to fill him with warmth, albeit temporarily. 

“Care to sit down?” he gestured towards the living room. “I gather this isn’t a social call, although you know you’re always welcome.”

Peters sat in Louise’s chair. The piano stood front and centre, demanding attention.  It must have been seven feet long—it took up nearly half the space. He began appraising the bookshelves and volumes within. Most of the chosen authors were German, either musicians or poets. While he was fluent in the language, he had neither heard of nor read any of the authors in his boss’s library.

“Bad news, sir,” he said, his curiosity satisfied. 

“Yes?” Schubert placed his glass on the sideboard. A volume of Strauss caught his eye. “I guessed as much.” And then, “Are we still on for dinner day after tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid that will have to wait. I received a call from Blue River on the shortwave, about a half-hour ago. There’s been a murder, a stabbing at one of the hotels. Happened earlier today. Open and shut case, I would think, what with all the witnesses.”

“Yes, and this concerns us how?” He hoped no American servicemen were involved. The required paperwork would bury him for a week or more. The only benefit would be a trip by air to Vancouver and civilization.

“Their senior Constable is unavailable. Apparently he’s in the bush tracking some felon. Vancouver sent orders: you’re to take the next DC-3,” Peters glanced at his watch, “which leaves in about an hour, as luck would have it. It’s a freight run.”

“For God’s sake, Peters, is there no one in Blue River capable of processing a murder charge?” Leaving Louise alone during these dark days did not bode well.

Peters ignored the rhetorical question and finished his drink. 

“I’ll return to pick you up in forty-five minutes. I’ll see myself out.”

Schubert’s anger towards another detachment’s staff-shortage faded, replaced by what he knew would be another argument with Louise. His departure, even for a few days, would increase her sense of isolation. It was the lack of daylight that affected her the most—the snow didn’t seem to be the problem. Toronto often had more snow than Whitehorse but she no longer hid her displeasure with their current posting. This damn war, this damn town, he thought, pouring another glass. He felt his wife slipping slowly away from him. It seemed as inevitable as the coming of spring, but in his case, her departure would probably arrive much sooner.

Chapter 2

The DC-3 landed without incident, so smoothly that Schubert was unable to discern when the wheels actually touched down. It was a remarkable feat, considering the wind and heavy snowfall. He thought back to his time in MI5. Flying across the English Channel on a few of his classified sorties had hardly inured him to it. Flak, he remembered, had a way of instilling faith that the thin aluminum separating one from death would hold. He preferred to remain on earth when he traveled: trains and ships, he reckoned, provided ample time for reflection. And he was going to need plenty of both in the coming days. Processing a murder was never a simple task, as Peters intimated. Death created a tangle of webs one could never foresee. He doubted he would return home anytime soon.

Schubert entered the “Arrivals” hut and was immediately approached by a fellow officer. ‘Constable J. Johnson,’ Schubert read on the man’s jacket. 

Johnson was unlike Peters in almost every way. His beard was dark copper and thick and his hair as black as coal. He stood tall, with broad shoulders. Unlike Peter’s tenor, Johnson had a rich bass voice, very pleasing to the ear, Schubert thought.

“Any luggage, sir?” 

“No, just what I’m carrying.”

Johnson led the way to the exit and opened the door. 

“Pleasant flight, sir?”

A blast of cold air knocked the wind from Schubert’s lungs. 

“Uneventful,” he replied.

“Hmm,” Johnson grunted, “unlike our day here.” He pushed through the door, not missing a beat. “The dead man at the Dawson Hotel—prospector by the name of Henry Rempel.” 

The pinch of cold held its grip on Schubert’s face. 

“Routine investigation or so I was told? I believe you have the suspect in custody?” 

Johnson heard the optimism in Schubert’s voice. 

“Yes, he’s locked up. No reason you shouldn’t be home by tomorrow,” he replied, knowing full well that wouldn’t be the case.

Hotel Dawson was as plain and functional as its name, Schubert observed, entering the lobby. The hardwood floor was in dire need of oiling—the amount of dirt tracked in had worn it off. A frayed chair for two, its upholstery in tatters, told of better times and the bar, Schubert quickly noted, contained no single malt of any particular quality. Stale cigarette and cigar smoke lingered in the air. As far as he could tell, the hotel lacked anything distinctive of personality, except for a corpse lying in a pool of blood.

Johnson led Schubert through to the men’s toilet, where the corpse lay. Schubert fought the urge to vomit: blood had pooled under the body, but the walls were covered in splatter. The man’s face was slack and pale, his lips parted as if he wished to speak, but the words had been lost to violence and a slow expulsion of breath. A large, jagged gash resembling a macabre smile graced his throat.

“Rempel’s in possession of a British Columbia driver’s license. Date of birth is December 1900,” Johnson said.

“Anything else? Do we know his place of birth?” 

Schubert closed the dead man’s eyes, wishing rest for his soul, knowing that his final glimpse was the face of his killer.

“We found his immigration papers upstairs, in his room. Place of birth is Omsk, Ukraine and arrival to Canada is dated 1924.” Johnson paused. “Communist, sir?”

Schubert ignored the question. “Seems a bit hasty to make that judgement. What about the car?”

“Sir?” Johnson queried. 

“If the man has a driver’s license, did he have an automobile nearby?” 

“No keys in his pocket or his room but we did find a set on the killer. They match the Cadillac out back.”

Schubert gave a low whistle. “A Cadillac. He must’ve had it shipped by train.” 

The Alaska Highway, was a highway in name only, and barely navigable by half-tracks and transport trucks.

“As to your question regarding this man’s politics, I don’t believe he was a communist, most likely a Mennonite refugee from one of Stalin’s pogroms.”

Johnson seemed genuinely surprised by Schubert’s reply. 

“And you would know this how, sir?”

“It’s part of my family history. My mother is or rather was, a Mennonite. And second, we have a Conscientious Objector camp in Whitehorse.”

“Conscientious Objector? I’ve never heard of them. What are they?”

“Not ‘what’ but ‘who.’ Mennonites are ethnic Dutch or German—Prussian if we want to split hairs—religious refugees whose diaspora began in the eighteenth-century from northern Germany through Russia, Ukraine and after the October Revolution, to North America, Mexico, China, anyplace really, that would take them.” He paused. “Rempel is a typical name found among these people.”

These people. Johnson noticed a subtle change in Schubert’s tone.

Schubert opened Rempel’s shirt. 

“I’m no doctor, but this looks like he was stabbed in the heart. Probably sliced clean through it. Henry might’ve been dead before he hit the ground.”

“The blood pool under the body would confirm that.” Johnson said. “But splatter on the wall? God, the killer sliced Rempel’s throat, too. 

“That doesn’t fit the pattern of robbery or even a disagreement ending badly,” Schubert said.

“Agreed,” Johnson replied. “Why cut the throat when the heart is already pierced?”

Schubert ignored the question.

“We have one sick bastard out there.”

“We can rule out a trapper or miner.”

“How so?” Schubert asked, observing the streaks on the walls.

“I’ve had military training. Slicing a man’s throat requires commitment. It’s personal; there’s almost always a struggle. You’ve got to cut through a lot of gristle, wind pipe, what have you, not to mention the blood splatter. It’s no easy task. You have to be damned strong and coordinated. WWI veteran, maybe?”

Schubert was well aware of the strength and skill needed to end a man’s life. He’d seen it overseas before becoming a policeman. The way Johnson described the act, he wondered if he’d killed a man this way. Schubert moved closer to the body, drawn to Henry’s hand. 

“Has the body been moved? Was anyone in here before us?”

“No, sir, we’ve got a clean crime scene,” Johnson said. “I made sure Jack Unwin, the bartender, kept everyone out.”

“Look at the left hand.” Schubert gently moved it to the side. “Maybe Henry lived a few seconds before his heart stopped. What’s that on his palm? Looks like, what? An ‘S’?”

Johnson leaned in closer. 

“Too symmetrical to be blood splatter. Could be and ‘S.’ Maybe the number ‘five’?”

“Take note of that. For now, let’s speak to the witnesses.” 

Schubert’s mood darkened—the reality of work required in the days ahead set in. He entered the saloon. A group of men stood around the wood stove, quietly talking. The barman and a waitress sat at a table, waiting.

Schubert extended his hand. “I’m Inspector Schubert from Whitehorse.”

“Jack Unwin—this is my bar.”

“What can you tell me about Mr. Rempel?”

“Henry was a regular,” the bartender began. “He came in every couple of weeks for supplies and for a bed and bath.”

“Was he average or unusual in any way? Was he generous,” Schubert inquired, eyeing the bottles that stood against the glass wall, “or miserly? What sort of friends did he have?”

“Aside from the Cadillac he drove, nothing about Henry was unusual,” Jack said. “He was a decent man. If you needed help, he was there for you. People liked him. Compared to some of the men in town, Henry was a saint. If I had to characterize him with one word it would be ‘honest.’”

“That Cadillac must’ve turned a few heads,” Schubert added.

“Yeah. He was well-known around town because of the car, sort of famous in a small town kind of way.”

Another waitress emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

“He was quiet. Kept to himself. He didn’t deserve this.”

“Did he have a favorite in town?” The insinuation was clear.

“He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t interested in women, or romance. All he did was talk, tell stories about life down south. He was a broken man.”

“Are you aware of the reasons why?”

“His wife died in childbirth. His only son was killed in an automobile accident. He came up here for the silence. He wasn’t interested in money.”

Unwin added, “He was from Vancouver, or so he said. There was nothing for him there, so he came north to prospect. I kept telling him he was eighty years too late, but he wouldn’t quit. If he didn’t find gold, he’d look for copper, he told me.” Unwin shook his head. “It was crazy determination.”

Schubert had finally warmed up enough to remove his coat. He threw it over a chair.

“Can you tell me about his friends? I need a fuller picture of his life.”

Unwin said: “Prospectors tend to be solitary folk—loners. Secretive. They don’t want others messing about their claims. When their claims are threatened, they can be meaner than a sow bear with cubs.”

“So he had no close friends?”

Unwin shook his head. “Not that I know of. Tell you the truth, he probably talked to me the most.”

Schubert turned to a group of men who he estimated had not seen a bath in weeks. 

“Who found the body?”

A small man, wiry, an Ontarian, judging by the twang in his voice, spoke first. 

“I did, sir.”

“Your name?”

“Paul Carlyle.”

“Did you know Rempel?”

“Only in passing. Had coffee with him a few times. Like Jack said, Henry was an honest man. Probably too honest for his own good.”

“Since when did honesty become a liability?” 

 Carlyle shook his head. “People tried to take advantage of him but a few of us had his back.” He stopped mid-sentence. “Shit, if only I’d been a few seconds earlier. I went to the bathroom and bumped into the killer on my way in. When I saw the body, I turned around and yelled. The guy was almost out the door and would’ve disappeared if it weren’t for these men.”

These men, Schubert observed were no strangers to the vagaries of northern life. Their faces were deeply lined with the hardships that came with hunting and trapping.

Another man spoke, a big ox of a man, a head full of tight curls, his mouth caked with blood and drying on his beard. 

“The bugger was strong and goddamned fast. He head butted me…”

“Thank God your skull is thicker than a moose’s!” interrupted Carlyle. 

The other men laughed, big and carefree, not realizing, Schubert guessed, how close each of them came to dying tonight.

“It took six of us to bring him down.” The ox-of-a-man rubbed his forehead and cleared some blood from his beard. “That’s guy’s no stranger to fighting, that’s for damn sure.”

“Did any of you see what the suspect was doing before the murder?”

Unwin replied: “He was talking to another man at a table.”

“What were they drinking?” Schubert asked.

“Whisky and French brandy,” and then added, “he specifically asked for ‘French Brandy.’

Schubert appreciated the instincts of the barman. He hadn’t realized one’s choice of drink could reveal so much about them. 

Unwin continued: “Henry was at the table opposite. At some point during the evening I noticed Henry speaking to the two of them.”

Schubert turned to Johnson. 

“Was the second man apprehended?”

Johnson shook his head. 

“No, sir. Apparently he left soon after Henry stumbled to the toilette.”

“Did we get a description of this man from the other patrons?”

Johnson checked his notes. 

“Medium build, wide-brimmed hat, beard.” 

Schubert pointed to the men in front of him. 

“You’ve just described half the men here.” 

Any leads Schubert hoped to follow were slipping from his grasp. Both men knew the description to be too generic to be of any real value, but Schubert asked regardless, if only for the sake of routine. 

“Are your men canvassing the area?”

“Yes, and they’ve got nothing so far.”

“I don’t like how the odds are stacking against us. OK,” Schubert paused. “Take the witnesses’ statements. Let’s try and wrap this up before sunrise.”

Johnson began talking with the men. The waitresses cleared tables. Schubert suddenly realized how tired he was—and hungry.

“You look like a whisky might do you some good,” Unwin said, as Schubert pocketed his notepad. “Long day and a bumpy flight, I reckon. Now a hard bed and a cold room is all you’ve got to look forward to. What can I pour you?”

Schubert had already noted the absence of single malt. The only bourbon to speak of would test his gut. 

“Old Crow, if you don’t mind. And anything to eat would be appreciated.”

The bartender poured a generous measure. 

“You don’t strike me as a bourbon drinker. I probably don’t serve your poison here.” 

He disappeared into the kitchen and after a few minutes returned with some cheese, bread and sliced moose sausage.

Schubert reached for the glass. 

“Is it that obvious, me not being a bourbon drinker?” 

He took a sip, immediately regretting his choice. The moose on the other hand, was excellent. The cheese, he sniffed, had known better days.

“Yeah, it is. You’re probably a triple-distilled whiskey drinker. Single malt?”

Schubert chuckled. “You should consider detective work in case you ever tire of bartending.”

“No thanks. But there’s something else I just remembered. Henry was on his fourth or fifth bourbon. When he came for a refill, the killer followed him to the bar. They were talking. I heard Henry say something like ‘Ik viss.’”

Schubert thought a moment. “We can assume Henry spoke German. It sounds like how one might say, ‘Ich weiss.’ It means ‘I know.’”

“Yeah,” Unwin nodded. “I think that was it. Sounds about right. The next bit was slurred and the killer slapped him on the shoulder like they were old pals. Paid for Henry’s tab, too. Then they walked back to the table, laughing and Henry joined them.”

“Did you hear a name or the other’s man’s speech? Anything?” Schubert was grasping at late-night straws.

“He sounded foreign but from where, I don’t know. Deep voice. I hear so many accents here it’s tough to get them all straight.” Unwin motioned to the piano. “Geordie was playing ragtime on the piano and between that and everything else…” He shrugged. “That’s about all I can tell you.”

Schubert passed over the empty glass. 

“Thanks.” 

He reached for another piece of sausage but passed up the cheese.

“Good luck and I hope the bastard hangs.” The phone behind the bar rang. “Excuse me,” Unwin said.

Schubert gathered his coat and found his room key. He was looking forward to lying down, if only for an hour.

“Johnson,” Unwin passed the receiver over. “For you.”

Schubert hesitated by the stairs, the tone of Unwin’s voice suddenly tense.

As soon as Johnson rang off, it was obvious something serious was wrong.

“Schubert,” Johnson hollered. “The station’s on fire! Jack, bring everyone you can to haul buckets!”

The storm had eased but snow continued falling, big lazy flakes settling without concern for speed, piling higher as the minutes passed. By the time Johnson arrived, the station was fully engulfed. He parked the jeep well away from the fire. Were it not for the enormous flames, Schubert might’ve missed it.

Johnson said: “Nearly impossible to put out a fire this time of year, especially if it goes wild. Not enough running water; we can’t keep our reserve water from freezing.” 

Even at a distance, the heat radiated through the jeep’s window, pushing back the cold. 

“How many men were guarding the prisoner?” Schubert asked, his face warmed by the flames, despite their distance from the fire.

“Only one,” Johnson said, unable to hide the weariness from his voice. “The rest were looking for out man in the hat. I’ll be right back. I need to see if Dickinson is out there.”

Schubert assumed Dickinson was the assigned guard. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered, staring blankly into the flames. Schubert thought it strange, how beautifully the fire lit the snow. He closed his eyes because of the glare and leaned against the window. Within a few seconds, he was asleep.

After twenty minutes Johnson returned to the jeep, slamming the door closed. He fell into the seat, heavily. Schubert woke abruptly. The open door sucked any warmth from inside the cab. 

“Dickinson hasn’t been seen.” Johnson turned the key and the big engine on the Willis jeep roared to life. “Might be somewhere else in town.”

Schubert was familiar with the wishful rationalization policemen used in dire situations. Both men knew at least one set of remains would be found in the burned shell of the station.

“There’s nothing to be done until the fire’s burned itself out,” Johnson said. “Bugger of a day. I’ll take you back to the hotel. You might as well get some rest.”

“I’m sorry Johnson,” Schubert said.

He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“But, I’ve no time for sleep, just yet,” Schubert continued. “I need to Telex an initial report to Vancouver, preferably tonight and send one to Whitehorse on a personal matter.”

Johnson shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. The only telex in town was in the station, as well as the shortwave.” He slipped the jeep into gear and hit the gas. “We’ll have to go to the American camp—the highway engineers. See if we can send a shortwave message from there. Hopefully Vancouver hasn’t mothballed theirs. The Yanks even have a guy who can send Morse code.”

Schubert pulled a notebook from his coat and scribbled a message. 

“Have them send this by shortwave to Whitehorse, marked ‘personal.’ My men will get it to my wife.”

The flames were no longer visible in the rearview mirror and with their disappearance, the cold returned, filling the small cab. 

Johnson dropped Schubert off at the hotel. He went straight to his room and kicked off his shoes; his feet were wet and cold. He hoped the hot water was still running but he wasn’t optimistic—it was past three in the morning. I should be lying next to my wife, he thought. Memories surfaced of their life together before the war, his concertizing and emerging solo career, receptions and galas. Then came August of 1939 and a month later Hitler invaded the Sudetenland. Schubert was drafted and sent to London to work for MI5 and then illness cut short his tour.

He forgot about bathing and fell asleep in his clothes. His sleep was disturbed by dreams of death and fire, of Louise beckoning him to walk through the fire to her, her arms wide open and her long, raven-black hair beckoning him forward and he, unable to move, his legs held fast against his will.

Sometime during the night, the wind picked up bringing another storm in on its heels, interrupting Schubert’s sleep. When he finally did knock off, his sleep was broken by a knock on the door. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He reached for Louise beside him, and then realized he was in Blue River. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Sir,” Johnson called. “It’s six-thirty. The ashes have cooled.”

Such an odd salutation, Schubert mused. Murder affected language as clear as it stole a life. 

“Yes, give me a minute, maybe ten. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Right, sir.” Johnson’s steps receded down the hallway, his boots echoing loudly over the hardwood floor. 

Schubert rummaged through his kit, looking for dry socks. He quickly washed—the room was cold—slipped on his jacket and tied his shoes. His mind felt fractured, most likely due to lack of sleep but the dream had replayed itself in his waking moments. It seemed to him like a prophecy of the crisis waiting for him in Whitehorse. In his waking moments, the dream had taken for itself a song, now running through his head. 

I wander silently, joyless here; the sun, so cold, the flowers old and dead. 

Where are you my home, sought but never known? My sighs ask, where is home? 

The spirits answer: where you are not, there is home. 

It was Franz Schubert’s song “Der Wanderer.” The Wanderer. He’d sung it hundred of times, yet never in such a bleak season as this.

Schubert found Johnson in the lobby. Johnson thought Schubert must’ve fallen asleep in his clothes, looking as disheveled as he did. He’s not the only one facing exhaustion, Johnson thought. They drove to the station, each in their own world with their own worries. Another premonition hung over Schubert’s head—a suspicious fire and a murder on the same night did not bode well.

“We won’t stay long,” Johnson said, wind howling through the jeep. “We’ll hardly be able to see much anyway. If it’s a crime scene, it’ll be worthless.”

Johnson parked across the street and walked towards the smoldering remains of his office. Schubert followed, trailing behind. Snow draped the burned wreckage of the building, transforming it into something strangely beautiful. Steam rose from the black shell of the timber frame. To Schubert, the building resembled a giant lying on its back, the charred and burned rib-cage exposed. Heat radiated from the embers, a grim reminder of the fire’s rampage. Schubert tried to light his pipe but the wind kept blowing out his lighter. He gave up. 

They entered what was left of the interior: one lone chimney and an iron cage stood brazenly among the ashes, unmoved by fire. Johnson cleared away some rubble near the cells. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Johnson muttered. Underneath, a charred corpse, grinning wickedly and dusted in a white shroud of snow, lay on the ground. Johnson removed the melted remains of the officer’s badge.

“He left a wife and two sons behind, Bruce Dickinson did. Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he said, cradling the badge in his hand. “He was a strong lad, big, and no novice, either. The prisoner would have been cuffed until secured in the cell. This killer is either very lucky,” Johnson began.

“Or has training,” Schubert concluded. “Two murders in one night and disappearance without a trace. We’re not looking for a trapper or miner with a grudge.”

“But why kill Dickinson? Why let a man burn alive?” 

“Let’s hope Dickinson was dead before the fire started.”

Johnson began to sift through the ash. 

“We can only hope,” he said, kicking debris from his path. Then he spotted something. “Schubert, give me a hand with the filing cabinet.”

Together, they pushed it off the corpse.

“Look here,” Johnson groaned. Dickinson’s leg had been handcuffed to the bars. “Bastard,” Johnson hissed. “He left Bruce with no options.”

Schubert didn’t envy the conversation Johnson was going to have with Dickinson’s widow. That was the one thing Schubert dreaded the most: delivering news of death. 

“This man is no stranger to killing. The handcuffs suggest deliberate torture, at the very least,” he said.

What kind of man chains another to a cell and then burns down the building?Schubert asked himself, combing through the wreckage. He felt an apprehension of dread. I have no experience with this kind of human, he thought, someone this inhuman.

“When we’re done here, let’s meet at the Dawson. I need time to sort what we’ve got so far.” Schubert had to shout because of the wind. He was quickly losing feeling in his hands and feet.

On the return drive to the hotel, Schubert was again reminded (as he frequently was when faced with violent death) of a similar mark left on his family. He thought of his sister, Lydia, the random equation of her death and the destruction it had brought upon them all. 

Johnson pulled up outside the hotel. Schubert turned to face him.

“Again, my condolences about Dickinson. We’ll get this bastard. I’ll see you later.”

He tried leaving thoughts of his and Mrs Dickinson’s loss at the front door of the hotel and was about to take the stairs to his room when he caught the scent of coffee drifting over from the saloon. An old Heintzmann piano stood against the far wall, opposite a large cast iron wood stove. He’d been so focused last night, he failed to notice it. But now his feet were cold. Maybe he would sit by the wood stove for a few minutes—warm himself there. The saloon was empty, except for Unwin, wiping glasses. It seemed to Schubert that wiping glasses was what all bartenders did to pass away the slower hours. 

His curiosity about the piano won over his cold feet. He took his shoes off. Maybe some heat would find its way over. Then, he sat at the piano and absently played a few notes. It was a magnificent old instrument. The ivory keys were mostly intact and the tuning was passable.

“Feel free,” Unwin said.

“Hmm?” Schubert turned around, seeing Jack. Schubert nodded “Hello.”

Unwin motioned to the piano. 

“Play a tune. Bring some life into this place.”

Could Jack Unwin so easily discern a person’s personality, Schubert wondered?

“Whatever could lead you to think I play piano?”

“I’m a bartender. I read people; you examine crimes. It’s a hunch. Prove me wrong. But you know I was right about your preferred drink.”

Schubert debated what to play. Ragtime seemed inappropriate what with the two deaths in the last twenty-four hours. Instead, he chose Bach, Prelude Number One. It was as if the music could reach into Schubert’s soul. Bach spoke a language he understood but Schubert couldn’t remember how he learned it or who had taught him. And Bach helped him to focus. Bach embodied precision, order and beauty. There was a cold side to beauty, Schubert reckoned, like the perfect incision to end another’s life. 

He set his hands on the weathered ivories and began. His playing was rigid (he felt), almost perfunctory in a way. The level of violence and the killer’s chosen method troubled him. The precision with which the killer did his work pointed to a lethal skill-set and if that was the case, had someone, a soldier or veteran, cracked from the isolation and unrelenting dark of the long Yukon winter? 

Unwin waited until the final chord had drifted into silence. He poured coffee and brought it over to Schubert. 

“Thanks for that. You really made that old piano sing. I’m glad to hear something other than Crosby and Sinatra.”  

Schubert nodded, savoring the aroma. 

“Thanks. I could use a coffee right now.”

“Sorry to hear about Bruce.” Jack passed over a container of canned milk. “Can’t believe the station burned to the ground.”

“You already know Constable Dickinson is dead?” Schubert asked, between sips.

“Not too many secrets in Blue River,” Unwin conceded.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” 

Unwin nodded.

“Think back to your customers last night. Had you previously seen who the killer was meeting?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him a few times.”

“You’re sure?”

“Like I said, this is Blue River. New faces are rare. But a name? I haven’t a clue.”

“I understood it to be a transient population,” Schubert countered. “How is it you remember his face?”

“Well, even if someone comes to town once a month for supplies, faces become known.”

“Any particular reason?”

“These men are usually short on cash. They need credit to buy their goods. You can bet faces are carefully appraised before credit is given.”

“Was there anything about the killer that stands out? Mannerisms, voice, anything at all?”

Jack shook his head. “No, sorry. Like I said yesterday, he sounded foreign. That’s about all. Well, that and his size, but Carlyle already told you that.”

“Yes, Carlyle emphasized the killer’s strength. Even if you didn’t hear him speak, what impression did he leave with you?”

 “He wasn’t just big, he was solid. He moved with confidence, like he wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. With control.”

“Both men appear to have anonymity on their sides.” Schubert drank the last of his coffee. “Is there anyone in Blue River who could identify the killer’s associate, perhaps someone who saw him and left before the murder?” 

Jack collected the cup and saucer. 

“Slim chance but I’ll put the word out.” He shrugged. “Someone might have a name. My advice? Start with the assayer. He’s seen nearly everyone with a claim for miles around.”

Schubert heard footsteps behind him. Johnson nodded, shrugging off his coat. He threw it over the nearest chair.

“Coffee please, Jack and bloody strong this morning,” he said, blowing warmth over his hands.

Schubert motioned to the Incident Room next door. 

“Bring your coffee with you. I want to hear your initial impressions.”

Johnson entered a few minutes later, coffee in hand. They talked about the two murders and the brutality surrounding both deaths. They had no solid leads and both men felt like they were spinning their wheels. The problem, Schubert said, was they were reacting to the murders with no discernible direction. After a while, conversation turned to Dickinson’s death.

“We’ll never know if Bruce was dead before the fire was set.” Johnson paused, concentrating on the coffee. Schubert heard the sadness in his voice. “We can only hope. I spoke with his wife this morning. I hope I never have to do something like that again.” 

There were tears in Johnson’s eyes. He sighed heavily.

Schubert felt sorry for his colleague. Bringing news of the death of a loved one had shattered more people than Schubert cared to remember. He waited until Johnson was ready to talk.

“Have you thought further about the mark on Henry’s hand? Don’t hold anything back, even if you think it’s wrong.”

Johnson shook his head. 

“Bit of a puzzle, that. The pattern seemed deliberately drawn—this wasn’t blood splatter. If Henry said, ‘ich weiss’ to a stranger, maybe he recognized the accent. If the killer and his associate were plotting something, Henry might have overheard. And because he was on the windward side of drunk, he tipped his hand.” 

“And paid for it with his life,” Schubert concluded. “You’re right about his last words at the bar: ‘Ich weiss.’ What did he know and why say it in German? Not the most popular language these days,” Schubert said, knowing all too well what his neighbors thought of his chosen songs.

Johnson said: “You’ve got Germans in Whitehorse. Could the killer be someone from the Conscientious Objector camp?”

“A killer from within a CO camp seems unlikely. Why travel all the way here to go on a bender and then kill someone,” Schubert said. “We have enough taverns of our own. No, I think he recognized the man’s accent as German. Maybe that he was a German.”

“True, but there might be someone AWOL from Whitehorse. It has happened before. Alcohol brings out the worst in some men.”

“You’ll have no argument from me, Johnson. Given the right kind of pressure, anyone can kill. I believe Rempel was killed for overhearing something he shouldn’t have. Unless this killer is a psychopath hiding among the COs, my hunch is this man comes from somewhere else altogether.

“These murders feel like responses to a threat, first from what Henry heard and the second, we can only assume, from the threat of interrogation and incarceration. Obviously, the suspect didn’t want to be questioned. There’s something else going on here, but damned if I know what it is.”

“I agree,” Johnson said. “Usually, when a bar fight ends in a stabbing, the suspect is either too drunk to commit further mayhem or withdraws into remorse. I’ve been in the police for over twenty years and I’ve never experienced this.”

This, thought Schubert. We’re in a tangled web. How will Dickinson’s wife live, knowing her husband died for no good reason? 

After another hour of conversation, Schubert ended the meeting. They agreed to meet again later in the day. For now, Johnson was returning to Dickinson’s widow with a hamper of donated food. Schubert went to his room for an hour of rest. 

He tried sleeping, but the room was cool; the hot-water heating gurgled through the pipes, a threatening sound if the imagination was left to run wild, but for all the noise, there was little heat to be had. He removed his shoes and lay under the covers. From where he lay, he had a view of the town and beyond it, a white horizon. The storm had finally eased. The clouds broke and shy patches of blue sky appeared. The temperature hovered near thirty degrees Fahrenheit. 

Questions surfaced as he lay beneath the warmth. Who was this killer? Did he take pleasure in killing? They knew nearly nothing about him, except that he was tall, very strong, and understood German. Who was he meeting in Unwin’s saloon? What was he doing in Blue River? Was this a thief who took more than personal property? He didn’t kill Rempel just to get a Cadillac that was snowbound until spring thaw. Schubert reviewed the facts but there were no answers. He closed his eyes. The warmth of the sun streaming through the windows left him drowsy. 

He woke an hour later. Cloud-cover had blocked the sun and the room had further cooled. He felt depressed. He’d dreamt of Louise but couldn’t remember what it was. She’s slipping from my memories, he thought. She’s elusive even in my dreams.

Schubert dressed and returned downstairs to Unwin’s saloon.

“Any coffee in the pot?” Schubert pointed hopefully.

“Always,” Unwin replied. “Although I can’t vouch for the freshness—this has been brewing since the morning.”

He passed a mug over to Schubert. Unwin was right—the coffee was strong, but it was what he needed.

“Jack, if you don’t mind me asking, did you serve in the First War?”

He nodded. “Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry. Why?”

“My experience in this war was limited. I spent most of my tour interrogating German POWs, and a few sorties I’m not at liberty to discuss. I never killed anyone and I don’t pretend to know the consequences.”

Unwin thought a while before answering. He looked past Schubert, into a distant memory, Schubert thought. He’s reliving the war because I asked him. He felt ashamed, but he needed to know.

“You’re asking me how the killer thinks, is that it?”

“No, not at all.”

Jack knew what Schubert was asking. 

“I’m sorry Jack. Forget it.”

Jack stirred some sugar into his coffee. 

“It’s the first one that never leaves. You’ll never forget. That boy’s face is burned into my memory…his surprise that he’d been shot…his eyes slowly turning earthen. I’ll see it until the day I die. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the last thing I see. It doesn’t haunt me like it used to—maybe it should. Killing got easier after that, I’m ashamed to say. We were all just trying to survive.”

“How did you cope at the time?”

“You didn’t. You became hardened but at the same time consumed by guilt. Sure, the killing was sanctioned, but taking another life has consequences that go far beyond the battlefield. You kept shooting and hoped that when your time came, you died quickly. The boys always said, ‘if you hear the shot, you’re still alive.’”

“Were there men in your platoon who killed for the sheer pleasure of it? It sounds twisted, I know, but I am trying to formulate a picture of who this killer is.”

“I would say more men began to lose their minds than took sadistic pleasure in killing. I’m sure you’re familiar with trench warfare.”

“My friend Bart Peters was at Passchendaele. He’s told me enough.”

 “The constant artillery barrage, charging machine gun nests, acres of dead men and horses…I think it’s called ‘shell shock.’ I saw my share of men stumbling into no-man’s land,  killed by a sniper or vaporized by shell fire. I don’t know how we coped or why some men  were able to handle the pressure better than others.”

“You’re one who learned to cope, I’d guess.”

“I don’t know if I’m fortunate or not. I live with the burden of memory. But to your question—were there guys who enjoyed killing? I’m sure there were, but I never heard about it. Sure, some guys would take incredible risks—jump into enemy foxholes and bayonet anything that moved—but they bought it before too long.” Unwin paused. “Those less obviously crazy were awarded medals for bravery.” He shook his head. “It was God-awful.” 

He reached for the coffee pot. 

“This killer doesn’t fit any of your patterns, does he?” Unwin said, returning to the present.

“No, and that’s what’s troubling me. He seems to kill indiscriminately—Rempel, an old man, harmless. But then he kills with precision and clarity. Davidson, as an example.”

“Davidson’s murder is something altogether different. Johnson told me how he died before he went to see Bruce’s wife. To chain a man to a jail cell and set the place on fire…I saw my fair share of butchery that I hope never to see again. But to do deliberately chain Dickinson to the cell? That’s a different kind of cruelty. A true sadist.”

Both men were silent for a while. Schubert pushed the mug over to Unwin.

“Thanks for the conversation and the coffee. I’ll see you later.”

After Schubert left, Unwin thoughts took him back to his time in France. It was mostly a dark blur of terror, relived at night in his sleep. His conversation with Schubert brought back memories he hadn’t thought of in a long time. He would pay for it tonight—he doubted he would sleep much at all. He poured himself a tumbler of whisky and set his mind to work.

Schubert was on the move once again, this time to the assayer’s office. The low winter sun had cleared the horizon, for which he was thankful. He thought about the conversation with Unwin. I’m still no further ahead, he thought. I’m one step behind, always playing catch-up with the killer. What puzzled him the most was the killer’s motivation. If there was a psychopath loose in Blue River, they could expect more dead bodies.

He found the assayer’s office easily enough and peered through the window. A grey-haired man sat working at a desk. Schubert entered: a small brass bell announced his arrival. A poorly tuned minor third, he thought as it rang above his head. The office was ordered, tidy and clean, a marked contrast to the rest of Blue River.

“Hello.” Schubert read the nameplate. “Mr. Franks? My name is Schubert. I’m with the RCMP.”

Mr. Franks stepped approached the counter. 

“How may I help you?”

“You’ve no doubt heard of the murders that occurred yesterday. I’m trying to identify a man the suspect was sitting with. I hope you have some answers for me. Were you at the saloon yesterday?”

“Yes. Unfortunate news about Henry. He was a good man, a gentleman in a town full of redneck miners.”

Schubert nodded. “I understood he had a claim registered with you. Where is it located?”

Franks nodded, turning to a card catalogue. He pulled the drawer marked “R.” 

“Radomski, Redford—here, Rempel.” He scanned the details. “His claim is halfway between Blue River and Forty Mile. It’s not far off the highway—easily accessible by dogsled.”

“Was his claim particularly lucrative?”

Franks laughed. “Rempel’s patch of dirt? Hardly. He bought it for next to nothing because that was what he could expect underground.”

“Jack Unwin over at the Dawson tells me you’re good with faces.”

“Yes, I have to remember which faces belong to which claims. There’s no photography equipment this far north, at least none that I can afford.”

“Do you recall seeing Henry at the saloon? Someone within earshot of him is most likely his killer as well as the killer’s associate. Can you place any of your miners near him, anyone speaking to a stranger, someone out of place?”

Franks replaced the card. He was quiet for a few moments. The silence between the ticking seconds on the wall clock began to wear on Schubert’s nerves. 

“Yes, I remember seeing Henry but otherwise, no, I’m sorry, Inspector. I had departed before the unfortunate mess with Henry.”

“Murder,” Schubert clarified.

Franks grimaced. Murder, Schubert reasoned, was not something the man’s sterile surroundings had room for.

“Try the Trapper’s Association,” Franks added hopefully. “If men like Henry aren’t prospecting or trapping, they also find odd jobs with the Americans. You could try them next or the highway crews.”

“Thanks,” Schubert said. “If you think of anything else, contact me at the Dawson Hotel.”

Schubert opened the door (ignoring the bell) and set off in the direction of the Trapper’s Association, blowing warmth into his hands, trying to stave off the inevitable crush of cold. Another dead-end, he thought. He was nearly at a trot when a voice behind him shouted, “Sir!” 

Schubert turned. It was Johnson. 

“Sir,” he repeated. “We’ve caught our first break. Trapper by the name of Arnie Falk spoke with Jack back at the saloon. He’s got a name for us, who the killer was drinking with.”

“Let’s save our rejoicing for the warmth of Jack’s bar. I’ll go and interview Falk. You continue to canvass shop keepers. Let’s meet back,” Schubert checked his pocket watch, “at half-past one, in the Incident Room.”

Our first solid lead, he thought. Would it lead anywhere or to anything? He hoped so. He remembered his mentor, James MacMillan, telling him that any clue, wherever it led, even if it were false, was something that set an investigation in motion. And up until now, the investigation was at a standstill. 

Chapter 3

Falk sat at a table in the hotel lounge, reading the morning’s paper. He had the dark features of one of the local indigenous tribes. His hair was tied in a ponytail, reaching down to the middle of his back. He wore buckskin trousers and black army boots. A buffalo hide overcoat hung on the chair next to him. A Colt .45 was strapped to his belt and a Winchester ’94 was propped against the table. He remained nonchalant about Schubert’s arrival, which Schubert found odd, considering the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Falk folded the paper and laid it on the table, next to his coffee. He nodded to Schubert.

“Good day, sir. My name is Arnie Falk.” 

He shook Schubert’s hand. It was as rough as leather. 

“Constable Johnson says you have information relevant to this investigation.”

“Yes, I do.” Falk sipped his coffee. “You want a coffee? We have lots of time to talk.”

A man of few words and an even slower pace, Schubert rued. 

“No coffee for me, thanks. Constable Johnson says you can identify the killer’s associate. Is this true? Do you know him?” 

“Bjorn Lundin does not come into Blue River very often, but yes, I saw him talking with a man I have not seen before. You can believe me when I say no one travels this far north by accident. Up here, a stranger has no place to hide.”

Schubert removed his pipe and struck a match. He took a long pull and released a plume of blue smoke into the surrounding air. 

“Please, go on.”

“Like I said, it was Bjorn Lundin.”

“And how is it that in a saloon full of patrons you remember Mr. Lundin and him specifically?”

“Because Lundin is a liar and a thief, and as you English say, a goddamned son-of-a-bitch,” Falk replied, no emotion in his voice. “He is a poacher. He has been, I believe the word is vandalizing my traplines and the traplines of other men.”

Schubert had underestimated this man. He was far more articulate than he led on.

“You know this for a fact?”

“Lundin is a lazy bastard. He talks too much—he likes the sound of his voice. He thinks he is a big man, powerful, to be feared. Other trappers besides me have see him in their territories. Somehow, he steals game without getting caught. I have left dead animals in my traps, and marked them. I have waited to catch him and yet he eludes me. He is a clever thief. No one knows how he does this.”

“I take it you know where his cabin is. Can you take me there?”

“Yes,” Falk replied. “I know the way.”

Schubert rose from his chair. “Right. Let’s go.”

Falk remained where he sat. “Pardon me, sir but it is very cold today.” He pointed outside. “It is minus ten and nearly noon. Lundin’s cabin is an eight hour return trip by dog sled. There are no roads. To leave now would be a very bad idea. ‘Suicide,’ I believe you would say.” 

Falk stood and put on his coat. He suddenly had twice the girth and looked every bit the frontiersman that he was. 

“We will leave tomorrow morning, at four. The dogs and I will be waiting for you outside the hotel.” 

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked past Schubert without another word and was gone.

Johnson arrived right on the heels of Falk’s departure. 

“Let’s grab some grub first, Johnson. Care to join me?” Schubert motioned to the nearest table and sat down. 

“Jack,” he called out, “bring us whatever is hot and include coffee with that, would you?” 

Johnson removed his coat and draped it over an empty chair. 

“Excellent idea. I don’t remember having breakfast.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Unwin brought two mugs of coffee, steam trailing around him like twin smokestacks. Johnson nodded ‘thanks’, reaching for the can of condensed milk.

“Falk has a history with Lundin. I’ve heard rumors about poaching so I spoke with…” Johnson flipped open his notebook and rifled through the pages. “Here it is—Raymond Gagnon at the Trapper’s Association. He says Falk is an honest man, as far as he could tell. At least, there’ve been no complaints from other trappers. Gagnon mentioned Falk wasn’t the first to relay information pointing to trap vandalism and theft.”

“Falk’s information is our first solid lead. He was very articulate about what he saw. I believe him. What did Gagnon say about Lundin?”

“Aside from a dubious reputation, and gossip, not much. ”

“What sort of gossip? What Gagnon say? Don’t leave anything out. It could be important.”

“Lundin is the sort of man who’ll do anything for a buck. He has few friends, if any. He thinks he’s a player, someone who wields influence. If you ask me, he acts like a big fish in a very small pond.”

“That confirms Falk’s description. Somehow our killer knows him. I wonder if their meeting was accidental or arranged. Does Lundin have the connections to orchestrate these murders? Could they be a part of something larger, something we haven’t considered?”

“Like what? This is Blue River. I doubt it. There’s not enough gold in the bank to risk jail for. Lundin is not a very smart individual. He gets away with shit up here because the police have so few boots on the ground. If he were in Whitehorse or Vancouver, he would be behind bars.”

“OK, so we don’t yet know what brought the two together. Maybe the killer is using Lundin for some purpose yet to be revealed.”

“Very possible. It certainly marks a step in the wrong direction for Lundin. But what this killer’s motives are is still anyone’s guess. It’s way beyond what Lundin could dream up. Lundin’s probably a pawn behind whatever the hell is going on here.”

Schubert nodded. “That’s helpful. Tomorrow morning I’m leaving with Falk for Lundin’s cabin. I don’t have my service revolver along. Could you spare a rifle? If the killer is at Lundin’s, I want to be prepared. Also, head out to Henry’s cabin, check for anything that might help us find next of kin. I doubt if there’s a connection between him and our killer. Their meeting feels like too much of an accident to be of significance.”

“Agreed. I’ll bring you a rifle from home. Are you good with a Model ’94 Winchester?”

Schubert nodded. “My father was an avid sport shooter in his younger days. Lessons were de rigueur in my youth.”

“OK, I’ll see you back here in a few hours. There’s a wrecking crew removing station debris. I probably should lend a hand. If I don’t see you, I’ll leave the rifle with Jack.”

Johnson stood, preparing to leave.

“What about your lunch?” Schubert asked.

“Have one of Jack’s girls bring it over,” Johnson replied, leaving with the same speed as his arrival. 

Aside from a few other patrons, Schubert had the room to himself. Lunch was hot and filling, the only requirements he could think of. He broke with his evening tradition and asked Jack to bring him an afternoon whisky. 

Lingering shadows merged with silhouettes of pedestrians walking past the saloon windows. Schubert estimated that with the lack of sunlight it should be nearly evening, at least it would’ve been in Toronto, but this was the North. Here, it might be two o’clock. He turned to the wall clock behind him. It was almost one hour later. He gathered his drink and sat at the piano. A dusty collection of folios beckoned. He stopped at Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag”and began playing the tune. 

Jack brought him another cup of coffee. 

“Just in case the whisky doesn’t satisfy. Besides, I figured you could use it.”

Schubert ceased playing, mid phrase. 

“Don’t let me stop you and by all means, keep playing. I’m no musician but you play a damn sight better than most hacks who pass through here.”

Schubert nodded. 

“Thanks.”

Jack leaned against the piano. 

“Any progress on the case?”

“Slow, damn slow. The killer could be half way to Alaska or Whitehorse. Every hour lost takes him further away. He’s slippery, very strong and I don’t believe these murders are random. It feels like something else, but I don’t know what.”

Unwin had never met anyone who could play piano like Schubert. His curiosity had to be satisfied. “I have to say though, you’re the first cop who plays like they belong on a concert stage. Does the music help you think?”

Schubert thought a moment. 

“Yes, I suppose it does. It reminds me of another time of life, a much simpler time.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, we’ve all got those.”

“Playing takes me back to my childhood. I have good memories of sitting next to my father while he practiced.”

“Ah, so it’s in the blood.”

Schubert chuckled. “Yes. He was a concert pianist.”

“So that’s why you play so damn well.” 

“It’s not entirely a gift. Prior to the war, I attended the Royal School of Music in London, majoring in voice and piano.” He flicked some dust from a key. “I was a professional singer until the war.” He immediately regretted sharing so freely from his past. 

Unwin waited, sensing Schubert had more to say.

“Ah, the laconic Jack Unwin and what an excellent barman you are. Getting the customers talking,” Schubert said.

Unwin shrugged. “It’s what we do, friend.”

Schubert continued. “It wasn’t just the war that ended my career. I was stationed outside London, part of a crew interrogating prisoners of war. My fluency in German was suddenly needed for something other than opera. While there, I came down with meningitis. It’s like influenza, only much worse. I lost significant hearing. The illness did strange things to my vocal chords. I suppose you could compare it to riding a horse—one day you can gallop with ease and the next, a canter threatens your balance.”

“I assume it was the illness that mustered you out? Sounds serious, although I have no idea what it is,” Unwin admitted.

“It’s an inflammation of the meninges tissue around the brain. It can kill you—it should’ve killed me. Left me in a coma for a week. Lucky to be alive, I’m told.”

Jack heard the scorn in Schubert’s voice. 

“Compared to what our boys are experiencing in Europe, I’d have to agree.”

“Yes, small undeserved blessings, I guess.”

Schubert resumed playing, signaling the end of the conversation. 

Unwin gathered the empty cups.

“Dinner’s on the house tonight, if you wish to play. It would be a welcome change. Play some of that German guy…”

“Bach,” Schubert answered, head down, intent on the phrase at hand. “And thanks.” 

What accompanied his thoughts were Louise and the killer. Eight or ten hours on a dogsled in sub-zero conditions. Another day away from Louise, he thought. Why isn’t she responding to my message, he wondered. There could be any number of reasons but one lurked above the rest, the one he didn’t want to consider.

Schubert took Jack up on his invitation returned later that day and played long into the night. For a few hours, he ceased to be a policeman and enjoyed his rôle as the evening’s entertainer. But with each passing hour he cursed his foolhardy behavior—he would pay for it in the morning. Customers kept buying him drinks, disbelieving that an Inspector of the RCMP could play with such gusto and whip up a frenzy on the dance floor. Schubert pulled out every piece he could remember, from big band to ballad. He even managed to play some Chopin when the attention was focused elsewhere. He stayed and played because he needed to focus on something other than the tragedy brewing in Whitehorse and the deaths he was investigating. He knew if he spent too much time brooding on either subject, he would quickly become ineffective. By the end of the night, his fingers felt raw and his head swam from cheap bourbon. When he finally fell into bed—nearly one in the morning—he slept almost immediately. 

But he was more than a little drunk: the Joplin had run through his head on an endless loop and the cold in his room interrupted his sleep. What little rest he eventually managed did nothing to restore his energy. He was awake by three in the morning. His head swam in a sea of alcohol induced nausea; his tongue felt swollen and he had a fierce thirst. He knelt by the toilet for a half an hour and managed to vomit. He felt a little better. 

By four the light snowfall outside turned heavier. The few street lamps burning outside the hotel illuminated swirls of madly falling snow. All else lay in darkness. Outside, a team of huskies carried on like they were chasing rabbits. Falk had arrived, right on time.

Schubert tracked the sound of boots ascending the stairs.

“Inspector Schubert, this is Arnie Falk standing outside your door. It is time to leave. The dogs are ready and the weather is good. I have food for three or four days.”

Schubert listened to the wind outside. How can the ‘weather be good,’ he wondered. And why the mention of rations for an extended stay?

Falk continued to tap on the door until he heard Schubert’s bare feet on the floor.

Schubert opened the door.

“Yes, I’m awake,” Schubert said. “Give me a few minutes.”

“Sir, you look as if you have had too much alcohol,” Falk observed, grinning. 

Schubert ignored the obvious. 

“Why the hell are we leaving in a storm?”

Falk chuckled. “The worst is past. In a few hours, the clouds will break. Please do not take long to dress. I will meet you outside,” Falk said, his voice echoing down the hallway.

Schubert drank three glasses of water and took a couple of Aspirin tablets. His head felt like it was moving independently of his body. His reflection in the mirror didn’t lie—Falk is right, he thought. I was a fool last night. Maybe I’m punishing myself for failing Louise. He felt a stab of regret. Intuitively, he knew his marriage was over but he didn’t want to admit it. He still loved her. Maybe they could fix it. More thoughts about Louise crowded his mind but he pushed them aside. He grabbed the rifle and his coat and met Falk outside. 

“You can stow your rifle over there,” Falk motioned to an empty holster.

The sled was loaded with boxes and blankets.

“Looks crowded, even without me on it. What’s in the boxes?”

“Mr. Schubert, I heard you playing piano last night. You may know a lot about music and being a good policeman but I believe you have no experience in the wilderness. Take no offense, but it is obvious by your questions and your assumptions. The storm is breaking, but weather can change without warning. In the wilderness there is only one law: you prepare or you die.”

Schubert nodded. It was logic he couldn’t deny but he still had no idea how Falk knew the storm was breaking. He found his place on the sled. Falk climbed on the back and the dogs, sensing a command, increased the crescendo of their barking. Falk said, “Let’s go” in a calm voice and the lead dog began to pull. The cold bit hard but the huskies took no notice. 

The pre-dawn glimmer provided scant illumination which proved no issue for the dogs. Much to Schubert’s amazement the dogs were able to follow a path, clearly invisible to him. They reveled in their work, yapping and howling all the way. Forget any element of surprise, Schubert thought. Despite the circumstances, he found the journey exhilarating and though the sled rocked erratically, he eventually found his balance. Gradually, the gentle swaying of the sled, the steady stream of cold air and the dogs’ calling became hypnotic. Wrapped as he was in a fur coat and bison blanket, he fell asleep.

“Schubert! Look sharp!” Falk hollered.

Schubert’s head snapped back.

“How the hell did you fall sleep? Stay awake or you will fall off!” 

Schubert was equally surprised he’d fallen asleep. Awake once again, his thoughts drifted towards Lundin. What would they find there? Would Lundin talk? There was no telling how someone might react to the presence of the law, especially if they were cornered.

Inevitably, Schubert’s thoughts drifted towards Louise. If a person could hate a town, then Louise hated Whitehorse. The mud in spring, the invasion of insects, the paralyzing cold in winter, there wasn’t much Whitehorse offered by way of redemption, at least in her eyes. They had lived in Whitehorse for one year and this, their second winter proved no better even with the added benefit of experience. The incessant darkness had worn thin the edges of their relationship, which had seemed strong as long as the stage beckoned and war and illness were an unconsidered possibility. Louise chaffed under the outpost’s atmosphere, the insects and frozen tundra. She longed for urban life, for haute couture, her fancy clothes and jewelry (she complained there was nowhere and no one important enough to show off her pearls and diamonds). Closer on the heels of her complaints was the silent accusation that their present circumstances were his fault, which confused him further. Instinctively, he knew that it was the loss of her status as a minor celebrity’s wife that humiliated Louise because status and wealth were something she’d had her entire life. When he’d been fêted upon by patrons she, by extension had enjoyed the attention. She came from old Ontario money. Being waited on by others was normal for her. That was the crux of her objection to their “exile in the North,” as she called it. She was anonymous and in Whitehorse, her family’s wealth meant nothing. Had she fallen in love with his voice and his stage presence? At times, that seemed to be the stranger truth. 

Eventually, dawn eventually arrived and with it, Schubert set his mind to concentrate on the task at hand. A short while later, Falk yelled “Whoa!” and the dogs, spent from the journey settled down to rest.

“We will walk from here,” Falk said, handing Schubert a pair of show shoes.

Schubert reached for the Winchester. 

“Is Lundin violent?”

Falk snorted. “Mr. Lundin is a thief and a coward. If anything, he will try to shoot us in the back.” He smiled, revealing a gold tooth Schubert hadn’t seen when they first met.

At about one hundred yards from the cabin Falk knelt, motioning Schubert to do the same. He turned to Schubert, grinning. 

“I would chamber a round. I have been wrong before,” Falk whispered. He checked the safety on his Colt .45 revolver.

Schubert chambered a round into the Winchester. Then, the silence was absolute, as if all sound had been swallowed. He was sure he could hear his own blood coursing around his head.

“No dogs,” Falk whispered, then pointed to the chimney. “The fire is out. Maybe he is gone.”

Schubert cursed. “Four bloody hours wasted.”

“Not so,” Falk countered, grinning again. “He could be dead.”

They edged closer to the cabin. The tiny spruce trees provided little cover. Schubert awkwardly lumbered to the closest wall, the snowshoes slowing him down. 

“Lundin!” he hollered, leaning against the log cabin, breathing heavily. “Police! We’re coming in.” 

He quickly untied the snowshoes, moved around to the front door and pounded on it. 

“Lundin! Open up!”

Falk ran to the other side of the porch.

“There is no lock,” Falk said, pointing.

Both men stood at either side of the door. Schubert pushed it open. It swung grudgingly on a wide arc.

“The place has been ransacked,” Schubert said, peering inside.

“What I see in front of me looks very bad.” Falk holstered his pistol and pushed the door all the way open.

Schubert entered with Falk close behind. What little furniture Lundin had lay smashed. Cans of food were scattered on the floor and in the midst of it lay Lundin in a pool of his own blood.

Falk said: “Look at this eyes. What do they tell you?”

Schubert shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Surprise. He did not expect to die as he did.”

Falk knelt beside the corpse. 

“His body is not frozen. He has been dead probably less than eight hours. It takes a long time for a body to freeze.”

“Still holding onto his revolver, though,” said Schubert. 

He opened the man’s jacket. 

“No bullet wounds on his chest or torso.” 

He pried the gun from Lundin’s hand and spun the revolver’s magazine. 

“Two rounds fired. Wound must be on the back.”

Falk nodded. “Lundin fired two shots. Not bad for a coward, although he still was too late, the poor bastard.” 

“Give me a hand rolling him over.” 

Schubert began lifting the corpse. Lundin’s near frozen arm windmilled and thudded onto the hollow floor. 

“There is a knife wound in his back,” Falk observed. “The killer thrust up and into the kidney.”

“A surprise attack, just like you said.” Schubert said, impressed with Falk’s powers of observation and anatomy.

Falk shrugged. “A knife in the back suggests deception. His eyes told me this. Maybe Mr. Lundin knew his killer.”

“Let’s have a closer look at the wound.” Schubert lifted Lundin’s shirt. “He’s a big man, stabbed in the back and get’s two shots off.” He knelt closer to examine the wound. “Nearly dead centre to the spot where Henry’s killer knifed him.”

“Hmm,” Falk grunted. “In our language we say, ‘a coyote never hunts the same way two times.’ I would say Henry’s killer has struck again.”

“So Lundin must have known Henry’s killer.” 

Falk nodded.

Schubert began inspecting both sides of the front wall. 

“Maybe we can find the bullets on either side of the door.” 

Within a few minutes, Falk found a slug. 

“Look here.” He pulled out his knife and dug a bullet from the log.

“Lundin’s a right-handed shooter; holster’s on his left side. He was stabbed, grabbed his gun, spun left to right and got off two rounds,” Schubert observed.

They continued searching but found no other bullets lodged in the wall. 

Falk said: “There is only one bullet. If the second bullet went out the door…”

“Maybe he hit the killer,” Schubert said, completing Falk’s thought. 

Schubert went outside and began searching near the empty dog pen. 

“Falk! There’s blood here. Hard to know if it’s a wound or maybe a ruse,” he shouted. Schubert walked further into the woods. 

“There’s a blood trail behind the dog run,” he said, returning to the cabin. We should follow while there’s still light.”

Falk shook his head. “Please, sit down Mr. Schubert. We will be staying here for the night. There is a big storm coming.”

Aside from some high, wispy clouds, to Schubert the sky seemed unthreatening. 

“We must go. The killer is slipping from my grasp.”

Falk shook his head. “We will have tea and sit down and wait. You white men and your clock. That wretched invention rules your life. That will be what kills you, the need to be somewhere because your clock tells you to, but if we leave now, the blizzard will kill us before we  are half way home.”

“What bloody blizzard? There are a few clouds—that’s all I see.”

“Let me see if Lundin had sugar. Might as well use what is here,” Falk said, ignoring Schubert’s last remarks.

Another night and the killer slips further away, Schubert thought. Another night away from home and with each passing hour came the premonition Louise was slipping away, too.

Johnson didn’t sleep well the night Schubert was away. A howling north wind bore down on Blue River for most of the night. The wind found anything it could tear or rattle. Somewhere down the street from Johnson’s bed-sit, a door had banged furiously most of the night, loose on its hinges. Outside, snow flew in horizontal sheets with the wind close behind. He lay in bed, listening to the racket outside. The wind buffeted the window panes, rattling them in an offbeat staccato. He hoped the glass would hold. He blamed his sleeplessness on the storm, but he was worried about Schubert. He knew Falk had the good sense to stay put. He hoped Schubert would listen to reason. 

The storm eventually blew itself out, just before dawn. Johnson took advantage of the stillness and stood outside in the early morning light, squinting through the blue curling smoke of his cigarette. The cold air pressed around him, reminding him not to linger too long. He scanned the far end of town looking for signs of Schubert’s return. First, a dogsled appeared on the horizon. Then, he heard the dogs yapping and finally the swish of the sled. He tossed the cigarette and returned to the temporary police station, now housed in an office at the Hudson’s Bay Company.

“Who’s the poor sod on the sled? Is it Lundin?” he asked as Schubert entered, looking nearly as blue as the corpse.

It took a moment for Schubert to speak. 

“Lundin, yes,” he said, finally. “Stabbed. Just like Henry Rempel.”

Johnson grabbed two cups and poured them both some coffee. Falk came in, so Johnson grabbed another cup.

“Thanks,” Schubert said, cradling the cup, thankful for the warmth. “Lundin managed to get two shots off before he died.” 

“Any sign of the killer?” 

“None. For all we know, the killer might be dead under a snowbank. I found blood outside. Lundin may have winged the killer, even wounded him, maybe. I can’t be certain. The blood could’ve been a red herring and then, well, the bloody storm rolled in. When I told Falk we had to follow the trail, he sat down and practically laughed at me.” Schubert saluted Falk with his mug, recognizing wisdom greater than his own.

Falk smiled. “You are a good student, Mr. Schubert, I will grant you that.”

“I take it you knew the storm was blowing in?” Johnson said to Falk.

Falk nodded. “It was obvious to me but no so to Mr. Schubert.”

“I don’t know how you knew, but I’m glad you were there,” Schubert said, after taking a long sip of hot coffee. “It’s clear to me now that I know nothing about the weather in this part of the country.”

“Surviving in the wilderness is a skill learned over a lifetime. You are welcome,” Falk said, stretching his long limbs. 

“So, the trail is cold,” Johnson continued.

Schubert yawned. “Quite literally, yes. Any tracks remaining were obliterated without a trace.” 

Falk set his cup on the table. 

“Gentlemen, I need to take a piss. I will leave you to your work.”

Schubert gathered the appropriate forms from the file cabinet. 

“I’ll be at the Dawson. Once my report is complete, I’ll be returning to Whitehorse. There’s nothing more I can do here.” 

Schubert shook hands with Falk. 

“Thanks again. You take care. If you’re ever in Whitehorse, look me up. I’m easy to find. I could use a man like you on my force.” 

Falk nodded. “I just may do that. I hope you find your killer.”

Schubert turned to leave, then remembered to ask Johnson about any messages from home.

Johnson shook his head. “None, sir. Expecting news from Whitehorse?”

Schubert ducked under the exit door, declining to answer. Silence from Louise was always difficult to interpret. He found it ironic that he, once a master interpreter of German Lieder and now a police detective, had no idea how to interpret his wife’s actions nor had he any idea what she might be up to.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Part Two

Whitehorse, Yukon

December 4—

_____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 4

The DC-3 touched down just after five p.m. and again, Schubert slept through both the flight and landing. There were no dreams, no songs. He woke as the plane taxied to the arrival shed. His knees were sore from the cramped seating. He felt a headache coming on: the noise of the engines in the little cabin had been deafening. He needed to pee but he thought it could wait until he got home.

He met Peters in the lobby.

“Hello, Bart. I trust all is well? Everything all right at the station?”

“Yessir, an uneventful three days. Glad to have you back so soon. I gather the trail’s gone cold. No signs of the killer?” 

Schubert yawned. “Slipped through our grasp. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Take me home, if you would. I need a long, hot bath.”

The warmth of the patrol car worked its way into Schubert’s bones and he slept. On solid ground, the dreams came immediately. He was in Toronto, on stage, the audience was clapping but he was unable to remember any lyrics from his recital program. His memory had failed him totally. Then, a sergeant had marched on stage and shouted, Schubert! You bloody fool, can’t even remember a few words! 

And then, Schubert awoke. Peters was gently shaking him. 

“Sir, we’re here. Can I give you hand with your bags?”

Schubert tried to clear his head but the heat and deep sleep left him groggy. 

“Hmm? No, OK, thanks Peters, I’ll manage,” he mumbled. 

“Laura let a casserole in the fridge. Steak and turnips—your favorite. I brought some milk for your coffee tomorrow morning. And I’ve been keeping your fire lit,” he added quickly, hoping Schubert wouldn’t ask why.

“Thanks, Bart and be sure to thank your wife, would you?”

Schubert stumbled through the snow towards the front door. Peters knew what kind of welcome his boss was about to receive, and it wasn’t good, either. He’d wanted to warn him, but at the last minute got cold feet. He slowly pulled from the curb, hoping Schubert had the strength to face whatever lay within. 

“Louise. Hello? I’m home.” 

The house was quiet, which was not unusual but the air had chilled and that didn’t fit with Louise’s hatred of the cold. 

“Louise?” 

Schubert tossed his overnight bag in the hall and entered the living room. He put his hand to the stove—it was warm, but just barely. He fetched kindling and returned from the basement with an armload of wood. It was then he saw the envelope on the stove, carefully placed against the kettle. His premonition returned and a poignant feeling of defeat settled over him more palpably than the cold of the house. He set the wood into the fire box. He’d already guessed the contents of the envelope, nevertheless his gut tightened and he fought the feeling of dread. He wished for anything else but such wishes were for children. He left the letter where it lay—there was no rush to read it. It could wait until he fetched a tumbler and some single malt. He decided Laphroaig was called for, something strong because the message he was about to read was going to leave a very bad taste.

He set a match to the kindling and small fire glowed. The letter felt slim and insignificant in his hands. He sat and reclined in his chair. The letter was short and to the point.

Dearest Karl, I have returned to Toronto. I know you must do your duty. Damn this war, anyway. There is nothing for me here. If you must know, I hate this place. If only we could return to the life we had. Forgive me for my shallow, callous ways. If you wish a divorce, I will not contest it. Louise xo.

He read the note a second time. So, this was the sum of their life together, now  reduced to one paragraph. A surge of anger welled from within and just as quickly was replaced by deep sadness. He thought of Louise on their wedding day; the first time they made love; seeing her face when he awoke in the hospital. So typical, he thought, trying to keep the bitterness at bay. The fault for Louise’s troubles always lay outside of herself, never within. He fought the impulse to shred the note. Instead, he returned it to its envelope and placed it where he found it. He sat in the dark—he didn’t know how long—and thought of life without Louise. The house, small and compact, now felt enormously empty, the void left by Louise seemingly grown exponentially larger. There would be no winning her back, not unless he moved to Toronto and gave up police work. There were no good options facing Schubert, just divergent paths, none of them leading to where he wanted to be.

He abandoned the fire and went to bed. 

The next morning, Schubert struggled to get out of bed. With Louise gone, work was the last thing on his mind. During the night, the cold had coiled itself around him. He felt as if he’d not slept at all. The house was unnaturally quiet without Louise rummaging through the kitchen; the radio was silent; there was no coffee percolating. Signs of Louise were everywhere, but without her actual presence, they seemed to point to a fabrication of his mind, almost as if she’d never been a part of his life. He thought of calling her in Toronto. He wanted to hear he say the words, I want a divorce. Maybe later, he thought. After work, when they’re sitting down to dinner. 

He pushed thoughts of Louise aside and eventually got dressed. He reached inside a small sandalwood box for his cuff-links. It was another reminder of Louise, a gift from their trip down the Oregon coast. It stood where it always had, next to their wedding picture. She’d taken nothing but a few dresses, her jewelry and left all that would remind him of her: her combs and perfumes lay on the dresser, at the ready; a discarded nightgown was draped across a chair. He ran his hand over the smooth silk, lifting it to his face. The sweet musk of her body rose to meet him, another sign pointing to an empty memory. He felt a lump in his throat and fought back the tears.

Schubert opened the closet door and reached for his blazer. His felt for his keys, as was his habit. Then, he felt something else, an object out of place: Louise’s wedding ring. If Schubert harbored any thoughts of winning her back, he released them. Her decision is final, he thought. He couldn’t fault the strength of her convictions. Unfortunately, they didn’t include him. He set the solitaire next to the photograph. The light caught one of the facets and it blazed a brilliant shade of turquoise. 

Outside, a car pulled up alongside the curb. The driver honked the horn. It was Peters, come to pick him up.

“Good morning, Peters,” Schubert said, closing the car door. 

Schubert welcomed the warmth of the car and the distractions the day would bring. He would mourn his loss tonight, whisky in hand next to a blazing fire. Perhaps he would sing through the song-cycle “Winterreise.” 

“Morning sir,” Peters replied, pulling from the curb. “It’s a balmy minus ten. Practically beach weather. Might be a good day to…”

“Thank you, Bart. I appreciate the attempt to divert my attention from the obvious. And thank you for not telling me yesterday.”

Peters cursed under his breath. 

“Sir, I tried to talk her out of leaving but she wouldn’t have any of it. It seemed she’d committed herself to leaving, regardless. There was no changing her mind. She just refused to listen to anything I said.”

Schubert stared absently out the window. 

“Yes, certitude is on of her many outstanding attributes.”

“Resolve?” Peters asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Stubborn as hell,” Schubert replied.

“Winter here too much for her?” Peters immediately regretted probing further into his boss’s life.

“That’s part of it, although there’s much more. She’s from old money and old money says you can have any life you want. She didn’t want this life: she wanted the life we had—she had. I sometimes wonder if she loved me or was I just a feather in her cap? If you must know it’s the war, probably.” He shrugged. “Add to that the rationing, my career change, this place and bloody Adolf. How’s that for a start?”

They drove to the station in silence and in the dark, except for the occasional yellow glow of a street lamp. Peters turned off Main onto Government. The red brick of the RCMP station stood resolute, its front door bookmarked by two lights. To Schubert, it resembled a gaping mouth, swallowing the darkness. 

“Meet me in my office in ten,” Schubert said, exciting the car. “We can talk about Blue River.”

“Yessir,” Peters said, killing the engine. 

As Schubert exited the car, the cold quickly slipped in behind him. Peters thoughts turned to Louise and their conversation at the airport. She’d been harsh—cold—almost cruel towards her husband. She said some things Peters would never repeat, even though she said she didn’t care if he did. Peters had nearly lost his temper. Louise was being selfish, petty and vindictive—that’s what he had wanted to say. Instead, he’d said nothing. It was a similar kind of helplessness like he’d experienced in France, only less lethal. Now his boss, his friend was being hit from all sides. Added to the stress of representing the law in Whitehorse, Schubert now had the extra burden of his wife’s departure. And in a small town like this, soon everyone would know.

“Bloody Adolf,” Peters cursed as he slammed the door shut and entered the building.

Peters knocked at Schubert’s door, merely a formality. 

“OK, so what happened in Blue River?” he asked, sitting across from his boss.

“I went to investigate the death of a miner by the name of Henry Rempel. By the time I left, three murders had occurred with no actual suspect. The killer slipped through our fingers. Disappeared without a trace. There was nothing I could do, so I came back.”

“Three murders over the course of a few days. Were they random?”

“Hardly. I believe all three are linked: similar knife wounds in two.” Schubert swiveled in his chair, reaching around with one arm. “Stabbed between the last two ribs. Perfect placement to sever the kidney.” 

“That kind of precision isn’t the work of an amateur.”

“Johnson and I came to the same conclusion.”

“And the third murder? How is it related?” 

“This killer has a streak of sadism. He overpowered the arresting constable at the station, handcuffed him to the cells and set the place on fire.”

“Holy Christ!” Peters intoned. “This is one sick bastard.”

“You’ll have no argument from me there. We trailed the killer to another trapper’s cabin, owned by a fellow named Bjorn Lundin. Somehow Lundin became embroiled in the killer’s plans. How he’s involved, we don’t know—probably never will. We tracked Lundin to his cabin only to find him dead. Our guess is he must have had a skirmish with the killer and lost. The trail went cold and the killer disappeared.

“We did find something, a possible clue. Very tenuous, at best. If you overheard someone say, ‘ik viss,’ how might you interpret that, German being your first language?”

Peters didn’t hesitate. “Easy. ‘Ich weiss.’ I know.”

Schubert nodded. “Exactly what I thought. Jack Unwin, the bartender where the first murder occurred, overhead the victim say that to the killer.” 

He took a pad of paper and pen and drew what he’d seen on Rempel’s hand. 

“And this?” he said, spinning it around. “We found that scrawled on the dead man’s hand, drawn by him I suppose, before he died.”

Peters examined the mark. “Got me there, sir. A crudely drawn ‘S’ or number five.” He thought for a moment. “You might think this is way off the mark, but it might be one half a swastika.”

“Johnson and I arrived at the same three conclusions. Unfortunately, we’re no closer to finding the killer.” 

They sat for another hour, talking about Blue River. When the clock chimed on the hour, Schubert sighed, eyeing the stack of papers in front of him. 

“Administrative duty calls. Thanks, Peters.”

Peters began sorting through his own paperwork. His boss seemed nonplussed about Louise’s departure. Bravado? Peters wondered. Probably just trying to cope, he thought.

Schubert surveyed the folders neatly stacked on his desk, like a lumberjack might debate the best course to cut a tree with a problematic gait. He flipped through the pile,  scanning each summary, determining which would require his immediate attention. It was a kind of ‘crime triage,’ his way of determining what needed attention first. There were the usual issues: alcohol-fueled arguments, petty theft, claim disputes. His was a war fought on domestic soil every day and now, he realized with alarming clarity, it had driven a wedge between Louise and himself. He rolled the wedding ring on his fingers, as was his habit when deep in thought. The ring was now a reminder of failure, not fidelity, itself a casualty of war. He removed it and placed in a drawer, next to his service revolver.

He pulled another file from the stack. “Robbery” was the official heading, but upon reading, it seemed more like a prank or petty theft. The location was Le Petite Pain. He knew the place. It was a café, newly opened. He tucked the folder into his briefcase and decided to walk. It might clear his head and absolve him of the need to engage in small talk with the other officers in the station. 

The morning chill reminded Schubert he should’ve put on his overcoat, so he wasted no time covering the block that separated the RCMP station from the bakery. Le Petite Pain stood opposite Murdoch’s Hotel. He was about to cross when a voice spoke from behind him.

“Sorry to hear about Louise.”

He knew that voice. He turned around: it was Kitty Murdoch.

“Excuse me?” he said, having heard her perfectly well.

She slipped her arm over his. 

“Louise…I hear she’s returned to Toronto.”

Schubert nodded. “Yes, a visit abroad to remind oneself that culture still exists.”

Kitty smiled and it was anything but benign. 

“Let me know how I can help while she’s gone.”

“Thank you, Miss Murdoch but I am sure I will persevere.”

She released his arm. 

“See you soon.”

Like hell you will, he thought. Bringing Kitty Murdoch to his home would be like entertaining Jezebel—dangerous and probably fatal. He’d just lost one woman. He wasn’t about to replace her with a vixen like Kitty. And besides, her feeble advances annoyed him—she lived with the mistaken fantasy that men were somehow immune to her charms.

Upon entering the café, he was greeted by the low murmur of voices and the rattling of dishes The interior was painted a warm, inviting yellow. Lace curtains adorned the windows. The room seemed out of place in a town of trappers, prospectors and highway builders, but immediately cheered him up. Kitty was quickly forgotten.

“Good morning. I’m Inspector Karl Schubert from the RCMP. You filed a report of theft. May I assume you are Miss Sinclair?” he said, addressing the woman behind the counter.

Geneviève Sinclair, he noted, might have been five feet tall. Her eyes were equal to any emerald he had ever seen, and her red hair flowed in tight ringlets. She looked younger than her age, around thirty, or so he guessed, but her height and hair created an aura of youth. She had marvelous cheekbones—nature had been kind to her—and skin the color of milk. She was, he mused, Louise’s opposite in almost every way.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said as she directed him towards a table. “And please, call me Geneviève. Coffee?” 

“Yes, please,” Schubert replied, removing his hat and coat. 

Geneviève returned with a cafetière, warmed milk and fresh pastries. She motioned to a chair opposite him. 

“May I sit down?”

He considered it an odd request, considering he was a guest in her café. 

She lifted the linen from the pastry dish.

“Croissants?” Schubert was incredulous. “Where do you find butter?”

She smiled, clearly pleased by his surprise. 

“The Americans. They’re always flying supplies to their boys.”

Someone else knows Sergeant Herschel at the PX, Schubert thought. Herschel and his questionable trade made life in Whitehorse bearable.

He broke the delicate pastry. The croissant melted in his mouth. A groan of pleasure escaped from his lips. Geneviève smiled, having noticed his reaction.

“I read Constable Peters’ report. You were robbed?” he said, returning to the business at hand.

She nodded. “A window was broken in the kitchen. Nothing else was damaged.”

“The report stated the thieves took mainly food items, which to my way of thinking is kind of odd.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Thieves are usually after money and not food. The local Baptist congregation keeps its shelter well stocked for the less than fortunate in our town.”

“Well, I never leave money here,” she clarified. “The broken window is the real bother. I would’ve happily fed them.” 

Geneviève was momentarily distracted by a couple of American servicemen crossing the street, heading for Murdoch’s.

“Care to see the window?” she asked.

Schubert followed her to the kitchen. Despite the oven’s warmth, a steady draft blew in from behind the plywood patch.

“They smashed the entire window,” Schubert remarked, mentioning the obvious. “One pane would’ve been sufficient to flip the latch.”

“Yes, and now I need four pieces of glass.” 

“Thieves are not always practical, but yes, I agree. Not a lot of finesse demonstrated here.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get this fixed,” Geneviève exhaled loudly. “My brother is away trapping.”

“Hougan’s not around?” Schubert asked?

“The prices he charges? He thinks we all have a vein of gold running through our businesses. I can’t afford him,” Geneviève said. 

She led him back to the table. Schubert took a final sip of coffee.

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair. I’ll file the report as an open investigation and make enquiries with the local riffraff.”

Geneviève sat, the reason for his visit concluded. 

“Why not join me for another cup of coffee. I think I could find a few more croissants.” 

Schubert checked his pocket watch and debated whether to stay. 

“Sure. Alright. The office can do without me for a while longer.”

Geneviève returned with more croissants and poured another round of coffee.

“Do you miss it, Inspector Schubert?” she asked, pouring Schubert a cup.

“Miss what?” he said, reaching for another croissant.

“Life—your life as it was before the war; a night at the cinema with friends or a concert. Whitehorse must be quite a career change for you, I imagine.”

Schubert rued the speed at which gossip travelled.

“You were a singer?” Geneviève probed.

He nodded. “It seems there are no secrets in Whitehorse, except where your thieves are involved.”

“Truly?” She seemed more curious than doubtful. “Jazz or popular?”

“Neither. I sang classical repertoire. Some light Italian opera, mostly Mozart. My main bread and butter was German Lieder—art songs. Not so popular these days.”

“What led you to law enforcement?” She paused. “I’m sorry if this is too personal. We’ve only just met.”

He admired the strength behind her curiosity and for some unknown reason, decided to answer. 

“While overseas, I fell ill and was discharged from the army. I was suddenly considered a liability. So, I thought my curiosity, my appreciation for order and structure within the art song were skills I could put to use on the home front.” He didn’t bother to add that his duties overseas involved interrogation and procuring secrets from enemy agents.

“Singer turned sleuth, is that it?” Geneviève said, good-naturedly.

“Lateral transference of geometric thinking, is all.” 

Schubert finished his coffee.

“I really must be off.” Schubert reached for his hat.

“Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate your help.”

He nodded. “Sorry, as there’s little to go on. Mind you, I have an idea who might be responsible. There are two youngsters in town, essentially good lads who love mischief and good food. I’ll speak with their father.”

Schubert closed the door behind him, then disappeared into a swirl of white madness. Geneviève draped a shawl around her shoulders and returned to the kitchen.

It was a just after 3 pm. 

Schubert returned home around 5:30 pm. He threw his briefcase on the couch, tossed his shoes in the front porch and then began preparing a meager dinner. The thought of cooking by himself—for himself—left him with little appetite. He reheated some soup and dipped a few pieces of dried bread to soften them up. 

At 6.30 or thereabout, a fellow congregant from the German Baptist church picked him up. There would be no mourning Louise tonight—he had choir practice to attend. Besides being chief of police, he was also the congregations choir director. Tonight’s rehearsal wasn’t going to be pleasant. Thoughts of Louise in Toronto left him feeling lonely and if he was honest, depressed. By now, most of the town knows she’s left me, he thought, as the car slipped in and out of icy ruts. He hated being the center of attention for the wrong reasons. Pity, he could do without. He hoped the gossip hadn’t gotten out of control.