Chapter 13

Schubert goes to the Irish camp in search of answers. We learn more about Schubert's past as well as Genevieve's.  

Chapter 13

The suspension on the police car was unforgiving. Peters tried avoiding the deepest ruts but the wheels inevitably slipped in. Schubert, sitting in the rear of the cruiser, swayed with the car as best he could, trying to anticipate the worst of it.

“Apologies, sir,” Peters said, driving past the derelict paddle-wheelers, their hulls locked in a calm sea of snow. He parked at the crest of the hill above the Irish camp.

“Second thoughts, sir?”

“None,” Schubert replied without hesitation. “Let’s go.”

They walked downhill towards the tent camp. The road was icy. Schubert didn’t want to slip, especially in front of the Irish. What little credibility he had would just as easily slip away.

A lone figure, leaning on his shillelagh, met them at the outskirts of the camp. He was a large, muscular man, bald as a cue ball (seemingly unaffected by the cold), dressed in an old suit, but the cut and fabric spoke of prior wealth, perhaps the clothing of a banker. The trousers, though, were too short. The suit was for a smaller man and as such, made him appear comical. The club, however, removed any doubts about how he viewed his task.

“State your business,” he said, the clear, high tenor voice sounding at odds with his bulk.

Schubert halted, keeping his distance from the wide arc of the club. 

“Police. We’d like a word with Aiden Quinn.” 

Schubert noticed the man’s eyes were dull from blindness; the dark eyebrows emphasized the emptiness within. 

“Not welcome here. Best be leavin’.”

Schubert heard no menace in the voice, but the language of the shillelagh gently swinging in his hand was another matter. 

“I’m afraid not. You best step aside.”

“Or wot?” He challenged. “You an’ your wee friend will try to pass?”

Schubert glanced at Peters, then stepped forward. The man swung the club in a tight arc, sending Schubert tumbling backward.

“That’s a warnin’. Could’ve cracked yer skull.”

Peters unholstered his revolver. The man laughed, loud and clear. Schubert had one ludicrous thought when he heard it: the man could have been a heldentenor in another time and place. 

“Your gonna shoot a blind man?”

Another man walked up from the tent camp, calling as he approached. 

“Paddy O’Daly! That is no way to treat the law.” 

Aiden Quinn stepped past O’Daly and proffered Schubert a hand. 

Schubert brushed snow from his coat. While Aiden Quinn wasn’t blind, his eyes, Schubert observed, reflected no more humanity than O’Daly’s. 

Quinn may once have stood tall and proud but now he was bent like a bow, the posture of one lured into the depths of the earth by easy money, someone who had hauled too many wheelbarrows of ore. Judging by his face and missing teeth, he was brawler or had been in his earlier days, before the hunch cemented itself in his back. 

“You must forgive Paddy,” Quinn said. “He takes his duty very seriously.”

“Noted,” Schubert replied, tersely.

Quinn spoke in pleasant cadence, a marked contrast to his scarred and bruised face. Everyone has a story, Schubert reminded himself. Some parts were unrecognizable.

“What recent crime brings you to our fine tent city?”

“An interesting assumption, on your part,” Schubert countered.

“Come now, Inspector. Social visits by the local constabulary are not exactly de rigueur. If this is about your wife, I can assure you she is not here.”

“Careful there,” Peters said. 

“Or what?” Quinn shot back. “Fuck off, mutt.”

“Murder. Double. That’s what brings us here.” Schubert said, refusing to take Quinn’s bait.

“And we bloody Irish dogs must be responsible. You underestimate us.”

“We’re not here to harass or accuse, only to ask questions.”

Schubert expected to be denied entrance to the camp but Quinn led them down an icy path to, Schubert assumed, Quinn’s home. Inside the wall tent, the ground was covered in spruce bows; a fire glowed in a crudely built oil-drum stove. A table sat adjacent to the fire. 

“Sit down, Inspector,” Quinn offered. “But your dog stays outside.”

Peters shot his boss a questioning look. Schubert didn’t seem concerned, so Peters stepped outside.

Quinn pulled a bottle and glasses from a shelf and poured two generous shots. 

“Sláinte,” he said.

Schubert raised his glass and sipped. “Your hospitality is appreciated.”

Quinn topped up each glass. “Who died?”

“One of the assayers, Itzhak Stern from Stern and Goldman.”

“I knew the man. By all accounts shrewd, but given the opportunity, I’ve heard he would fleece you.”

 Schubert ignored Quinn’s gossip. 

“A second man was killed, a CO by the name of Siegfried Janzen, also found in Stern’s office. Janzen was killed with a knife. The killer is someone of incredible skill, if such a thing can be said. And I mean no offense, but I doubt such finesse is something your men possess.”

Quinn laughed. “Glad to hear we aren’t considered refined, at least in some circles.” He paused. “And you’re here because you believe we know something?”

“Disingenuousness does not suit you, Mr. Quinn.” 

“Unless you have something, a quid pro quo, the reputation that precedes us shall remain intact.”

“What could I have the you might want? You know I won’t break any laws for you.” 

“You and I, we’ll have ample time to determine that. Shall we save that for our next tête-à-tête? Are we agreed?”

Schubert emptied his glass. “Agreed. What have your lads observed? Anything out of place?”

“More like, anything ‘in place?’ Whitehorse is in a constant state of flux. Men, supplies, claims exchanging hands, those religious buffoons at the CO camp.”

“Who looks to be playing the part, then?” Schubert unbuttoned his coat—the small pot-bellied stove kept the tent very warm. 

“On this stage? There are some things one can’t duplicate unless authentic. The fatigue from working underground, the stoop and hitch in the step, those are tells. I’ll ask the lads to keep an eye out.” 

Quinn stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “You’ll hear from me when the time comes.”

“The information better be good or your quid pro quo will be worthless.”

“Of course, that goes without saying.” Quinn leaned against the table. “And next time, leave your fuckin’ monkey at home.” 

Schubert met Peters outside the tent. 

“Shakin’ hands with the devil, are we now, sir?” Peters said, as they walked up the hill to the car.

“I’m open to suggestions, Bart. Aside from Abram, we’ve got nothing. There are no clues forthcoming from Blue River. None of this makes sense. My gut says something sophisticated is happening—I don’t believe these murders are random. I’m convinced Wraith is behind these latest deaths. We’re in the middle of whatever is playing out and we still have no idea what it could be. We need different eyes and ears on the ground, places our boys can’t go. Our window of apprehension is quickly narrowing.”

Schubert hoped the quid pro quo wouldn’t bring the whole episode crashing around him but such naïveté, he reasoned, was best left to children.

They reached the top of the hill. Schubert leaned against the car. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him.

“Bart,” he said, “take me home. I’m afraid my productive hours are over.” He thought about an early night with a double Scotch, some conversation with Geneviève and then remembered the pile of laundry waiting for him in the bathroom. 

Schubert turned the key to the front door of his home; a north wind whipped snow onto the porch, threatening to blow it inside. He entered quickly but the wind blew in first, scattering newspapers on the floor. A melody greeted him on his way in. 

“Hello Geneviève. I see you’re making friends with the Steinway,” he said, dumping his briefcase on the floor.

She spun around on the piano stool. “I hope you don’t mind me playing, or rather, trying to play.”

Schubert hung up his coat. “No, not at all. There are worse things one could be greeted by. Please, play me whatever you wish.” 

He fetched a bottle of single malt and poured two tumblers. “Here,” he said, passing one over, “My payment for your art.” He sat next to the wood stove. “Please, anything.”

He wondered if he’d pushed her too far. But she surprised him with a piece by Mozart. The name escaped him: he though it might be a prelude. He’d learned it long ago before such a time as this had been imagined. 

“Karl?” Geneviève said, finishing her impromptu recital.

“I’m sorry. I was thinking of a my childhood.”

She closed the  piano lid. “When?”

“My younger years, with my father teaching me the same piece.”

“Are they good memories?” 

He nodded. “Music was what kept our house alive. When I was a child, it seemed our home was always teeming with painters, musicians, writers and poets, often staying for days on end.” 

Geneviève sipped her drink. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked, setting on the table.

“Not at all. I think I’ll have a bowl—we’ll turn the air blue.”

She was intrigued by him, how he could be morose and serious and then quickly turn a phrase on its head. She lit a Camel. Schubert filled his pipe and tamped it methodically. 

“It sounds like you had a rich childhood. Care to tell me about it?” she inquired, slipping her legs onto the coach.

“It was. I remember listening to conversations around the dinner table. There was no end of talking when guests arrived. There were informal reviews of recently performed music, gossip about players and singers. Visiting artists would invariably begin debating the merits of another’s playing style. And then there was politics. My mother may not have had an education but she could argue politics with the best of them.”

He hesitated, staring idly into the smoke.

Geneviève reached for her drink. “And?” she asked, not understanding why he had stopped.

Schubert set his pipe down. “But those halcyon days weren’t to last. After Lydia’s murder our house became a tomb. The piano, another voice in our family, was silenced. Guests ceased to arrive: an ennui settled in. It was loss, but we had neither the name nor experience to deal with it. I remember it as a time of literal darkness: curtains remained closed; the air became foul; it was as if the evil of her death had settled in among us. I mean, how does one cope with such a thing?”

“This continued after your mother died?”

He squinted through the rising smoke. “I might as well tell you. She took her own life.” He turned away from Geneviève, ashamed, regretting his momentary loquaciousness.

“What do you mean?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Why is it so difficult to talk about Lydia’s death, he wondered. She died nearly thirty years ago but the wound still feels raw. 

“My youngest sister Lydia was taken from us—abducted. She was never found, nor was her abductor. My parents were unable to deal with it—nothing can prepare you for such a thing, the ‘not knowing’. It is impossible to come through that kind of experience unscarred. My father retreated into his music and mother became a prisoner to time, unable to look forward. She became twisted by the past. One winter’s day, I suppose after giving in to the guilt and trauma, she wandered off into a field, lay down in a snow drift and died. There was no sign of a struggle. She was found a few days later. I can’t imagine the grief she lived with, to freeze to death.”

Geneviève rose from her chair. He expected his revelations to end their conversation. Instead, she sat next to him.

“I’m so sorry. Is your father alive?” She didn’t know what else to say.

He nodded. “He lives in Winnipeg. He has a few piano students at the University of Manitoba.” 

“So he returned to his art after all.”

“I imagine after mother died, it was the one thing that kept him from overwhelming grief. He once confessed to me that he had no stomach for suicide.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if James died. I sense you feel alone. Isolated.”

“You’re right. My family is scattered across the globe. And that arrogant bastard I call my father-in-law refuses to let me speak to Louise.”

“But Karl, you’re not alone. Everyone must face loss and the anger that accompanies it.”

“I think you’re wrong. In a sense, we’re all alone. I’ve lost my art to disease and war, my mother and sister to violence and my wife to circumstances beyond my control. I walk alone with the dead whose responsibility is mine to bring their killer to justice.”

“If I knew you better I might say you’re wallowing in self-pity. This war has taken much from all of us. I lost…” she hesitated, “…my brother to war.” She had her own secrets she wasn’t about to reveal.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the fire crackle and the sound of their own thoughts. Eventually, Schubert asked Geneviève a question that he hoped would satisfy his curiosity.

“What circumstances brought you here? You’ve never told me.”

Geneviève reached for the single malt and topped their glasses. 

“There were plenty of opportunities for me in Paris. Unfortunately, Hitler’s goose-stepping xenophobes left me no choice but to leave. My mother was Jewish and from what I was hearing at the time, my Canadian passport might not have saved me from those thugs.” 

A draught blew into the room. She shivered and wrapped the shawl tighter. Will these fragments satisfy his curiosity, she wondered? 

She continued. “Why else do people move here but to escape? This is the last frontier: a place of adventure, a place to start over.” Or a place to die, she thought.

He found himself easily drawn into the depth of her green eyes. He chided himself for doubting her but the sudden bonhomie seemed to lack authenticity. By now he’d discerned her ability for deflection: she would reveal just enough to satisfy his curiosity. He decided to let it rest.

“How is James faring? He seems stronger.”

“He’s staying at my place while he restocks his supplies.” She paused. “He left abruptly this afternoon. That’s the way he is now, impetuous and unreliable. He simply comes and goes.”

“A bit like the wind, to be envied.” Schubert finished his drink and set his pipe down. “If James is on his way, then I imagine you’ll be leaving soon as well.”

She nodded. “Your hospitality was greatly appreciated.”

“I’ve appreciated the company. The house was too quiet.” He checked the wall clock. “It’s late. You’ll stay tonight? I don’t think Peters would appreciate a call at this hour and the taxi service is closed for the night. I’ll have Peters take you home tomorrow.”

“Thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m going to run a bath before bed.” She crushed the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray. “Good night,” she said, kissing his cheek.

Schubert was drawn again into her eyes, the musk of her skin. The touch of her lips left him aroused. Images from his dream flashed before him. No, he thought, I can’t. There is still too much of Louise in this house. And then wondered where this overdeveloped sense of morality suddenly came from. 

He collected the glasses and left them in the kitchen sink. Above him the bath water plunged into the tub. There was a childlike simplicity to Geneviève that held his curiosity but he knew people were never the sum of how they were perceived: everyone had unseen layers that might never be revealed. 

A draft wafted through the kitchen, its origin unknown. The kitchen window was closed so he went to make sure the front door was shut. He had checked the weather stripping in August—he discovered it was cracked—and reminded himself to change it before the coming winter but promptly forgot. Above him, the screech of turning taps signaled a full tub of water. Not long ago, he would bathe Louise amid candles and incense, the steam of the bath barely able to keep pace with the heat they generated between each other. There was another woman in the bath now, other than Louise, the perfect foil to her tall figure. Geneviève was smaller, much smaller and lithe and slender. He pictured her beneath the water, the long, red curls covering her breasts. An ache surfaced he thought he would never feel again, the same desire Louise has stirred. 

Don’t be such a damn fool, Schubert chastised himself again. Your bed’s not even cold.

He ascended the stairs to his room and the draft followed along, lightly blowing open the bathroom door. It yawned less than an inch but it was enough for Schubert to stop. He felt his breath catch: Geneviève was facing away from him; her hair was trussed up and she was humming a tune. What the tune was, Schubert couldn’t say nor did it interest him. It was the scars that littered her back that caught his attention: someone had taken a cigarette and left pockmarks all over her back. His anger flared.

Geneviève felt a cold breeze blow into the bathroom. Instinctively, she turned to face it: the door had swung open from a draft. Seconds later, she heard another door close down the hall. Had Schubert seen what Guillaume’s treachery had set in motion? Geneviève latched the door and slid into the bath, sinking up to her neck. The porcelain pressed into the scars and while they no longer pained her the memories they carried refused to yield. They overwhelmed her again. She fought the tears and lost. She screamed but made no sound, lips stretched and teeth barred, her head buried in her hands, the sobs wracking her little body and then Guillaume, Guillaume’s face, stiff with rigor, never far from sight.