Chapter 18

The Americans are less than forthcoming vis-a-vis Sven Nilsson's bona fides. Schubert follows a new lead. Aiden Quinn brings news germane to the case. A fire in town burns down a business. That same evening, the proprietor is found dead in his home.

Sorry about all the death....

Chapter 18

Wednesday, December, 20. Whitehorse. Schubert left Flowers’ office, frustrated and angry. The investigation was stalling; clues were evaporating; his own government was incommunicado with regard to his memos. The Americans were another dead-end. He had the feeling forces were conspiring against him but he was no closer to determining the source of their origin.

“The Americans were less than forthcoming,” Schubert said, climbing into the front of the squad car. “Bloody stuffed shirt! Flowers had the gall to dismiss me like a recalcitrant school boy.” He slammed the door closed. “The message I received was ‘your murder, your country, your problem.’”

“You were lucky to see him at all. I’ve had a few beers with Herschel, you know the guy from the PX?”

Schubert nodded. “He’s done favors for you too, I see?”

“Yeah. Anyway, Herschel says the only thing Flowers cares about is building his highway. It’s his personal mission and nothing, and Herschel underscored this, nothing gets in his way.”

“He’d be whistling a different tune if it were one of his men dead at Stern & Goldman’s. Damn him!”

Peters waved as they passed the guard house. The guard turned and nodded.

Schubert said: “They have no record of Nilsson’s hiring, neither by Lang’s office in Nebraska nor  a consular memo regarding a VISA application. It may be simply be a case of documents in transit.”

“I say we head back to Doherty’s and have another conversation with Nilsson. What can it hurt? A disproven clue is still a move in the right direction.”

This time, Peters accompanied Schubert into the Lucky Strike, just in case Nilsson became a problem. Schubert went straight up to the room, bypassing the bartender altogether. He banged on the door.

 “You missed him,” Doherty shouted from the ground floor. “He left about an hour ago. Got his key here.”

Peters retrieved the key and opened the door. Schubert was the first in the room. It was empty. The bed was cold. Schubert put his hand to the stove. Warm. He opened the cast-iron door—a swirl of ash flew out in a smooth arc.

“Peters! Gloves! Now!” Schubert yelled, stepping aside.

Peters reached into the firebox and pulled out some smoldering papers. Schubert grabbed the bedcovers and smothered the flames. Peters slid a map from among the pages and lifted it as one might a venomous snake—slowly and with no discernible motion.

Schubert said: “This looks like something from our assayer’s office, I’ll wager. Turn it over—careful, now.” He pointed, “There, look. ‘—ERN & GOL—.’”

“A map of claims, maybe,” Peters said, after delicately unfolding the charred remains. “See here,” he pointed, “there’s a pick-axe next to a number as well as the Periodic Table symbol for the mineral claim. Number and mineral—quick reference.”

“These would appear to be the missing papers from Stern’s safe.” 

Peters unfolded the remaining papers. They lay scattered on the bed like a quilt caked in soot.

“How many claims do we have here?” Schubert asked.

“Tough to say, sir. There was a lot of paper in the stove.” Peters pulled apart another wad of partially burned papers. “More claim records, I reckon. What would Nilsson want with these?”

“Do we assume that Nilsson killed Stern and Janzen? That would mean he’s Walter Penner. He might also be Wraith. How else would he have these in his possession?”

“Janzen might have reserved the room at Murdoch’s for Nilsson.” 

“Mmm.” Schubert seemed lost in thought. “There’s something else we’re not seeing. Is he meeting someone? Is there a cache of supplies waiting? Is he bivouacking before the next stage of…of what?”

Peters said: “If Nilsson is hiding out at a claim, someone’s going to go missing. Wraith kills to keep his movements secret. By the time we hear about it, that someone will be dead and he’ll have vanished—again.”

“So we’re possibly back to a bivouac. The question then is, what or who is he waiting for?”

Peters shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

“I’m tired of playing catch-up. We’re always one step behind.” Schubert paced, looking out the grimy window onto the street below. A few pedestrians strolled back and forth, gradually receding from his view. Snow was lightly falling. The air was still, which Schubert thought unusual.

“Peters, we need to start some fires in Ottawa. I’m sending telexes to the Department Of Defense and our Ottawa detachment. Maybe the answers we don’t get will shed light on what’s happening here.”

They returned to the station and Schubert straight his office. He slapped a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign on his door. To the men within earshot, it sounded as if Schubert was beating his typewriter. He was so intent on writing his memos he lost track of time. When he eventually looked up, the wall clock informed him he had been writing for two hours.

Peters, without the distraction of memoranda to write and focus his frustration, filed reports from the past week, trying to appear busy when all he wanted to do was get back on the street and work the clues.

Constable Alexander approached his desk, waving a piece of paper. 

“Bart, this telex came for you, from Crowley Maritime in Vancouver.”

“Crowley?” 

“Yeah. They own the Galliano.” He passed it over. 

 Peters scanned the telex. Suddenly, he burst from his chair, so unexpectedly he nearly knocked Alexander over. 

“Sorry Colin!” Peters yelled over his shoulder. He rapped his knuckles on the glass and entered Schubert’s office.

“Read the sign, Peters!” Schubert continued typing, without looking up.

“You want to read this, boss,” Peters said as he entered the office, passing the memo over. 

Schubert began to read. In contrast to Peters, when Schubert had finished, he remained as calm as a summer breeze. 

“Get all the manpower we have over to Tussaud’s—now. Bring the sharpshooters.”

They rendezvoused a block from Tussaud’s. Schubert looked at the manpower assembled: these were good men. He could count on them. He quickly reviewed the operation. 

“I want rifles front and back on both rooftops. If he tries to leave by a window, shoot above him: we want him alive. Alexander, Tournamille—take the side door,” he said, pointing. “Simpson and Larsson, you’re at the back door. No one leaves until I say. If anyone tries, knock them senseless—you have my blessing. Any questions?” 

The men checked their gear; the riflemen crunched a load into their Winchesters. Peters chambered a round into the shotgun; he passed it over to Schubert. 

“Davis, Peters—you’re with me. All right men, let’s do this by the book. I’m walking through the front door in thirty-seconds.”

The men scattered to their assigned positions. Schubert waited at the front door, focused on his watch. Then, he nodded to Peters: they burst through the door with Schubert in the lead.

“Müller,” Schubert called out to the barman, “is he still here?” he motioned with the shotgun.

The barman nodded. “See for yourself. Been-in there since-I-dunno, maybe,” he shrugged. “Fuck-if-I-know.”

Peters remained at the front door, eyes on the few men in the bar. They were neither impressed nor concerned: violence of varying degrees was part of Northern life.

Upstairs, Schubert pounded on the door. 

“Müller, open up! Police.” He hit the door again. “You’ve got five-seconds.” Schubert motioned to Davis. “Kick it down.” 

Davis, a big man at well over two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, gave a short kick. The door flew backwards. Schubert swept left and right with the shotgun.

The room was empty. 

 “Shit!” Schubert yelled. He left the room, head down, seeing red and stopped in front of the few men sitting at the tables.

Chevalier spoke first. “Hey Schubér! The crate of whiskee,” he began.

“Not today, not now, Jean,” Schubert warned. 

Chevalier shrugged. “The guy you looking for, he lef’ ‘bout two hour ago.”

“Anyone with him? Anyone come here to meet him?”

“Didn’ see no one.” Jean turned around, his chair scraping the old timber floor. “‘How ‘bout the ress-a-you-guyz?” Nobody volunteered anything further. “Sorry, Schubér. What more kin-I-say?” He shrugged in a typically Gallic manner. 

Schubert nodded, which was about all the thanks Chevalier would receive. 

“Peters, I’m walking back to the station. Davis, Simpson—check the other rooms. We’ll debrief when you return.” 

By the time Schubert returned to the station, the adrenalin rush had worn off, and he felt the cold seeping through his coat. He shivered but his anger burned. He was livid at their combined impotence to get a foothold in the case. He shuffled up the stone steps and heaved open the door, cradling shotgun in his left hand. The duty officer, Stan Pedersen, one of Doc Pedersen’s boys, stood behind a big oaken counter. 

“You might want to stow that shotgun with me before you head to your office, sir.”

Schubert was deep in thought. He turned to Pedersen and then looked at what he was carrying. 

“Huh? Right, thanks Pedersen.” He crunched out the round and placed the shotgun and cartridge on the counter. “Breech is empty.”

“One more thing, sir, you’ve got a visitor. Says he has information germane to a case you’re working on.”

“Thanks.” 

He ascended the stairs and entered the inner sanctum. Aiden Quinn stood in his office, examining pictures on the wall. Schubert cursed to himself—Quinn was the last person he wanted to see right now.

“What do you want?” Schubert asked, hanging his coat. 

“No mood for pleasantries?” Quinn said, attempting the mien of polite conversation.

“No, not even remotely interested.” Schubert retrieved his pipe. 

“Then let’s get to it, shall we?”

Schubert nodded: “Fine by me,” then filled his pipe.

“Three of my boys ran into someone yesterday, a very unsavory character, I might add, outside of Taylor & Drury Mercantile.”

“Town is full of ‘em,” Schubert replied, the pipe clenched between his teeth. He struck a match and lit the bowl.

Quinn chuckled. “Keiren, the oldest of the three, told me the man is built like an oak tree, solid. Barely even moved when the boys ran into him.”

“Chose the wrong mark to pick pockets?” Schubert asked, releasing a plume of smoke into the air. 

“Hardly. Just three boys rough-housing on the boardwalk, is all. Look, you’re beginning to bore me, sir. Do you want the damned information or not?”

Schubert nodded.

“This man, he drops a knife and not just any knife, mind you. There’s a swastika on the hilt and two small skulls. Pulls the blade out and caresses young Ruary’s throat. Claims he’s an ordinary bloke with a souvenir. Bollocks, is what I say to that—that was a bloody SS dagger.”

“This man,” Schubert asked, willing his heart to slow. “Did Keiren describe him?”

“The boy said he was tall and he moved like a lion with eyes deader than cold steel. His voice was strange, or so Keiren said. ‘Bottomless’ he said, like it was comin’ straight out of Fingal’s Cave.”

Or hell itself, thought Schubert. Did Keiren run into Nilsson?

“Your lad, Keiren: he was sure about the swastika and death’s head? This isn’t the case of an imagination running wild?”

“There’s not much that can rattle an Irish lad, growin’ up on the streets and all. Keiren’s had his fair share of scraps and dust-ups but he’s got a keen eye and a cool head when it matters most. You can believe him.”

“Thanks, Quinn. One of my men will see you out.”

Quinn stood. “You’re in my back pocket, Schubert. Don’t forget the quid pro quo. I’ll see myself out. Good hunting.”

Peters passed Quinn on his way out, not at all pleased to see him at the station. 

“Boss, the room was clean.” He shook his head, leaning on Schubert’s desk. “Nothing left. How wide do we cast the net?”

Schubert ignored the question. “Sit down, Peters. I have news from Quinn.” He closed his office door. “One of Quinn’s lads bumped into a man, literally mind you, and claims the man brandished a knife: an SS dagger, if we’re to believe him.”

Peters gave a low whistle. “Not something you’ll find at second-hand store.”

“The description the lad gave is concerning. It corroborates what Abram Funk told us. It could be a match for Nilsson or Penner, even down to the voice.”

Peters thought a moment. “Help me out, here. Müller, at Doherty’s, his manifest is found to be a forgery. There’s no record of him or his tools arriving on the HMS Galliano.  We’ve double-checked: this isn’t the case of lost manifests. If he’s not Wraith, why arrive with bonafides, only to be discovered that they’re false?”

“A deserter? I think not. His cover is too elaborate.”

Peters said: “Right there, and Whitehorse would be the last place a deserter would choose. We’re too damn far from anywhere.”

“And where exactly are you going to desert to?” Schubert added. “And at this time of year? Müller has to be involved. We just don’t know how.” 

“Nilsson or possibly Penner was at the Lucky Strike. Now, he’s on the run and could be Wraith. What the hell, sir?”

“Exactly, Peters—what in the hell is going on. Let’s presume for a moment we have not one but two enemy agents in Whitehorse.”

“We’re still no further ahead trying to understand Wraith’s plan. Two agents makes even less sense than one.”

Schubert gnawed on the end of a pencil. “Hear me out, Peters. If we have two agents, what’s the larger scene in play? The gold rush is long over; the oil pipeline might be finished in three years; the copper is buried God knows where; we’ve no oil or diamonds. We’ve got moose, caribou, bear, a short rail spur from Skagway and a flight into Vancouver once daily.” 

“Have you sent those telexes to MOD and our Ottawa detachment? Might be worth revising them and inform them on developments these last few hours.”

Schubert reached over for a file on his desk. 

“Here they are. ‘Nazi’s in Whitehorse?’ They’re going to laugh me out of the force, Peters: first singing and now, this. If I telex MOD and head office and tell them there are a couple of German agents running freely up here…”

“Assuming Müller is a German agent,” Peters interrupted. “Back to a draft dodger? Could any number of reasons why his bonafides are fake.” Schubert began to object. “I know, it’s unlikely but until we can prove his passport was forged, assuming we find him, the reasons for his quick disappearance could be innocent. So he lied about tools and his profession. That’s not exactly a crime.”

Schubert nodded, continuing. “OK, granted, but there’s that word again—innocent. I’m between the rock and the proverbial hard place. HQ and MOD are libel to think I’ve got cabin fever.” He threw the papers back onto the desk. “Let’s assume Müller and Nilsson are agents. What are their options? To leave Whitehorse, they need either a plane to Vancouver or the White Pass to Skagway. We can strike off Vancouver, since that’s where Müller’s just arrived from. Anything happening in Whitehorse worthy of enemy agents?”

Peters said nothing.

“I assumed as much,” Schubert said.

“What’s the alternative, sir? Say nothing? If that’s the case, we need to prove Müller’s manifest was misplaced, that he’s not a Swiss national and Quinn’s lads bumped into a veteran with a smuggled souvenir.”

“We still have five murders between Blue River and here. That is a fact and can’t be disputed. As well as the papers in Nilsson’s stove, linking him to Stern and Janzen.”

“I know your thoughts on coincidences, sir. This is the queen of all of them.”

“Too many loose ends, Peters.” He slammed the desk. “Damocles’ sword is hanging by the thread. Dammit Peters, I’m sending the telexes. ”

“Don’t worry, sir. If the thread snaps, I’ve got your back.”

That night, Schubert walked home through a heavy snow storm. The snow barreled through the darkness, thick and fast, stinging his face, freezing to his eyelashes. Snow collected on his coat; soon his hat was covered. He noticed a curious orange glow at the north end of town. In the distance, the fire truck’s bell pealed through the cold air. A building was on fire, somewhere in town. 

He wasn’t looking forward to another evening alone. He felt Louise’s absence throughout the house. Is she thinking of me, he wondered, or am I already forgotten? He still couldn’t understand her reasons for such a quick departure. She must have been more unhappy than I realized, he thought, increasing his stride. How could I have missed that? When he got home, he gathered the mail. A letter postmarked “Toronto” was among his post. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. He tossed his coat over a chair and the letter on the kitchen table. There wasn’t much in the house for dinner. He made a shopping list. Maybe I’ll have a nap before dinner, he thought. After starting a fire, he lay down on the couch and slept.

At around 6:30 p.m. the phone rang. Schubert woke with a start, groggy and in a mental fog. He stumbled to the telephone.

“Yes? Hello?” he mumbled, suddenly aware of how cold the room had become.

“Boss, did I wake you?” It was Peters.

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. What is it?”

“Two fires. One at George Jeckell’s. House is totally destroyed.”

“And?” Schubert pulled a chair over and sat down. “How does this concern us?”

“There’s a body, probably Jeckell.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“Alright, I’ll be ready when you arrive.”

By the time Peters showed up, the storm was over. Six inches of new snow lay on the ground. The night sky opened up. A waxing crescent moon slipped between cloud cover.  When they arrived at Jeckell’s house, the air was rank with the smell of charred wood. Smoke and steam rose lazily around them, blocking the night sky, blurring the firemen, now rolling hoses, preparing to depart.

“Evening Schubert, Peters,” Ron Jackson, Whitehorse’s fire chief said, shaking hands with them both.

Jackson led them through the wreckage of Jeckell’s home. A body lay huddled in the corner of what was, a few hours ago, Jeckell’s living room.

“Any ideas on how the fire started?” Schubert asked, stepping carefully though the wreckage.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably knocked a lamp over. Maybe he was drunk and couldn’t get out.”

“Jeckell drunk? Not likely, at least from what I know of him by reputation.” 

Something on the ground caught Schubert’s eye. 

“Peters, give me a hand.” They moved some timbers out of the way. “If I’m not mistaken, these are Jim Beam bottles.”

“For a guy who doesn’t drink, three bottles is a lousy way to start,” Peters said, combing the floor for any other evidence.

“And it appears George is holding onto another.” Schubert bent down for a closer look at the corpse. “Still has his wedding ring on. How long has his wife been dead?”

Neither Jackson nor Peters could say for sure. 

“This was our second call tonight,” Jackson said, leading them out of the  wreckage. 

Schubert nodded. “Yes, I thought I saw a fire on my walk home. No fatalities?”

“No, but the fire was Jeckell’s business. It’s a total loss. We were lucky the entire block didn’t go up in flames.”

Schubert said: “An upstanding citizen with no priors, loses his business and his life the same night.”

“Suicide? Did he burn his business and then drink himself until he was paralytic? Terrible way to die.” Peters remembered the burn victims he treated during the war. “The agony is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed.”

“What’s the time frame between the two fires?” Schubert asked.

“About three hours. I sent one of my men to alert Jeckell, but there was no answer. We assumed Jeckell was somewhere else in town.”

“We’ll never know what his frame of mind was, if indeed he did torch his business. There’s nothing more to be done tonight. Let’s go.”

Is this the future of my town, Schubert thought, saddened by another death. Is this my life now? My days framed by murder, drunkenness, disorder? He made his way to the cruiser, dinner forgotten, fearing sleep hounded by dreams he didn’t understand.