Chapter 22

Back in Whitehorse, Genevieve and Schubert discuss what possible motives Jäger's presence implies. Both suspect the Irish of aiding the spies, but have no proof. Kitty Murdoch is questioned about Von Sonnenfeld. 

Chapter 22

Peters arrived early the next morning. The cabin was still. He entered, surprised that the noise of the dogs hadn’t woken either Schubert or Geneviève. Nilsson/Penner was dead, that much was obvious. He knelt next to Schubert. 

“Sir,” he said, gently shaking him. “We’ve arrived—Simpson and I.”

Schubert woke, momentarily disoriented. His eyes darted too and fro, finally settling on Peters.

He propped himself up. “Good to see you so soon,” he said, rubbing his face. “Let’s get a fire going and eat before the return journey. We’re going to need it.” 

Simpson turned the table over and cleared some debris. He kicked Nilsson’s pack away from the table. A passport fell out. He blew off the dust and handed it over. 

“Sven Nilsson,” Simpson said, passing it over.

Schubert said: “It’s another of Jäger’s aliases. Jäger is Sven Nilsson. Our dead man has three alias’s. We’ll never know who he was.”

“Jäger? What do you mean?”

“Last night he confessed his real name as Colonel Josef Jäger of the SS. But we can safely assume he was Wraith.”

“Whatever his name was, it’s not important,” Peters added. “He got what was his.”

Geneviève stirred at the sound of their voices. Unlike Schubert, she awoke with the fright of the hunted, confused by the corpse nearby. 

Schubert knelt beside her. “Easy, Geneviève.” A few moments later he said, “Do you remember anything from last night?”

She turned towards the corpse; she shook her head. 

“No, nothing…I fired into the rafters but after…” she pointed to the corpse, “…that man fell—nothing.” 

Schubert said: “Simpson, get a fire going, would you? Bart,” he motioned outside, “with me for a moment.”

The two officers stood in the early morning light. It was a beautiful morning, the sky a robin’s egg blue, the forest groaning under the weight of freshly fallen snow. 

“As of right now, only you and I know she killed him. I’ve decided not to recommend charges to the Crown. In fact, I’m bloody not going to report her involvement at all. I won’t ask you to lie on the report but if you disagree, I’ll respect that. If it costs me my job, so be it.”

Peters hesitated only a moment. 

“I’ve spent the night thinking about what happened. I noticed no noose this morning. You burned it, I imagine. Your cuffs are back on your belt and mine are…”

Schubert pulled them from his coat and passed them over. 

“Back on my belt,” Peters continued. “Therefore, I’d have to argue it was self-defense. Merciful Christ, what the poor girl has gone through, I’d never say anything else.”

They returned inside. Geneviève sat against the far wall, furthest from the dead man. The room had warmed some and Simpson had water on and bacon frying. Schubert rummaged through the provisions and found a bottle of whisky. He poured a tumbler for Geneviève. 

She drank it in one shot. “More,” she said.

Schubert poured her another. She knocked it back. Her eyes were glazing over, the alcohol having little resistance in her empty stomach.

Simpson departed first with Jäger’s body. Peters took James’s body on his sled. There was no conversation on the return trip, leaving Schubert ample time to think. He had a dead German agent with ties to murders in Blue River; a bureaucrat from MOD had seconded Geneviève—Schubert’s memos had touched a nerve, but beyond that, he was no closer to discerning what other forces might be in play. Jäger was only one brick in the wall—even a civilian policeman could deduce a one man operation on enemy soil, thousands of miles from the theater of war, was doomed to failure. There were other conspirators but where and for what purpose, he couldn’t say.

Geneviève lay against Schubert. Her body was slack and she weaved with the sled as it bounced along the trail. Her eyes were locked onto the blanket covering her brother’s remains. When they reached Whitehorse, the bodies were interred at the hospital. Peters drove his boss and Geneviève back to Schubert’s place. 

Back in his home, Schubert had difficulty reconciling the past twenty-four hours. They had experienced death as intimately as one never hoped to and yet, had survived. Now, he was back home, the front walkway covered in snow and the blue curtains winking in the sun. He gathered an issue of the Globe and Mail from the mailbox. It was (regrettably) two weeks old. The letter from Toronto still lay on the kitchen counter.

“Let me start a fire, then I’ll run you a bath,” Schubert said, removing Geneviève’s fur coat—Louise’s prized mink now matted in blood. Only two days had passed since she’d survived her first ordeal. Here he was, helping her again. 

As soon as the stove was crackling, he filled the tub, once again hoping for a miracle. Geneviève sat on a chair, unmoving. 

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said. “You’ll be alright.” 

“No,” she said, holding his arm as he opened the bathroom door.

She began to undress and the blood soaked clothes fell to the floor, one piece at a time. She stood before him, naked but this was no seduction. In fact, he sensed no eroticism from her, at all. He was confused. Had her ‘no’ meant she was not alright, or did it signify she wouldn’t let what happened break her will? He couldn’t say. She stepped into the water, interrupting his thoughts, her back towards him, the scars winking their wicked smile. She slowly lowered herself and eventually, her entire body was underwater. It began to turn a milky pink. She held herself underneath for sometime. Schubert’s concern mounted. He was about to pull her up when she slowly ascended. 

“We’ll talk when you’re ready,” he said, closing the door. He was worried for her. She looked broken and he had no idea how to help her.

A half-hour later, Schubert heard Geneviève descending the stairs. She was dressed in Louise’s pajamas and night gown. 

“The hand-me-downs are a little big,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He handed her a cup of coffee. “I’m very sorry about James.”

“Thank you.” She sat next to Schubert. “I’ve been thinking about the dead man. The amount of blood on the coat and my clothes can only mean one thing. I killed him, didn’t I?I’m prepared to face prison,” she said.

“No, for now, we’ll have no talk of prison. But I would like your thoughts about the past twenty-four hours.”

“OK.” She settled back against the sofa.

“The man who killed James has multiple alias. He was known as Walter Penner, a CO, as Sven Nilsson, a Swedish engineer, and finally as a colonel in the German army—Josef Jäger. I believe he’s the same man who murdered two prospectors and a policeman in Blue River. He also murdered two COs and Itzhak Stern, an assayer in town. And then, there’s your brother.”

Geneviève said: “That many deaths in such a short time—it certainly feels like a military operation gone wrong.”

“A compounding of errors?” Schubert asked for clarification. 

“Something like that—only with deadly consequences. We can assume his rôle is other than a hired assassin sent by a foreign government. From a military perspective, none of the targets have any value.”

“OK, so he must be part of the scenario Power discussed with you. It makes no sense otherwise. Jäger was in possession of a small fortune. First, the Prussian gold coins. There must be a couple of pounds of them. We found diamonds and Canadian money sewn into his duffle. There was a  Luger lying in the snow and he was carrying an SS dagger. He carried no identification proving he was Colonel Josef Jäger, so I don’t know if that was a red herring.” 

Geneviève was silent for a moment. Schubert waited.

“Did you find a tattoo under his forearm? The SS are tattooed with their blood type. It’s the simplest way to identify them.”

“Jäger had a small scar under his forearm but there was no discernible pattern.”

“There is only one identity. Whether or not his name was Jäger, I can’t say but gold and diamonds are the currency of spies—it can be cashed anywhere. Depending upon the amount, he might have been sent to stay here for the duration of the war or even longer. After Whitehorse, a move to Vancouver or Toronto—spread disinformation, finance rebellion. The dagger is more than circumstantial. It is a badge of honor to the SS, a reminder of their pledge of faithfulness unto death. That and the Luger point to a German operation, unless someone is going to a lot of trouble to make it look German.”

“And that line of thinking is a dead-end. We have to operate on the assumption he was Colonel Josef Jäger. How did he arrive?”

“There’s one plausible explanation: have there been any reports of submarines off the Alaskan coast? That would be the most logical way. In France, we had low-level intel suggesting the Germans were sending agents to the US. At the time, it was dismissed because of the extreme odds against any kind of success.”

“The war is turning towards the Allies—if we’re to believe the press. What if Hitler is that desperate?”

“A one man operation? The expense and the odds against success become so great as to guarantee failure. We can be certain there are more agents involved. Jäger wasn’t sent here to kill indiscriminately, especially given the location. Power’s appearance is a clue. Something bigger is at play.”

“And I fear we are the pawns.”

“You sent numerous telexes to various government agencies, receiving perfunctory responses or nothing at all. And suddenly a mid-level bureaucrat arrives, with power to reinstate me and my brother. Perhaps someone in Ottawa is worried.”

“Or they’re playing along with whoever is the mastermind. If there were a legitimate, verifiable threat, I would expect the army to show up.”

“That’s not how spy-craft operates. When I was in France, try as they did, the Germans couldn’t stop the Resistance, despite their considerable advantage of matériel. We were effective because of the fluid command within small cells. We could change tactics at a moment’s notice. Armies are not able to do this.”

“You believe there is a nest of spies here? In Whitehorse?”

She nodded. “That is the only reasonable explanation.”

“So much for ‘reasonable,’ but there’s something we haven’t considered: what if it’s not an operation aimed at Canadians? Then who? The Yanks building the highway? That’s more difficult to believe in than the parting of the Red Sea.” He poured another cup of coffee. “Do we bring Power in?”

“You uncovered the one possible link—Jäger. We could shut Power out, although he might be an ally.”

A knock came from the front door, interrupting the conversation.

Schubert frowned. “Not sure why Peters has returned. Hold on.” 

He opened the door. It was Power at the door, at least Schubert assumed him to be, based on his memory of the man in Geneviève’s café. 

“I don’t suppose you’re here to talk about federal budgets for highway construction. Come in.” Schubert closed the door. “We’re in the kitchen.”

Schubert poured another cup of coffee and handed it over. He enjoyed the look of confusion, however brief, that crossed Power’s face. And like any bureaucrat unable to think geometrically, he spouted policy.

“You were ordered to speak only to me. You’re under the Wartime Secrets Act. You’ll go to prison for this.”

Schubert loathing of bureaucracy and the petty nature of this man coalesced; he wound up, throwing a right hook that sent Powers’ coffee onto the wall and Power with it, a second later. 

Power sat up, wiping blood from his mouth. “And you, I’ll make certain…”

“Of what?” Schubert interrupted. “You bloody stupid man, you have no idea what’s been going on, what we’ve been through in the past twenty-four hours. All you know, I can only assume, is what I’ve written in a handful of telexes meant for eyes other than your own. So you can cut the pissing contest, right here and right now. People have died and you are fixated on jurisdiction.” 

Power looked to contradict Schubert, but the scowl on the man standing above him persuaded him otherwise. 

They both cooled off. Schubert offered a hand. Power took it as a sign of goodwill and stood. 

The three sat around the kitchen table. For Geneviève, it took her back to France, when she, her brother and others would plan operations or discuss strategy. She had trusted those people with her life. Of the two she was with now, only Schubert had her confidence. 

Schubert told Power the entire story, beginning in Blue River and ending with Jäger’s death. Power, on the other hand, was not as forthcoming.

“I can only say that MOD has intel the points a major operation in this region,” Power said, wiping blood from his face.

“What he means,” Geneviève clarified, “is that either MOD has no idea what is happening or they haven’t told him, due to his rank.” 

Power glanced her way, disapproval written on his face. 

She said: “For you, the war has existed on communiqués and briefs. For those of us who have been on the front line, it has been paid in blood. You want my help? Then quit wasting my time.” 

Power debated the wisdom of opening up, but he was smart enough to realize he needed allies, on the ground. He may have been a ‘petty bureaucrat of little rank’ but he was a quick learner and appraiser of character. Geneviève was right: he needed Schubert on his side. 

“MOD is aware of an operation called ‘Sanskrit.’ We think it relates to Nazi activity on foreign soil.” He told them both about operations ‘Magpie’ and ‘Pastorius.’ 

Geneviève shifted in her chair. “OK, then the intel we received in France was real.”

“Yes, quite right, and this intel is one hundred percent credible. The head of Gestapo revealed ‘Sanskrit’ to his mistress,” Power said to Schubert. “Adolf is one desperate son-of-a-bitch, if he thinks a third operation can succeed when the first two failed. All we know is ‘Sanskrit’ is some sort of enemy incursion—three or four men, maybe more.”

“The previous operations would’ve been mounted to spread terror or gather intelligence,” Geneviève added. “There are no physical targets in the Yukon worth this kind of operation. The highway to Alaska isn’t a target. It’s too vast and there are too many Americans involved. The Japanese should be more concerned since the Americans can access Japan from the Aleutian’s. There’s also no target here in the American chain of command worth assassinating.”

Schubert leaned back in his chair. “Assassination…what if that’s it? Someone arriving by airplane or rail, someone whose assassination the Nazi’s believe will turn the war in their favor. Is this part of the operation, Power?”

Power laid his hands on the table, palms up, like a poker player folding. 

“My chain of command has kept me dark on this. All I know is the code word ‘Sanskrit.’ I was told to find evidence to corroborate the theory that Sanskrit was real. I’m here because you sent telexes to Ottawa that landed on my desk. That’s all I know.”

“I believe him,” Geneviève said. “This was a fishing expedition. What does that tell us?”

Schubert filled the kettle and set it on the stove. “It tells us there’s a possible operation happening on our soil that our government isn’t concerned about.” He sat down, next to Geneviève. “But I’m bloody concerned and even more angry about it. People are dead because of this. Her brother died because of this.”

“I’m sorry but I’m the last person in Ottawa who could’ve changed that outcome.”

“So, then who’s helping the Nazis?” Geneviève said. “If this operation is probable, then the Germans have to have local help.”

“Who are the most likely suspects?” Power asked. 

“We’ve had no other reports of suspicious activity. There’s only one other person I can think of who might know what’s going on,” Schubert replied, reaching for some mugs. “If that’s a dead-end, then we’re back to square one. Geneviève, is there some make-up at your place, enough to hide my impetuous work on Power’s face?” 

The kettle began to whistle. Schubert reached over and turned off the gas.

“I can disguise the bruises.”

“Good. Power, I was once a man of the stage as I’m sure you read in my dossier. I sense some untapped talent in you. Would you use some of that privilege-of-bureaucracy mien to play the role of a supercilious bureaucrat hell-bent for evidence of treason?”

“I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but yeah, I can play that card.”

“How about we organize our little play. As of this moment, you’re from the office of the Chief Military Judge, here to flush out our own enemy collaborators. The Germans won’t be soliciting help from random miners or trappers. If they are getting help, it may be coming from the Irish. I suggest we pay a visit to Aiden Quinn. I’m going to call his bluff. If I’m wrong, the game is up.” 

Schubert rang the station. “Peters, pick us up as soon as possible. Get Simpson to bring a second squad car. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” He rang off. “If this ruse of mine succeeds, our jail will soon be full of the Irish.”

The three of them talked and made preparations, the coffee already forgotten.

A light breeze blew in from the south and with it came unseasonably warm temperatures. A melt had begun, albeit prematurely, leaving the roads slick. Schubert hoped Peters could negotiate the hill down to the Irish camp. 

“We’ll make it there, sir, and I’ll park you right outside their door. There’ll be no losing face on my account,” Peters assured his passengers, having affixed chains to the cruiser’s rear wheels.

Schubert turned to Power. “Are you ready? Quinn can smell a poser from a mile away. You’ve got to be the role.” 

Power nodded. 

“OK, then, let’s do this.”

Peters shifted into low and drove the cruiser a few yards from the tent city’s main entrance. Paddy O’Daly stood at the gate, planted in the same spot. Schubert wondered if the man ever moved. He has his suspicions O’Daly would, especially when called upon to do Quinn’s dirty work.

“Stand aside Patrick. I’m here to see Quinn.”

“My ma calls me Patrick. Feck off, copper or my shillelagh is likely to kiss your face. This time it’ll be real.”

Schubert pulled his service revolver and cocked the hammer. 

“You hear that, you blind bastard? I presume you can also hear another man’s breathing. I have Jonas Power with me. He’s from the Chief Military Judge’s office in Ottawa. Perhaps you would like to mess with him also? If I don’t shoot you first, you’ll spend the rest of your days in Kingston, far from the micks you call your mates. Better yet, you might swing before this is all over.” 

O’Daly stepped forward and raised the shillelagh. 

Schubert held his ground. “If you came all the way from Ireland only to spend the rest of your life in prison, then I misjudged you, O’Daly.”

O’Daly hesitated a moment longer and then stepped aside.

“Quinn’s in his tent. You know the way.”

“Well done, Patrick. There’s hope for you yet.” 

Schubert couldn’t remember seeing such a derelict sampling of humanity. With the warmer weather, the stench of sewage followed them step for step; men sat around fires, drinking and the few woman they passed regarded them with hostility. They weaved their way through tents and fire pits, eventually reaching Quinn’s dwelling.

“Quinn! It’s Schubert. I’ve left my monkey at home. I need a word.” He stamped his feet—the cold had quickly sapped any warmth gained from the ride over.

Quinn emerged from the tent, surprised to see another man with him. 

“I’m in no mood for conversation,” he said, “but I fear I have no choice.”

There was no whisky poured this time around.

“You’ve not introduced your guest, Schubert.” 

Quinn’s eyes missed nothing: Schubert was sure he’d already guessed Power was a government official.

“This is Special Prosecutor Jonas Power from the office of the Chief Military Judge in Ottawa.”

“Tryin’ to impress me with friends in high places? The both of you can feck off.”

Jonas slipped into character. “We’ve tracked three enemy agents, here, in Whitehorse. Your lads, I’ve been told by Inspector Schubert, identified one of them not more than a few days ago. Just yesterday, we captured him at the cabin of James Sinclair. He’s in custody. He’s been telling us a tale, and a right interesting one at that.”

Power paused a second. Who was playing the better game at not flinching first, Schubert was unable to discern. 

“He goes by different names—Walter Penner, Sven Nilsson and Colonel Josef Jäger. Which do you know him by?”

Quinn said nothing.

“Would you care to know what he told us?”

Quinn poured himself glass of whisky. 

“I feckin’ don’t give a goddamn what he said, nor what you have to say about it.”

“Yes, I thought as much.” Power was in no hurry to continue. “Are you familiar with what my office investigates?”

Quinn shook his head. “No, nor do I wanna know.”

“Treason. During war, my office has special powers granted through a parliamentary committee whose sole oversight comes through the Prime Minister’s Office. The Prime Minister reviews these cases. No jury is required. A sole judge determines a prisoner’s fate. Are you following me?”

“So you’re Hangin’ Judge Begbie in the flesh.”

Power ignored the jibe. “Jäger, Nilsson, Penner—however you knew him—is financing an operation, here. We’ve confiscated diamonds, gold coins and fake identification. His orders were to gain the confidence of nationals, sympathetic of their cause. George Jeckell,” Power continued. “I presume you’ve heard of him?”

Quinn nodded again.

“His death was no accident. Your men were seen entering his home the night of the fire. Their actions have helped an enemy of the state. They’ll probably hang for it.”

“That’s a load of shite and you know it!” Quinn shouted.

“How else would Jäger get the required TNT for the mission? He didn’t off-load it from a submarine, that’s for damn sure. And you can’t purchase TNT unless you have a mining permit signed by George Jeckell himself. The crime is called ‘aiding and abetting,’” Power continued, ignoring Quinn. “Your boys may not have killed Jeckell but they are involved and they will hang.” 

Quinn swirled the remainder of his whiskey and drank it. He became quiet for a moment—a moment too long, Schubert thought. The man’s conscience, or what was left of it, was begging for release.

“They didn’t kill him. It was an accident. The crazy bastard threw an oil lamp and it burst into flames. He just sat there, welcoming the flames, like he wanted to die.”

The crux of the theatre playing out among them was about to enter the final act. Either Quinn would spill the name of whomever sent his men to Jeckell’s or hesitate and realize Schubert had nothing. 

He poured another shot and downed it. 

“Kitty Murdoch came askin’ for a favor for a lodger at her place. A Baron von Sonnenfeld—sounds pretentious as all hell. He needed some bogus claims signed. That’s all I know.”

Schubert silently cursed. Another agent missed. Kitty had deliberately misled them.

“Go on, tell us the rest.”

“Explosives! Do I need to spell it out for you! The man needed TNT but for God only knows what. He’s no more a miner than I’m a bloody copper.”

“So they have TNT. What’s the target?”

Quinn said nothing. 

Schubert left the tent and hailed Peters. 

“Get Simpson. Gather up O’Daly and his mutt Fagan. Cuff the both of them. And mind the shillelagh!”

Schubert pulled the cuffs from his coat pocket. 

“Turn around, Quinn. You’re under arrest. You can forget about the quid pro quo. If your men don’t swing from the rope, they’ll spend a few decades in Kingston. You might not swing, but neither will you see the light of day for at least ten years, I reckon.”

“This revelation from Quinn,” Schubert said, as the squad car slowly pulled away. “Baron von Sonnenfeld, Kitty Murdoch—I’d like to throttle that woman. Bart, do you think she’s wittingly aiding the enemy?”

Peters said, “No way sir, I don’t think she would knowingly help them. Everyone knows she’s trying to buy a farm back home—Saskatchewan, I think, or maybe Alberta. She wouldn’t risk it only to be tried for treason. Von Sonnenfeld probably offered a hefty bribe for Jeckell’s signature. My bet is she wanted the money.”

“I believe you’re right, Bart. Money is her primary moral compass. She might do almost anything for a dollar but I don’t think that includes selling out her country. She’s being played—for a price, mind you. Jonas, you were brilliant, but you can sit this next act out. Peters, it’s time to pay our local Madame a visit.”

It was mid-afternoon when Schubert, Peters and Simpson entered the bar. Kitty sensed they hadn’t come for a drink. 

 “You have a lodger here, a Baron von Sonnenfeld. Which room is he in?” Schubert asked. 

She leaned back against the bar, unimpressed. “There’s no one by that name in my book. Check yourself.”

“We’ve just spoken with Aiden Quinn, now enjoying a cold cell courtesy Her Majesty. He’s told us an interesting story.

“You lied, deliberately and your lies may be linked to murder. Your dream of owning a farm could very well be interrupted by twenty years in prison.”

Peters continued. “Von Sonnenfeld is an enemy of the state. He’s a prime suspect in a murder here. You’ve no doubt heard George Jeckell died. Well, we know von Sonnenfeld is behind it. We have a statement from Aiden Quinn and Paddy O’Daly who conspired with him. Take us to his room, now.”

“Ok, Ok! He’s here but he can’t be an enemy agent. He gave me a Swiss passport. He’s neutral,” she protested, but much less sure of herself.

Schubert added: “Miss, you are giving sanctuary to a spy, posing as a Swiss national. We’re at war. This is a capital offense.”

Kitty needed no other persuasion. She reached behind into her safe and pulled out a passport. 

“Here’s his passport. He’s upstairs, I think. I’ve been out.”

“Which room?” Schubert asked.

“Room Two.” She paused. “And mine—the first in the hallway.”

“Are the other rooms occupied?”

“Yes.” She checked for the other keys, also in the safe. “Everyone is out.” 

Schubert said: “Peters—you have the men positioned?”

Peters nodded. “There’s no chance of escape. Windows, doors—they’re all covered.”

Schubert’s slid a .38 from his holster. 

“Kitty, wait for us in your office. Gentlemen,” he said, turning to his officers. “Let’s get this bastard.”

They ascended the stairs.

“On three,” Schubert said. “One, two…” 

At his command, both doors were kicked in. Schubert followed Peters into Kitty’s room. Von Sonnenfeld’s clothes lay on the divan. 

“He’s not here,” Peters said, returning from the bathroom.

Schubert called down the hallway. “Simpson!”

“Empty here sir, there’s a suitcase, some clothes, not much else so far.”

“Right. Peters, we’re tearing these rooms apart until we find something. Call in the other lads and let’s get busy.”

Schubert returned to Kitty, sitting in the office. 

“Tell me about this man. Everything.”

“He’s rich, well dressed, speaks like an aristocrat—knows what he wants.” She revealed more than she realized with the latter. “He said he was here representing a group of Swiss investors, interested in copper or building a refinery once the oil pipeline is finished. He was then going to Anchorage to speak to the Yanks about investing there, too.”

“Was he alone? Has anyone come here looking for him?”

“No, no one came. He did go out a few times—usually after playing poker. Walked mostly. I told him what a damn fool he was, especially in this weather.”

“Did he give any indication where he went? Why go for a walk in this weather? Aside from needing Jeckell’s signature, walking this time of year seems highly irregular.”

“He didn’t say. He’d just leave and return a while later.”

“He’s planning, sir,” Peters said. “Been meeting other agents, probably. Coordinating their next move.”

“Wait here.” Schubert returned to von Sonnenfeld’s room. “Simpson—any winter clothing in his luggage? Boots? Parka?”

“No. Mainly ‘Sunday-go-to-meeting’ type stuff. Fancy and well-tailored.” 

Schubert checked Kitty’s room once more. Aside from a gown and slippers, von Sonnenfeld left nothing behind.

Schubert returned to Murdoch’s office. 

“Were you ever in his room? Did you have any chance to observe what he might have packed?”

Kitty shook her head. “No. He insisted he keep his room key and it never occurred to me to go looking through his things. That’s your job.” Schubert’s questions had her on edge.

“I’ve a mind to throw you in jail, for a few months, if need be. You call me if he returns. There’s still the matter of Quinn and his goons, approached by yourself on von Sonnenfeld’s behalf.”

She protested. “He said he needed claim permits signed—yesterday. For whatever reason—he never told me—he couldn’t afford to wait; time was money. Whatever. All I did was ask Quinn to see if Jeckell would put von Sonnenfeld’s request at the top of the pile. Nothing more.”

Schubert leaned in. “You know damn well what asking Quinn means. Guile doesn’t suit you, Miss Murdoch. Keep clean for the next few days and I might consider not pressing charges.”

After the episode at Murdoch’s Schubert asked Peters to take him home. There was nothing more that they could accomplish this evening. The files on his desk were adding up, but he didn’t have the strength to face them. They weren’t going anywhere. The ordeal at James’ cabin, bluffing the Irish and then the added pressure of the raid at Murdoch’s had left him exhausted. When Peters dropped him off, he walked straight to the front door, and in his exhaustion failed to wish his friend ‘good night.’ 

The snow fell lightly around him, gracing his eyelashes. He brushed the snow from his face. He wasn’t looking forward to coming home to an empty house. The house would be cold; there would be no welcome from Louise. He stooped to pick up another (very late) edition of the Globe and Mail. None of the wartime headlines registered in his mind.

Once inside, he threw the paper into the fire box, next to the kindling. Fire, I should make a fire, he thought. Warmth—maybe a crackling fire would bring some life into the room. He set kindling and threw crumpled paper into the stove and lit a match. The front page of the Globe and Mail quickly burned and the kindling caught fire. He threw in a few larger sticks and then couple of logs. Gradually, the heat pulsed through the cast-iron door.

He sat in his favorite chair, next to the fire. The letter postmarked “Toronto” was still unopened. He was only mildly curious about the letter’s contents. He thought about eating but was too tired to even think of what to eat. Not even a single malt could coax him from the chair. He slipped his hat over his eyes and fell asleep. 

He woke a few hours later, stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. The fire had burned low, so he threw a few more logs in. Hunger gnawed at him, forcing him into the kitchen. There wasn’t much food inside the icebox—a few dozen eggs, some bacon, milk and cheese. The shopping list lay on the counter, where he left it a few days ago. Next to the butter, a jar of pickles—it was a gift from Peters’ wife, Louella. Beside the pickles stood an unopened jar of strawberry preserves—Louise had bought it during her last trip to the grocery store.

He made an omelette with bacon, and some buttered toast. The jam stood on the table, a reminder of who wasn’t sitting across from him. He picked at the eggs; the bacon tasted rancid. He ended up throwing most of his dinner away.

Afterwards, the fatigue he felt earlier began to lift. He returned to the living room, single malt in hand. His thoughts returned to Jäger, von Sonnenfeld, and Müller. And the dead. Never forget the dead, he thought. Henry Rempel. Dickinson and his family. Janzen. Stern. Nevertheless, the murdered had a way of pointing to their killer. Jäger left a trail of dead bodies from Blue River to Whitehorse. Henry Rempel had started it all. Old Henry had heard something and paid with his life. Lundin was collateral damage. Had Jäger fooled Lundin into sheltering him? Was Lundin greedy? Did he try to double-cross Jäger after seeing the gold coins? Whatever he did, he was dead because of it. Dickinson’s murder was all too clear: chained to the cell and probably burned alive, Jäger was covering his tracks, effectively and without remorse. Dickinson and Rempel, the pair of them were killed for the same reason: silence. Itzhak Stern—was he another double-cross? He had had the same coin as Lundin. Janzen was probably Jäger’s contact. Janzen must’ve been approached via a European contact. How else would he know Jäger? That much was confirmed by Abram Funk. Janzen was probably a pawn whose usefulness came to an abrupt end. He was another loose-end, as was Wall: both men could’ve identified Jäger. 

Von Sonnenfeld and Müller can’t be working alone, Schubert thought. Power must be right—there must be more enemy agents. But who would they recruit for help? If there were mercenaries to be hired, it wouldn’t be the Americans, nor the COs. Random trappers or miners? No, those men weren’t killers. That left only one possibility—it had to be the Irish. How could he get Quinn to talk? Schubert wasn’t sure if Power had the leverage to get any information out of him. Schubert poured himself another whisky and quickly drank it. He wasn’t going to solve the mystery tonight. 

He pulled himself from the chair and dampened the fire. As he ascended the stairs to his bedroom, he felt older than his years, like Louise’s leaving had accelerated his aging. He lay on the bed and wrapped himself in the blankets. Louise’s scent rose to meet him. He held onto her memory but even that, he knew, would soon be forgotten.