The Man Who Killed

by Fraser Nixon

  “You are wanted,” he sniffed.

  Jack stood and looked at me, then imperceptibly shook his head. Through the opening I saw a sitting room with a tall striking man standing with his back to the fire. He wore a toothbrush moustache. With a shock I saw it was Laura’s father, Sir Dunphy.

  “Then we’re square,” Jack said to the Senator.

  The Senator smiled and closed his eyes. I didn’t like his crafty look at all. Jack turned to me and said: “Siu sam.” Look out.

  The Senator stroked Rex. He spoke to me.

  “Your friend, how well do you know him?”

  “Depuis longtemps,” I said.

  “He has done the world a service, I think.”

  “Comment?”

  “There are, how do you say, a people who wish to destroy this world. Cosmopolitans who want impurity.”

  “Vraiment?”

  “Here, there. You have seen them in Russia. Now they work in Quebec.”

  “Cosmopolitans?”

  “Oui.”

  The Senator twirled the cigar, pushed it into his gueule, and rubbed his hands together in a grasping manner. Rex turned to look as the door slid back open. I was disgusted by the Senator’s words. Christ, the higher up the tree the more rotten the fruit. Jack re-entered. Sir Dunphy now faced the fire, his hands behind his back. The panel closed. Jack nodded at me.

  “We’re finished here,” he said.

  The Senator took out his pocketwatch and opened it to look at the time.

  “Oui. Vous êtes finis.”

  Rex tried to follow us as we were ushered out. The Senator gripped her close.

  NEAR DORCHESTER I glimpsed the grey Sisters of St. Ann at their devotions in a formal garden protected from the street by an iron grille. My foot pained me and I felt weak, monomaniacally obsessed once again with the drug.

  “The left hand doesn’t know what the right’s doing,” said Jack.

  “How’s that?”

  “He wants me to find her,” Jack said.

  “Who?”

  “Laura.”

  I halted and almost broke character, then found myself.

  “Well, if anyone can it’s you. Pinkertons and all that.”

  “It’s nice and neat,” said Jack.

  “Are you sure she’s with Bob?” I asked.

  “Where else? You saw them at the party.”

  In Jack’s voice quavered a tremor of uncertainty. Such a sensation must be rare for him, rare as his apology to the Senator. For a crushing moment I almost felt sorry for the man. He’d killed her, without even knowing it. But emotions such as these were indulgences. My consciousness had no time for them.

  “Jack,” I said, “I need it.”

  He looked me up and down.

  “You most certainly do. Let’s go.”

  Back in Charlevoix I made my injection.

  “What’s it like? Cocaine?” asked Jack.

  “Much better,” I said.

  “Can you sniff it?”

  “Not a wise idea. Why?”

  “I’m out of salt,” Jack said. “Smiler’s gone.”

  “Right.”

  “Thought I might try yours. How’d you feel now?” he asked.

  “Archie. I could administer it epicutaneously, through your skin. You don’t need a needle. Or there’s intravitreally.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Put some on your eyes,” I said.

  “Christ, no thanks.”

  I wanted to frighten Jack off. My needs were severe enough that I didn’t wish to share a single grain. Soon the pain retreated. I was borne aloft in bliss. I looked at myself in the shattered mirror. Jack sat down and said: “There you are, you rascal.” He pulled from under the chair his sharkspine stick, then lit a cigaret and began twirling the vertebral column around and around.

  “Who’s your master?” I asked him.

  “I am.”

  “What happened last Friday? You told the Senator you’d done him some service last Friday. What was it?”

  “That was the left hand.”

  “And finding Laura’s the right,” I said.

  Jack began to talk. Sir Dunphy had been the one who’d orchestrated the Royal Commission when the Customs scandal began to break. In the House of Commons Rex King stood up and said: “A detective has been sent to Montreal.”

  “That’s me. I’m in Hansard. Look it up.”

  “How’d you get picked?” I asked.

  “Pinkertons recommened me to Sir Dunphy. Helped that I was a true fellow and brother, naturally.”

  Jack worked the docks and traced the smuggling pipeline back to the Senator, then the Minister of Customs. Jack and he forged an understanding and combined forces, gamekeepers turned poachers. That was last fall, before a new group of Italians moved in from New York under a boss named Lucania. A fight started: New York Sicilians versus Chicago Neapolitans, with Montreal in the middle.

  “Bob’s family waited on the fence until I was given the black spot. After Bob double-crossed us he went off the reservation. Shadow in the wind. Wants all the money for himself, I reckon. Man’s moved from cocaine to heroin lately. Spent all week twisting arms and busting doors. Pretty boy’s still in town.”

  “What’s our plan?” I asked.

  “Hunt him down. He’s been seen with a woman. That’ll be Laura.”

  I controlled myself.

  “Have a feeling he’s going to skip town today or tomorrow. Montreal’s too hot for him,” Jack said.

  “Welcome to the oven,” I said.

  The whole world could go hang fire. I prepared another syringe and rode it home.

  JACK ROUSED ME.

  “Come along. It’s close to five. You need to eat.”

  We caught a ’cab and this time went east. I could smell burning. The ’cabbie’s St. Christopher medal swung like a censer as he sped and braked to a stop at Place d’Youville.

  “There,” said Jack, pointing with his white stick.

  Exiting a small cod-classical building was our man Brown. He stood in the doorway for a moment under a weathered stone Britannia fixed on the architrave. There was a vignette of Empire for you, if you liked: a petty Scotch official in a provincial backwater below the faded shield and trident of old Albion. With the setting sun turning the square and stones a mandarin orange the tableau had a certain shabby nobility to it, a minor, mournful grandeur. The ’cab pulled alongside the wee man and Jack shouted: “Hop in.”

  Startled, Brown spun and fixed his eyes on Jack’s crooked finger, the digit beckoning through an open window. Jack got out and waved Brown in with a jesting courtesy, back to his old tricks again. The Customs man sat between us, smelling of cheese. His cheek bore a faded mark where Jack had struck him. Jack ordered the taxi east to just beside the construction site beneath the bare pilings of the harbour bridge.

  We got out by the lee of a wall before a brick barracks. I could now almost taste the atmosphere; instead of smoke, it was the sour, thick odour of barley and hops, effluvia from the redbrick Molson Brewery nearby. In the wall was an olive-coloured door and a smaller inset door within it. Jack motioned Brown through and I followed them to an empty courtyard. In its centre stood a plinth supporting the statue of a green man bearing a flag. The barracks house appeared deserted.

  “Recognize these, Brown?”

  Jack held up several yellow slips of paper.

  “Aye.”

  “Your markers from the barbotte house on Cypress. Canny investment, wouldn’t you say?”

  Brown stayed shtum. He shivered in his cheap snuff-coloured tweed.

  “You know what I want,” Jack said. “Hand me the ’gen on our Yankee friend and you can start digging a new grave for yourself at the tables. Fair trade, eh?”

  Brown nodded weakly. It occurred to me that the pair were both gamblers. Jack had probably already burned through every dime in his pockets, hence his desperation now. For all his control Jack was grasping at straws. The Scotchman was a last
resort, a long shot.

  “Cross me on this and I’ll feed you to the fucking wolves,” said Jack. “On your knees.”

  Brown shook off his inertia and stiffened with the auld re-solve of Carlisle.

  “There’s no need.”

  “Kneel,” Jack insisted.

  For a moment I thought Jack would kill him. We were alone. The courtyard was abandoned. No navvies swung from the partly built river span overhead, bearing witness. My senses sharpened. I handled my Webley. Jack was being needlessly cruel, I thought. Brown was broken; there was no need to kick the cur. The Scotsman creakily lowered himself, the brief flare of rebellion doused. I saw him for what he was, a small, frightened functionary in over his head. For a brief moment I had a fellow feeling that I quickly banished. I’d gone too far the other way and we could quarter the man for all the difference it’d make.

  “Do you know this place?” asked Jack.

  “No.”

  “It’s where they hanged the French Patriots, the ones who burned down the Assembly. They were traitors. You won’t be given the length of a rope, Brown. I promise you that.”

  Jack moved in, grasping the handle of his white stick. Brown flinched, waiting for a slash or blow. With an animal smile Jack slowly pulled a steel blade from within the sharkspine.

  “Dieu et mon droit.”

  He tapped Brown’s shoulders lightly with the sword, left, right, the burlesque of a knighting.

  “Arise.”

  It was dangerous to humiliate a man thus. Jack had refined his cruelty to the weak. He’d changed, and so had I. I was dead to pleasure, outrage, pain. I was a killer. Wind gusted off the water. There was no morality, only exigencies. My ethos: morphine and money. She was gone, at my hands, and I had nothing else to tie me to life. Brown would now pass along his shame to one weaker than he, the back of his hand to the wife, his belt to a child, the boot for a dog. The world spun ever thus.

  “Homo homini lupus est,” I said.

  Jack looked at me.

  “On your bike, Brown,” he said.

  The man got to his feet and shuffled off. Jack came over and lit a cigaret.

  “‘Man is wolf to man,’” he said.

  “Alpha plus.”

  “Thank your old man. Not much Latin in the camps.”

  He replaced the sword in its scabbard. We walked away together in another direction. I spotted a copper on the street and reached down to pinch it. It was an Indian Head from the United States.

  “Find a penny, pick it up,” I said.

  “Put it in your shoe for luck,” said Jack.

  “Not how it goes. Here.”

  I flipped it over to him and he called heads, caught it and laughed, then put it in his pocket.

  On Viger we hailed another ’cab and stopped at the Victoria Tavern on William. Inside the bar a skeleton played a wheezy concertina: “Nearer My God to Thee.”

  “Like last call on the Titanic here,” said Jack. “Let’s go elsewhere.”

  We settled at the Victory and I sprang for all-dressed steamed Frankfurters on white bread with mustard and Kiri spruce beer to wash them down. We chewed and swallowed.

  “Do you know what?” I asked.

  “I don’t.”

  “We’re not the sterling heroes in this tale.”

  Jack ate.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean you’re no Hannay and I’m not Tom Brown.”

  “Who are we then?”

  “The Black Stone.”

  It gave Jack pause. I lit a cigaret and continued.

  “We’re the ones you never read about, the ones who lean on weaklings and hand out beatings. Look at you, taking orders. We’re not racing to save the crowned heads of Europe or stop the next war. We’re the ones that the hero worries about when there’s a knock on the door. All our troubles come from that. No honour in it.”

  Jack swallowed and cleaned his mouth.

  “Honour means nothing. Amor fati: love your fate. Accept it. We’re here and others aren’t. I know damned good men who’re six feet under while fat bastards feed on ortolan drowned in Armagnac. We do what we have to, and that’s all I have to say. Grab your things.”

  In Griffintown jack o’lanterns lit up windowsills. Children wearing ghoul masks carried bags door to door. Shrill voices from ghosts and goblins piped a strange phrase: “Trick or treat!”

  Tomorrow was Hallowe’en and a church Sunday so tonight was the night for fun and games. All Hallows’ Eve. Side by side we marched to Duke, intending to pass the night at Jack’s haunt. Before heading up we went into the tavern across the way for one more. The bar was packed and thick with smoke from wavering oil lamps. As we came in from the cold I sensed pairs of eyes on us. I bought two bottles of Black Horse and took them to a flimsy bench by the far wall. Jack was as uneasy as I and he started to grate on me, a result of our enforced companionship and relative lack of success. It was the same with any company reaching the end of the line.

  He whispered the plan: if anyone resembling Bob crossed the border from Quebec Brown would be telephoned or wired here in Montreal. Jack aimed to get on Bob’s trail from that point. Meanwhile we waited, killing time. Jack had ten dollars left and I promised him half my leavings. It was only just. I’d been wrong earlier; sometimes there was a fraction of honour, even amongst thieves and killers.

  We were being watched, I was certain. I scanned a room filled with Neanderthals, dark pitiless morlocks. Was that an averted gaze from the two fellows in the corner? Who were those yeggs by the window? Slanted mirrors embossed with the names of the great whiskey houses allowed me a fractured reflection of the chamber. I saw Jack’s hair shining amber in the low gloom. Around us groaned a murmuring, persistent chorus. It was late. The ’tender rang a bell.

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  A boy dragged a black curtain across the windowpane and a great galumph locked the front door. By staying put Jack and I joined the blind pig after closing hours. I bought two more stouts and drank mine mechanically, hand on gun.

  “Got a feeling,” said Jack out the side of his mouth.

  In a Jameson’s mirror I saw two vaguely familiar men in flat caps at a table looking at a grey square of paper. One peered over his compatriot’s shoulder and accidentally caught my eye. The paper was a photograph. In a burst of light my mind recognized them: the Senator’s goons.

  “We’ve been shopped,” I whispered.

  “Where?”

  “Corner. Flats. They’ve got our picture.”

  “Right,” Jack said.

  My eyes flitted over the crowd.

  “Two more,” Jack said. “Black homburgs, ten o’clock.”

  He was right. We were boxed in.

  “Choice of enemies,” I said.

  “After you,” he said.

  “No, you,” I insisted.

  Jack got up. I watched him walk to the back door. One of the big fellows in homburgs shook his head. Sweat pricked my scalp and my hand clenched the Webley tighter. Jack moved past the bar. Another fellow was posted there. A collective ripple like wind on a wheat field seemed to flutter through the remaining drinkers. Out the corner of my eye the wizened bartender started to crouch. Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, the electric lights went up and someone yelled: “Police!”

  The pair at the window jumped and the homburgs did the same. I leapt to my feet with the Webley’s hammer cocked. Jack grabbed a short bastard and held the naked blade from his cane to the man’s neck. I pointed the Webley at the mirror and pulled the trigger. There was a boom and Bushmills Irish Whiskey

  shattered, glittering to the floor. Topers hid under tables. I swung the gun to point at the cops, to the lummox at the front door, then back to the Senator’s goons. I was a piece of stone, frozen with fury and fear. The broken looking glass coursed down in silver shards.

  “Move and I’ll burn your brains!” I roared.

  “This one
gets a knife!” shouted Jack.

  The four cops were nearly identical in black coats and hats. One muttered to another.

  “Ta gueule!” I yelled and took aim at his yap.

  “On the ground, all of you, or this one’s dead!” shouted Jack.

  Silence. The cops reluctantly bent. I kicked my way through prone bodies; innocent bystanders, one might call them, except everyone’s guilty and I’d kill them all to get out. Eyes down, eyes up, over to Jack.

  “Open it,” he commanded his prisoner.

  Jack reached into his coat and took out his Browning, jabbing it into his hostage’s lumbar. My arm trembled and I submitted to total tachycardia, my body bursting with searing blood, my skin ice, hair on end. We were in for it now and no mistake.

  “You won’t go far!” one of the plainclothesmen shouted.

  “In a pig’s eye!” yelled Jack.

  He pushed our bartering chip through the door into the dark. Nothing happened. Jack darted out and I covered. I took one last look around the tavern. I’d never forget it. Came Jack’s voice: “Ankle!”

  I stepped into the night blind. Jack’s hand grabbed me.

  “This way,” he hissed.

  He kicked the hostage in the arse and took off down the alley. I peeled after him, fast as I could. Nightmare, nightmare. I wasn’t fast enough. My body was heavy, no air to breathe. Run. Run. Goddammit, the police at last. It was dark, too dark, I couldn’t see a Goddamned thing. My eyes strained wide for light, trying to follow Jack as he ran. Dogs? Were those dogs chasing us? I turned and tripped and dropped my gun, scrambled to my feet. No time to find it. Run.

  I broke out of the alley into a lit street and saw Jack sprinting down a narrow ruelle between two high buildings. There was the screech of tires and a pair of yellow headlamps rushed at me. Hanging, it would be hanging for me if I was caught. I charged into the darkness with my legs burning, soaking wet, running. Faster, faster. They won’t hang you; they’ll shoot you down like a fucking dog in the street. Go, Goddammit. Go.

  Jack dashed to the left and I caught him turn, then turn again. Footsteps pounded like slamming doors after me and there were echoes and gunshots. I heard shouts, police whistles, dogs barking. No. I slowed for a moment, gasping, chest heaving. I grabbed at my necktie and pulled open the noose. No, there was no one, the noises were in me. I picked up the pace again but Jack was gone. Shit. My head spun wildly looking for a way out, an escape hatch. I turned another corner and hands grabbed the front of my coat. Cardiac arrest.