Алистер Маклин - Breakheart Pass

‘He invited himself. Now let him look after himself.’

Marica said in disbelief, slowly spacing the words: ‘You just don’t care.’

‘That’s it.’

‘The Marshal was right and I was wrong. I should have listened to a man of the world. Hanging is too good for you. You must be the most self-centred, the most utterly selfish man in the world.’

Deakin said reasonably: ‘Well, it’s better to be best at something than best at nothing. Which reminds me of something else that is very good indeed.’ He rose. ‘The Governor’s bourbon. Now seems like an excellent chance to help myself when they’re all busy.’

He left along the passageway past the Governor’s and Marica’s sleeping quarters. Marica remained where she was for a few moments, the anger in her face now with an element of puzzlement in it, hesitated, rose and walked quietly after Deakin. By the time she had reached the door of the officers’ day compartment, Deakin had crossed to the cabinet above the sofa at the front end of the coach, poured some bourbon into a tumbler and drained the contents in one savage gulp. Marica watched, her face now showing only wonderment and an increasing lack of comprehension, as Deakin poured himself some more bourbon, drank half of it and turned to the right, gazing with seemingly unseeing eyes through the window. The lean, dark, bitter face was set in lines of an almost frighteningly implacable cruelty.

Eyes widening under a furrowed brow, Marica advanced slowly and silently into the compartment and was less than four feet away from him when Deakin turned, the same almost viciously hard expression on his face. Marica recoiled before it, taking a step back almost as if expecting to be struck. Several seconds elapsed before Deakin appeared to become aware of her presence. His face gradually assumed its normal expression – or lack of it. He said, affably: ‘Quite a start you gave me, ma’am.’

She did not answer at once. She advanced like a sleep-walker, her face still full of wonder, lifted a hand and tentatively, almost apprehensively, touched his lapel. She whispered: ‘Who are you?’

He shrugged. ‘John Deakin.’

‘ What are you?’

‘You heard what the Marshal said–’

He broke off as the sound of voices came from the passageway, loud voices that carried with them the connotation of gesticulating hands. Claremont entered, followed by the Governor, Pearce and O’Brien. Claremont was saying: ‘If he’s not here, he must have fallen off and be lying by the track-side. And he’s not here. If we back up, say, five miles–’

Fairchild interrupted, one more vexation added to his sea of troubles. ‘Damn you, Deakin. That’s my whisky!’

Deakin gave an acknowledging nod. ‘And excellent stuff it is, too. You don’t have to be afraid of offering this to anyone.’

Without a word and without warning Pearce stepped forward and savagely struck Deakin’s right wrist, sending the glass flying.

Marica’s reaction was involuntary, as surprising to her as it was to the others. She said in sudden anger: ‘What a brave man you are, Marshal – with that big gun hanging by your side.’

With the exception of Deakin, everyone stared at her in astonishment. Pearce looked back towards Deakin, the surprise on his face giving way to contempt, a contempt reflected in his gesture as he pulled the Colt from its holster, threw it on the couch and smiled invitingly at Deakin. Deakin made no response. Pearce swung his left hand and hit Deakin, hard, across the lower face with the back of his clenched fist, a humiliating blow with which to strike any man. Deakin staggered and sat down heavily on the sofa, then, after a few seconds during which the other men averted their faces in shame for lost manhood, rose, dabbed some blood from a split lip and walked across to the other corner of the compartment, near the entrance to the passageway where, to the accompaniment of the screeching of brakes, the others brushed by him as they hurried to take up observation positions on the platforms. Marica came slowly after them and stopped in front of Deakin. From her reticule she brought out a flimsy wisp of cambric and patted the cut lip. When she spoke, it was in a very quiet tone.

‘Poor man,’ she said. ‘So little time to live.’

‘I’m not dead yet.’

‘I didn’t mean you. I meant the Marshal.’

She walked down the passageway and entered her sleeping compartment without looking back. Deakin looked after her thoughtfully, then crossed to the liquor cabinet and helped himself to some more bourbon.

While Deakin was lowering the level in the Governor’s bottle, Banlon backed the train slowly down the valley. Four men stood at the very end of the train, the rear platform of the second horse wagon, heavily wrapped against the biting cold and the thinly falling snow: Claremont and Pearce studied the track-side to the right, the Governor and O’Brien the side to the left. But as mile succeeded crawling mile there was nothing to be seen. The snow on both sides was virginal, untouched except for the faint dusting of soot from the locomotive’s earlier passage; nor was the snow heavy enough to have concealed any recent disturbances in the ankle-deep snow on the ground, far less have covered the body of a man. In short, there was no sign of the Reverend Peabody or any mark made by him had he fallen – or been pushed – from the train.

Claremont straightened and turned at the same instant as O’Brien, on the other side of the platform, did the same. Claremont shook his head slowly and O’Brien nodded in reluctant agreement; the latter turned again, leaned far out over the platform safety rail and waved his arm. Banlon, who had for the past fifteen or twenty minutes been looking towards the rear of the train, gave an acknowledging wave of his arm. The train jolted to a halt, then began to move forward again. Reluctantly, the four men on the rear platform moved away from the safety rails and returned to the comparative warmth of the horse wagon.

As soon as they returned to the day compartment Claremont had assembled there, with the exception of Banlon and his soldier-fireman Rafferty, the only eight remaining survivors of the original trainload. The atmosphere was heavy with suspicion and menace, not unmixed with fear. Every person present appeared to be carefully avoiding the eyes of every other person, with the exception of Deakin, who didn’t appear to care where he looked.

Claremont passed a weary hand across his forehead.

‘It’s impossible. It’s just absolutely impossible. We know that Peabody is not on the train. We know he can’t have left the train. And nobody saw him after he left this compartment. A man can’t just vanish like that.’ Claremont looked round the listeners, but there was no help from there, no reaction except the embarrassed shuffling of the feet of Carlos, the Negro cook, who was clearly embarrassed by the unaccustomed presence of the gentry. Claremont repeated: ‘Well, he can’t, can he?’

‘Can’t he?’ Fairchild said heavily. ‘He’s done it, hasn’t he?’

Deakin said: ‘Well, yes and no.’

Pearce’s antagonism flared instantly. ‘What do you mean – yes and no? What do you know about this disappearance, mister?’

‘Nothing. How could I? I was here from the time Peabody left till the time Henry reported his disappearance. Miss Fairchild will vouch for that.’

Pearce made to speak but Claremont lifted a restraining hand and turned to Deakin. ‘You have something in mind?’

‘I have something in mind. True, we haven’t crossed any ravines during the time that Peabody could have disappeared. But we did cross over two small trellis bridges in that stretch. The outside of the train is practically level with the sides of the bridges – and neither of those have guard rails. He could have gone from the train over the edge without leaving a trace.’