Don Gutteridge - Governing Passion

“But you haven’t been able to trace those toMr. Pugh or Mr. Clough.”

“Not yet.”

“You’ve got a fanciful theory, Cobb, but noreal evidence and two unlikely suspects. I’d say you’ve come to adead end.”

“He’ll kill again. I know he will.”

Bagshaw gave Cobb a sardonic grin. “And we’llcatch him, won’t we. On patrol!”

***

The following night Cobb had been on patrol for onlyan hour or so, but he was already cold. With a fourth constable,Brown, on duty each man’s patrol was even more confined and moreboring. If they did come across another murder, there would be nobootprints to follow because every alley was trampled flat bypoliceman’s boots, and there was no fresh snow this evening. Still,what were the odds, with four constables in the area? Although thiswas, Cobb recalled, the third night following the murder of SimonWhitemarsh.

Then, when he was almost completely numbedand thinking about Madame LaFrance’s fire, a shadow flitted pastthe end of the alley he was in. A dark figure, moving quickly.Cobb’s heart skipped a beat as he strode forward. Just as hereached the corner, he heard someone cry out, a female cry. Heraced around the corner and there in the next alley lay a crumpledfigure. Cobb looked ahead of it, but could see nothing. Tornbetween stopping to check on the victim (who he felt was dead ordying) and pursuit, he chose the latter, hurrying to the end of thealley and looking both ways at the T-junction. Nothing. He lookedfor tracks but found only the maze of his previous bootprints, thesnow scuffed and hopelessly trampled. He blew on his whistle, andsped back towards the victim, filled with dread.

The girl was beginning to rise from theground. She was clutching her neck. She was pretty and veryblond.

“He tried to — kill me,” she gasped. “He hada knife.”

Cobb breathed a sigh of relief. He had comerunning just in time, not to catch the killer but to scare him off.Perhaps the fellow would run into one of the other constables. Cobbblew his whistle again.

“What were you doing in Devil’s Acre?” hesaid to the girl

Weeping, she said, “I was taking a shortcutto my cousin’s. I–I got lost.”

“Well, you’re all right now, miss. I’ll takeyou to your cousin’s.”

“I’d like to go home.”

“Where is that?”

“Birch Grove.”

“What’s yer name, miss?”

“Christine. Christine Pettigrew.”

Marc hired a one-horse cutter and drove out theHospital Road looking for Bernie’s dive. He went by it the firsttime, as it was a mere half-log hut tucked into a cedar grove somethirty yards off the main road. It was four o’clock in theafternoon, and Marc hoped to catch the proprietor alone to questionhim about the events of the night of the murder. It was not to be,however. When Marc stepped into the smoky interior, he found itcrowded with customers. Several men — farmers obviously — wereslouched over a makeshift plank bar, sipping cups of whiskey thathad been dipped out of a large barrel nearby. In one corner fourmen huddled over a stump table on which they tossed a pair of dice.In another three men were sitting on stools, cup in hand, andstaring through the smoke-haze with malevolent eyes. Behind thebar, in a filthy apron, stood the tall, angular man who must havebeen Bernie, the proprietor.

All talk ceased the moment Marc’s presencewas noted, and all eyes followed him as he went over to the bar andsaid to the barkeeper, “Are you Bernie?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Marc Edwards. I have been askedby the magistrate to look into the death of Earl Dunham, who wasbludgeoned to death last night out at the hospital.”

Marc was not exaggerating about his officialstatus: over the lunch hour Robert had gotten permission fromMagistrate Wilson for Marc to investigate the crime.

“We heard about the murder,” the barkeepersaid.

“And you are Bernie?”

“I am. And this is my establishment.”

“I need to ask you about what took place herelast night.” Marc felt the rest of the room listening, even thoughthe other customers had resumed their activities.

“Just the usual night in here.”

“Two workmen, Greg Mason and Marvin Leroywere in here last night, were they not?”

“They’re regulars. After work, every day.Stay till midnight or so.”

“Was it midnight when they left lastnight?”

“Well, I don’t keep track of time in here,but I guess that would be about right.”

“And they left together?”

Bernie looked surprised. “Why, no, as amatter of fact they didn’t.”

“They left separately?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. Manson left first,I’m sure. Leroy was caught up in a dice game and didn’t want toleave while he was winnin’. Manson cursed him and left.”

So, Marc thought, both Manson and Leroy hadlied to him in saying they had left together. To cover for oneanother. Unless their landlords gave them an alibi, they were bothloose and apart with time to go back to the hospital building andclub Denham to death.

“A Frenchman, Jacques LeMieux was also inhere last night. Did you hear him making any threats?”

“I know the fella. But he was cursingsomebody in French. I paid no heed to it.”

“Thank you, Bernie. You’ve been a bighelp.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Not today, thank you.”

“Too good fer us, eh?”

This latter remark came from a heavy-setfellow with a permanent scowl on his flushed face, exaggerated bytwo broken front teeth. He had left the dicers and come up besideMarc at the bar. The other bar-flies immediately pulled back intothe shadows.

“Now, Joe, take it easy,” Bernie saidevenly.

“You’ve got the strut of an army officer,”the fellow called Joe said to Marc.

“That’s because I was an officer in thearmy,” Marc said, facing the man down.

“We don’t take to barn-burning soldiersaround these parts,” Joe said, edging closer to Marc.

“I didn’t burn barns, sir. I did myduty.”

“Let it go, Joe,” Bernie said with a hint ofwarning in his voice.

“I’m about to leave,” Marc said to Bernie,and made the mistake of turning away from Joe to head for the door.Joe wound up and sucker-punched Marc on the back of the neck. Itwas a glancing blow and succeeded only in pitching Marc a couple ofsteps forward. Marc wheeled and faced his adversary, towering overhim. But Joe had already launched himself at Marc and pushed himover a stool. Marc fell backwards in a heap, and Joe was instantlyon top of him.

“Let him have it, Joe!”

“Don’t let him up!”

Marc heard the cries of Joe’s supporters andrealized he had walked into a hornet’s nest. These men were drunkand itching for a fight, at least itching for their champion tohave a fight.

Joe had both hands around Marc’s throat, andMarc felt his breath being slowly squeezed off. He tried to buckthe fellow off but was unable to detach him. Suddenly Joe’s fingersrelaxed, and he rolled sedately to the floor beside Marc. Standingover them both was Bernie, a chunk of firewood in his righthand.

“It’s a crude weapon, but it works,” Berniesaid. “Now, mister, you better go before things get ugly inhere.”

Marc got up, brushed himself off, and left.But he had got what he’d come for.

***

After supper Marc drove along Front Street past thelimestone façades of Kingston’s business section and on towards themighty fort, the fort that had held rebel prisoners after therevolt had been put down. He turned off onto a narrow side streetuntil he came to a substantial limestone house that he had beentold was the boarding place of Michel Jardin, the French-Canadianlather. Jardin had said he went for a walk about ten o’clock anddidn’t think his landlady heard him come in a little later on. Marcwanted to check out the details of that story. If no-one heardJardin come back in, then he would have had time to walk out to thebuilding site and kill Dunham. The walk could be done in less thanhalf an hour, even in the winter weather. Marc went up and knockedon the door. After a bit the door was opened by an imposingdark-haired woman in her late thirties. She had a ready smile forMarc, but there was a wariness in her deep brown eyes, as ifexperience had taught her to be cautious with her smiles.