The Man Who Killed

“Who’s this Frenchman?” I asked.

“A lawyer and hustler in tight with the local politicos, a Grit bagman. He plays poker at the St. Denis Club and drops a bundle every weekend on the ponies. The garage isn’t far. In Outremont.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Charlie mans the place alone every day at lunch. The two of us pose him a few questions. You game?”

Jack’s suit was loose on me and I wore his hat. All I needed was to wear his shoes. How far was I willing to go in following him? The money on me wouldn’t last forever. If I had more I could take another shot at Laura. Beyond those considerations was something stronger, something I’d nearly forgotten in my purdah. Jack had stood up for me my whole damned life and I owed him something. Moreover, life had become interesting again. I was curious to know what I’d fallen into. Besides, did I have anything better to do? How much of life is decided by that simple realization? I kept walking, which Jack took as my answer.

“It was strange you mentioned the Wolf last night,” Jack said. “I’ve always wondered what happened to him.”

“He’s probably dead.”

“I don’t know. The man was one tough bastard. Did you know I saw him? Must have been in ’16, just after I got in with the Dukes. Before shipping out I was down in Gastown for a spree and he was rolling around Maple Tree Square, spoiling for a fight. By damn, the man hadn’t aged a minute or turned a hair. You remember how he taught us to scrap up in the camps? Where was that again?”

“Alexandria,” I said.

“And hunt. Man, could he run down a deer. Never used a rifle. Caught them with his hands, like how your old man taught us to tickle a salmonbelly.”

“Not us. Just you.”

That set Jack back for a moment. He hitched his step.

“What’d the Wolf say?” I asked eventually.

“He was drunk and laughed at my uniform. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. Anyway, he was shipping out himself on one of Dunsmuir’s coal barges, to Yokohama.”

“The Pater always had him as a dipsomaniac,” I said.

“You know, I don’t think he even knew there was a war on. He’d like this caper, though.”

“The Wolf was crazy,” I said.

“Damned tough, still.”

We stopped and sat on a bench.

“What’s the drill with this lawyer?” I asked.

Jack paused and offered me a Turk. Pressure might need to be exerted. We’d have to stay on our toes, as there might be employees about. The last thing either of us wanted was to attract the law.

“Are you off morphine for quits? asked Jack.

“You saw my arms.”

“I need to be sure. We don’t want any more surprises.”

“Not from me,” I said.

CONTINUING ON WE walked past the Young Men’s Hebrew Association and turned up Park. The garage was a few blocks north and my role, as usual, would be to stand steady and watch Jack’s back. It seemed simple enough. We continued until Jack indicated a corner filling station with a garage and house attached, the entire affair a collection of yellowing wood. The sign read “L’Etape Supertest Trudeau, Essence et Mecanicien.” Jack checked his wristwatch. It was noon. I turned to face the sun above the mountain. The yard rested quiet, two trucks parked by a painted fence advertising Ensign oil. Through the glass of the garage door I spied an expensive Chandler sedan with its bonnet open. Jack considered the shop. Its door was locked and a sign read: “Ferme.” The wind died and the neighbourhood seemed abandoned, a scene from a drowsy Indian summer afternoon in the country. The garage door had a smaller one set into it, that one ajar. We went through it to the repair bay’s rear corner and a formal office. Jack stiff-armed the door to reveal a man standing and eating a sandwich over his desk.

“Assieds-toi, Charlie,” said Jack.

I stayed in the doorway, my hand now on my gun in my overcoat pocket.

“Jack,” Charlie said.

“Surprised to see me?” asked Jack.

“Non.”

“Why’s that now?”

“I hear about what happen Friday.”

“Zut alors,” said Jack, clucking his tongue.

Charlie was well-built and surprisingly dapper, with Brilliantined hair and a trim dark moustache. He had the narrow eyes and pointed nose of his race, a mixture of fille du roi and backcountry Huron. His posture was erect, defiant. Jack’s tone remained playful.

“Who told you about it, Charlie?”

“I hear it from Martin,” he said.

“Martin, eh? Let’s do the arithmetic. One driver shot dead. That was Pollart. One driver with me died in a crash. That was Gellier. That leaves the one in the middle. Martin. So he got out. Very lucky for him. A little too lucky, peut-etre? Don’t you think so, Charlie?”

“I don’t know,” said Charlie. He still held his half-sandwich.

“Continue. You heard from Martin. Et, comment?”

“He call me. He escape, hitchhike. He demand from me some money.”

“Did you give him any?”

“I don’t see him. How can I?” asked Charlie.

“I don’t like this story. Somebody told someone something they shouldn’t’ve. Comprends?”

Charlie furrowed his brow, perhaps translating to himself.

“Oui.”

“I think it was you,” Jack said.

“What?” Charlie threw down his sandwich and pointed. “Why do I do that? I lose my trucks. I have police come here for to ask me questions.”

“Police? What did they want to know?” barked Jack.

“The wife of Gellier, she tell them he work for me, now he depart and does not come home two nights. I pay her, she has three children. Where is my money, Jack? For the trucks, for me, hein? Where? I ask.”

Charlie slapped his palm on the desk, eyes blazing.

“I want this Martin, Charlie,” said Jack, unmoved. “You have three days.”

“Why should I help you? You have not paid me!”

“Do you have insurance, Charlie? Smart lawyer like you, you should, in case accidents happen.”

Jack turned and brushed past me out of the office. Charlie followed. In the garage Jack grabbed a long piece of iron like a tamping rod. I was now in the corridor behind Charlie, next to a door that must open into the house we’d seen from the street. I could smell Charlie’s hair oil and sweat. Jack turned, the rod in his hands.

“Three days, Charlie.”

He speared the rod through the Chandler’s windscreen.

“Hostie,” cried Charlie. He moved to stop Jack but I pulled out my gun and jammed it into his spine. The Frenchman turned his head and showed me pure hatred. Jack swung and smashed the side windows, beat on the sidings and ruined the metalwork. The door next to me opened inward and I kicked Charlie at Jack. Jack dropped the bar and connected a straight left to the Frenchman’s jaw, dropping him. I spun and pointed my gun barrel into the face of a skinny little Indian-looking kid holding the doorknob.

“Papa?” asked the boy.

Charlie turned from his crouch on the floor.

“Pierre, non!”

I cuffed the child upside the head into a heap of tires. Jack lifted Charlie up by his shirtfront. Jack’s skin was