The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon Page B

posed on a column, her arm outstretched to salute us as we crossed the turf.
    â€œSo tell me,” I said.
    Jack kept walking, hands in pockets, as he explained what happened. He’d gotten out by the skin of his teeth. The competition had been tipped off in advance. Jack was out five thousand dollars for failure to deliver. That was his reasoning behind the comedy at the theatre.
    â€œIt didn’t seem quite your style,” I said. The Webley was chafing me; I’d need a holster soon.
    â€œNeeds must when the devil drives.”
    â€œSo you only have what we took last night? Do you want my stake?” I asked.
    There was true gratitude in my offer. I’d be up queer street if not for Jack, despite the danger he’d put me in.
    â€œThanks, boyo, but it’s not nearly enough. Hell, I bet on Dempsey to win in Philly last month.”
    That was bad. The Manassa Mauler lost his belt to Gene Tunney in a decision. Now the money we’d stolen was to go to work as a grubstake. Jack needed to find out who sang the tune on him, and Loew’s would pay our way. Jack said that he’d always worked on the supposition that his higher-ups were the Chicago mob but in Plattsburgh he found out that the money and orders came out of New York.
    â€œPlattsburgh?” I asked. “How’d you wind up there?”
    â€œWhen the lights hit us my driver stepped on the accelerator and I shot our way through until we plowed into a tree. That did it for him, he was crushed. I got out and ran a circuit and came out behind one of their ’cars with a flunky behind the wheel. Put my iron to his neck and we got out of there. In Plattsburgh I learned who he was working for.”
    I knew Jack had been seconded to an English military police unit after being gassed. They’d taught him things, seemingly. Interrogation.
    â€œDid you kill him?” I asked.
    â€œNo, but I’d hate to pay his dentist’s bill.”
    The flunky was working for a New York outfit, competitors of Jack’s connection. The rivals had been given a schedule and a map of our route and told to grab the shipment. The trucks and drivers for our convoy had been supplied by a Frenchman here in Montreal who owned a garage. It had to have been either him or our drivers who’d tipped off the opposition.
    â€œWho’s this Frenchman?” I asked.
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œWhat’s the idea?”
    â€œCharlie 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.
    â€œIt was strange you mentioned the Wolf last night,” Jack said. “I’ve always wondered what happened to him.”
    â€œHe’s probably dead.”
    â€œI 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