Read Online The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon - Free Book Online

ruffian,” he said.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, John,” wailed Mary.
    â€œYes, John. For your own sake and that of this good lady, be kind enough to open the safe. We desire no harm to befall the missus,” said Jack.
    John goggled. John Adams, I saw painted on the frosted glass of the office door.
    â€œSir, I beseech you, as a fellow Southerner, please...”
    â€œJohn!” Mary shrieked.
    Adams deflated. He swivelled his chair towards a Chinese screen, which he pulled aside to reveal a squat iron cube, then spun the dial and opened the safe. Jack sat on the edge of the desk, all taut attention and eager amusement, humming “Dixie.” The manager took out a bound pile of notes, a sack of silver, and a fat bag stuffed with loose bills. He passed the lot to Jack.
    â€œThank you kindly,” said Jack.
    Bob pushed the woman down into a chair. I went to check our hogtied nightwatchman and from him smelled sharp sweat and urine. His eyes were shut tight. Disgusted, I returned to the office, where Jack was emptying a valise. He placed the money within and gave the case a heft. Bob’s eyes glinted and he looked over to me. Ice-cold and hard. Mary Adams was pale with fright. From his pocket Bob took out a blade and the woman whimpered. He cut fabric from the hem of her dress and her eyes went to mine, terrified. Bob balled the muslin and roughly shoved it into her mouth. He took sticking plaster from the desk and put it over her lips, then grabbed the last of his rope and with Jack’s help bound her and her husband’s wrists and ankles to their chairs. My heartbeat steadied. Jack straightened his cravat.
    â€œWe thank you for your very kind indulgence in this matter. Now don’t you go being over-hasty in attempting to extricate yourselves, as we have compatriots observing each and every egress. Do take care now, y’hear?”
    With that we hustled out the back door to the alley.
    â€œWhere now?” I asked.
    â€œBob’s.”
    We hotfooted it to Sherbrooke, avoiding streetlamps, walking in a staggered file along the pavement, with Jack ahead, Bob watching him and his cargo, and myself covering our rear. Bob’s place was on Prince Arthur, in the student ghetto. It appeared my life had become a series of traverses from room to saloon to shitty room. What pattern was I tracing on the face of the city? We took the stairs to a standard two-bit garret with stains on the ceiling and spilled paint on the floorboards. Interestingly, large canvasses were stacked face first against the walls. Bob left, returned with a bowl of cracked ice, and pulled a bottle of whiskey from a boot by the bed. Jack checked his ’watch.
    â€œNice work, boyos.”
    I lit a cigaret, my hands spiting their training, shaking with a minor tremor. Tension. The puncture points along my arm gave a phantom throb. My teeth tasted chalky. I wanted something, morphine, opium, oblivion. Bob portioned out the gargle. Nausea rose within me to be chased down by antiseptic liquor.
    Between Jack and Bob there ran a current of excitement, their grins lupine. Lon Chaney in The Trap. Jack poured the contents of the bag onto a ratty Chesterfield. Bob nearly ravened at the sight of the cash but restrained himself with an effort. Jack lit a cigaret. I tapped my ashes into a half oyster shell. What was I playing at? It’d happened too bloody fast for real fear to grip me overmuch. Fatalism. Jack regarded me. I spat a shred of tobacco onto the floorboards while Bob counted the money. The coins rang as they struck each other: nickels, dimes, quarters, dollars. Copper, silver, gold.
    I fixed Jack with a look and we regarded each other, unblinking. I broke first. “What was that distracting detail you mentioned?” I asked.
    â€œThe accent. Our friend John’ll remember nothing about me except that I’m a Confederate, you wait and see. One of your countrymen, Bob.”
    â€œWhat’s