The Man Who Killed Read Online Free PDF

ditch. A fluttering of my pulse restored anxious fear. There could be lookouts, a dragnet. Get to a train and bolt yourself in the lavatory.
    â€œWhat’s the closest town with a station?” I shouted over the motor.
    â€œNapierville.”
    So, still in Quebec, grâce de Dieu. Maybe this oldtimer could drive me all the way back to the city. He kept his gnarled hands on the wheel and stared at the uncoiling road. If I’d been smarter or crueller I’d’ve tied him up and stolen his truck. This was no time for pity. Remember what happened to your last chauffeur.
    The sky cleared, hard fields stretching nowhere. After awhile I made out a dark line on the horizon. Getting closer it became a freight, headed the way I wanted. A decision.
    â€œSee that?” I pointed. “You pull up at a crossroad. If it’s slow enough you can let me off and go on home.”
    The old man cleared his throat and spat out the open window. As he shifted gears his hand shook with a mild palsy, either St. Vitus’s dance or fear of the armed stranger barking orders. Keep him in your thrall. We braked at the tracks. The train was moving at a walking pace. Without another word I leapt out and ran up the grade to grasp a ladder, hauling myself up. The boxcar’s door was closed so I climbed up to the roof. As the train retreated I watched the old man reverse his Chevrolet and power away.
    My perch provided a wide vista about midway along the ’cars. I resolved to stay wary and keep my eye out for railway bulls or brakemen. The freight picked up speed. I rocked along and lay flat to lower my profile and watch the clouds above break apart. For several hours we swayed forward, the train passing Podunk towns and lonely crossings, heading inexorably north. Superstitious, I crossed my fingers. Sometimes it would slow and halt in that baffling way of all trains, only to eventually lurch alive and groan on. The wind turned easterly but then would box the compass and send sooty engine smoke over me. It whipped leaves along the hard-packed earth and bent double spurts of yellow grass hanks tangled with rubbish. I turned to look ahead and was rewarded. Montreal. The rough hump of the mountain sat stark and Cyclopean against the surrounding plains.
    We chugged through Brossard and I pressed my luck to the Victoria Bridge crossing. We shuddered onto the Eighth Wonder of the World, as it was once known. From my viewpoint, for a fleeting moment, I commanded it all: the river underneath with boats working the seaward current, the train en route to the smoking yards, the city huddled and steaming in the pale fall sunshine. My heart lifted and despite the danger I felt a thrill. This would never have happened without Jack. My eyes smarted but I blamed it on smoke and too soon we were slowing to nothing. The freight readied to stop and be shunted or broken apart so I gripped Fortune’s forelock and slipped down the ladder to the oil-soaked ground. A rich reek of creosote greeted me as I stepped over rails to bracken and shrubs bordering the tracks. I heard a hoarse shout behind me: “Hey, you!”
    I ducked through a hole in the fence past a mangled “No Trespassing” sign to a city street, low brick buildings, and urchins playing stickball. I strode along, looking for a corner store, a tavern, and a tram stop, in that precise order. It was short work to find all three on Sebastopol. At Lucky’s I bought a fifteen of Buckinghams for a pair of dimes and an afternoon Herald for two coppers. Across the street a tavern advertised clean glasses. It was well past the yardarm, near three in the afternoon, and for all my efforts and the miles I’d travelled I deserved a drink.
    After quickly draining one Export I ordered another and went through the ’paper. The Tories were looking for a new leader. Prime Minister Mackenzie King was headed to the Imperial Conference in London. Edison believed that there was