“He might have done any one of a dozen things,” Trafford interposed impatiently; “but the thing is to find out which one he did do. How did he get this injury, and how did he come to his drowning after the injury; for I take it you’ll admit when death came, it did come through drowning.”
“I think we’ll have to admit that,” the doctor returned.
“Then we have an injury, one, two, perhaps three hours before death; and then death by drowning. If all this was the result of accident, don’t you think he was having more than his fair share, crowded into a pretty small space of time?” It was Trafford’s question.
“You mean,” demanded the coroner, a trifle uneasily, “that we’ve got another murder on our hands before the first one is cleared up?”
“I mean,” said Trafford; “that if we have, it may prove easier to unravel two murders than one.”
They walked slowly back and looked at the face that was gashed beyond human recognition. Was this he who had cried so piteously on Millbank Bridge, “Sacré; c’est moi, Pierre!”? If so, what had been the history of the few hours that elapsed before he plunged into the river to the death meant for Trafford? How was that plunge made? Where was the Pierre who had struck the blow on the bridge, and who must be able to tell the story of the man’s drowning? These were the questions which were dinning themselves in Trafford’s brain and imperiously demanding an answer.
The news of the finding of the body spread rapidly through Millbank, but with comparatively trifling sensation. Men were drowned each year in the river. The driving business was full of risks and men fell victims to it each spring. It was not like a murder—a blow from no one knew where, falling no one knew why. This drowning was a thing people were accustomed to expect. They shrugged, wondered if he had a family, and thought little more of an accident that left them “one less Canuck.” A solitary priest, poor and hard-worked, spent the night in prayers for the dead; for these men who come from the North to drive the river are almost without exception faithful children of the Church, which, through her ministry, mourns her bereavement and assails the gates of heaven for admission of the departed soul.
Trafford sat alone in his room at the hotel. He had no doubt that this was the man on whom had fallen the blow which was intended for him. Disabled, so that he could not be concealed or taken away without discovery and recognition, it had been worth the while of those who had failed in their attempt on his own life, to murder the poor wretch, rather than take the chances of his being seen and questioned. Disabled as he was, his condition should have appealed to the hardest heart. He had tried to do faithfully the work given him and, failing, had been done to death for his fidelity. What was this hideous thing that played with murder, rather than let itself be discovered?
As Trafford asked himself the question, he glanced uneasily at his windows. It was here, in this very town, within a stone’s throw of the very place where he sat, that murder stalked—murder that had once sought him as a victim and then had destroyed its own instrument, not trusting the man it had employed. It seemed like a lowering menace, ready to fall without warning, and almost for the first time since he had taken up this profession, he was conscious of the sense of personal fear. This merciless, unseen something, impressed him as standing just beyond the line of sight, watching with unseen eyes, to strike at him again. If it could be uncovered, what would it prove itself, to justify so desperate a chance? If it could not be uncovered, where was safety for himself or for any one who stood as a menace to its purposes?
That the men who had committed these two murders and had tried a third—for he did not for one instant separate them—would stop at no chance, was beyond dispute or question. They had watched and waited on Wing for two years and, apparently, had not struck until every other means of securing what they wanted had failed. When they did strike, they had struck pitilessly and effectively. But they were still on their guard, as the assault on the Bridge and this wanton murder of a wounded man proved. They had gone so far; certainly they would not now retire from the game, nor would they show a scrupulousness they had failed to feel before they had so far committed themselves that retreat was impossible. It was a struggle to the death, with an unseen foe, by a man who at all times stood out as a plain mark. He had the sensation of one who stands with a lamp in his hands and peers into the deeper dark, to catch a glimpse of a foe that he simply knows lies in wait for him unseen.