'Er,' Bill Baudelaire said. 'We have here a letter from Mrs Quentin's insurance company, written yesterday, saying that they made exhaustive tests on her horse that died of colic and they are satisfied that they paid her claim correctly. We also have here an affidavit from the stable lad, Lenny Higgs, to the effect that you learned about the colic and the specially numbered feeds for Laurentide Ice from him during one of your early visits to the horse car. He goes on to swear that he was later frightened into saying that Mrs Quentin gave him some food to give to her horse who died of colic.' He cleared his throat. 'As you have heard, the insurance company are satisfied that whatever she gave her horse didn't cause its death. Lenny Higgs further testifies that the man who frightened him, by telling him he would be sent to prison where he would catch AIDS and die, that man is an ex-baggage handler once employed by VIA Rail, name of Alex Mitchell McLachlan.'
' What?' For the first time there was fear in Filmer's voice, and I found it sweet.
'Lenny Higgs positively identifies him from this photograph.' There was a pause while Bill Baudelaire handed it over. 'This man travelled in the racegoers' part of the train under the name of Johnson. During yesterday, the photograph was shown widely to VIA employees in Toronto and Montreal, and he was several times identified as Alex McLachlan.'
There was silence where Filmer might have spoken.
'You were observed to be speaking to McLachlan…'
'You bet you were,' Daffodil interrupted. 'You were talking to him… arguing with him… at Thunder Bay, and I didn't like the look of him. This is his picture. I identify it too. You used him to frighten Lenny, and you told me Lenny would give evidence against me, and I didn't know you'd frightened the poor boy with such a terrible threat. You told me he hated me and would be glad to tell lies about me…' The enormity of it almost choked her. 'I don't know how you can live with yourself. I don't know how anyone can be so full of sin.'
Her voice resonated with the full old meaning of the word: an offence against God. It was powerful, I thought, and it had silenced Filmer completely.
'It may come as an anti-climax,' the Brigadier said after a pause, 'but we will now digress to another matter entirely. One that will be the subject of a full Stewards' enquiry at the Jockey Club, Portland Square, in the near future. I refer to the ownership of a parcel of land referred to in the Land Registry as SF90155.'
The Brigadier told me later that it was at that point that Filmer turned grey and began to sweat.
'This parcel of land,' his military voice went on, 'is known as West Hillside Stables, Newmarket. This was a stables owned by Ivor Horfitz and run by his paid private trainer in such a dishonest manner that Ivor Horfitz was barred from racing-and racing stables-for life. He was instructed to sell West Hillside Stables, as he couldn't set foot there, and it was presumed that he had. However, the new owner in his turn wants to sell and has found a buyer, but the buyer's lawyers' searches have been very thorough, and they have discovered that the stables were never Horfitz's to sell. They belonged, and they still do legally belong, to you, Mr Filmer.'
There was a faint sort of groan which might have come from Filmer.
'That being so, we will have to look into your relationship with Ivor Horfitz and with the illegal matters that were carried on for years at West Hillside Stables. We also have good reason to believe that Ivor Horfitz's son, Jason, knows you owned the stables and were concerned in its operation, and that Jason let that fact out to his friend, the stable lad Paul Shacklebury who, as you will remember, was the subject of your trial for conspiracy to murder, which took place earlier this year.'
There was a long long silence.
Daffodil's voice said, murmuring, 'I don't understand any of this, do you?'
Mercer, as quietly, answered: 'They've found a way of warning him off for life.'
'Oh good, but it sounds so dull.'
'Not to him,' Mercer murmured.
'We'll now return,' Bill Baudelaire's voice said more loudly, 'to the matter of your attempt to wreck the train.' He coughed. 'Will you please come in, Mr Burley.'
I smiled at George who had been listening to the Horfitz part in non-comprehension and the rest in horrified amazement.
'We're on,' I said, removing my raincoat and laying it on a serving counter. 'After you.'
He and I, the last in the pantry, went through the door. He was wearing his grey uniform and carrying his Conductor's cap. I was revealed in Tommy's grey trousers, grey and white shirt, deep yellow waistcoat and tidy striped tie. Polished, pressed, laundered, brushed: a credit to VIA Rail.
Julius Filmer saw the Conductor and a waiter he'd hardly noticed in his preoccupation with his own affairs. The Brigadier and Bill Baudelaire saw the waiter for the first time, and there was an awakening and realization on each of their faces. Although I'd told them by now that I'd worked with the crew, they hadn't truly understood how perfect had been the bright camouflage.
'Oh, that's who you are!' exclaimed Daffodil who was sitting now in one of the chairs round the conference table. 'I couldn't place you, outside.'
Mercer patted her hand which lay on the table, and gave me the faintest of smiles over her head. The three Vancouver big-wigs took me at face value, knowing no different.
'Would you come forward, please,' Bill Baudelaire said.
George and I both advanced past the conference table until we were nearer the desk. The two Directors were seated behind the desk, Filmer in the chair in front of it. Filmer's neck was rigid, his eyes were dark, and the sweat ran down his temples.
'The Conductor, George Burley,' Bill Baudelaire said, 'yesterday gave VIA Rail an account of three acts of sabotage against the race train. Disaster was fortunately averted on all three occasions, but we believe that all these dangerous situations were the work of Alex McLachlan who was acting on your instructions and was paid by you.'
'No,' Filmer said dully.
'Our enquiries are not yet complete,' Bill Baudelaire said, 'but we know that the VIA Rail offices in Montreal were visited three or four weeks ago by a man answering in general to your description who said he was researching for a thesis on the motivations of industrial sabotage. He asked for the names of any railroad saboteurs so that he could interview them and see what made them tick. He was given a short list of people no longer to be employed on the railroads in any capacity.'
Heads would roll, the VIA Rail executive had said. That list, although to be found in every railway station office in the country, should never have been given to an outsider.
'McLachlan's name is on that list,' Bill Baudelaire observed.
Filmer said nothing. The realization of total disaster showed in every line of his body, in every twitch in his face.
'As we said,' Bill Baudelaire went on, 'McLachlan travelled on the train under the name of Johnson. During the first evening, at a place called Cartier, he uncoupled Mr Lorrimore's private car and left it dead and dark on the track. The railroad investigators believe he waited in the vicinity to see the next train along, the regular transcontinental Canadian, come and crash into the Lorrimores' car. He had always been around to watch the consequences of his sabotage in the past: acts he had been sent to prison for committing. When the race train returned to pick up the Lorrimores' car, he simply reboarded and continued on the journey.'
'He shouldn't have done it,' Filmer said.
'We know that. We also know that in speech you continually mixed up Winnipeg with Vancouver. You instructed McLachlan to wreck the train before Winnipeg, when you meant before Vancouver.'
Filmer looked dumbfounded.
'That's right,' Daffodil said, sitting up straight, 'Winnipeg and Vancouver. He got them mixed up all the time.'