CHAPTER FORTY
5:50 pm Tuesday July 4th
Canada Wire, southeast corner of Laird and Wicksteed, Leaside
NE of Toronto
"Stay loose and move it!"
Murdoch moved his team in, quickly, carefully, from the northwest. Brackenreid's team, also in civilian clothes, worked their way from the southwest disguised as shift workers. Canada Wire was a large complex including two behemoth flat-roofed production factories, two power plants, support warehouses and a railroad siding, all spread out over many acres of land.
He and Brackenreid decided to take the same advantage of shift change as the bootleggers did, to enter the complex unobserved as raw materials were delivered, surround the building and arrest the gang and their head, Mr. Salt, in the act. To make certain nothing went awry, Sergeant Weston manned the vehicle entrance booth today, letting the bootleggers and their transportation vehicles onto the job site with a plan to corral them upon exit. This time, there was going to be plenty of evidence to make charges stick - up to and including murder.
The Don River contained any eastern escape. Just in case, they placed a pair of armed men on each bridge over the Don, prepared with a vehicle roadblock, and pairs of constables with shotguns at the western intersections ready to stop traffic. The inspector's team, arriving in place first, was going to secure the entrances and exits to the old munitions plant while his men were going to do the actual raid on the distilling operation building.
Crabtree waited for him at the north team's prearranged assembly point. Along with smelling the acrid pong from the factory, Murdoch immediately saw something was wrong, so he stepped aside to get the report in private.
"Give it to me."
Crabtree's face was pained; he scrubbed his hand over it before speaking. "Sir, I...I lost Mr. Salt. We knew he was coming to the factory, so I...I wasn't surprised when he left the restaurant to come here, right on time when we expected him to. I followed him easily enough until we got to Bloor and Yonge."
"How long ago was this?" He frantically calculated alternative scenarios. It was critical to the whole case to capture John Salt receiving stolen goods at the distilling operation." If he is not going to be there, we must know now so the operation can be pulled back."
"About twenty-five, thirty minutes ago."
"Is there any chance he got wind of what we are up to?"
"I don't see how. He was nowhere near a telephone as far as we know; no one approached him. I..I lost him in traffic."
He damped down his panic. "Crabtree, please get the inspector on our communications box." He got the handset and he waited while static buzzed and popped until Brackenreid came on the line. "Sir? Can you confirm Mr. Salt's motorcar has arrived at your location?" He and Crabtree waited another agonizing minute before Hodge took over with the answer.
"Sir. His motor is parked outside Gate Three and I saw him walk towards the distilling building with two other men not five minutes ago."
His whole body reflexively stiffened. Salt arrived too early. That was not the plan. "Thank you, Hodge," he said, considering if this news changed anything.
Dear Lord, I hope not!
"Hodge, please tell the inspector we will stick to schedule. The first shift whistle is about to blow - that's the signal to proceed." He rang off and turned to Crabtree. There was nothing to say, everyone knew the plan and their part.
This is it. He cleared everything - the war, Julia, Liza, Eddie Cullen, guilt, divorce - from his mind, walled it all off again in that compartment of his brain where he parked distractions. Put aside everything except his objective. This was familiar, this marshalling of men, this rushing towards a fight. He knew it was adrenaline and reveled in the exhilaration.
He and his team were at Gate Three in time for the factory's piercing steam alarm, blending in seamlessly with long lines of men flowing into the plant, duffels over their shoulders. In only five minutes the whistle would sound again, releasing the outgoing shift. Crabtree joined him, shoulder to shoulder between buildings in a crowd of workmen, picking their way past vast piles of metal and coal, picking up the pace, covering ground with long strides.
Ahead was the blocky two-story building which promised to deliver up Rocco Perri once and for all. Murdoch and his men circled it in two-by-two formation, like a wolf and his pack stalking a moose; exceedingly difficult and extremely dangerous, but worth it if it worked. Three delivery bays were open, workers brazenly carting barrels into the building. The plan was to let them unload and leave, then Murdoch and his team take the building in short order. Crabtree looked impressed at how efficient the unloading operation was. Murdoch and his men were in final position as the second whistle went off just as the last truck took off and the last bay door slammed down.
He checked his watch. Two minutes to wait before breaching the front. Every pair of constables counted down from their own locations where their jobs were to take the bootleggers into custody and prevent anyone from escaping. Beside him, Crabtree breathed deeply, his colour high, his eyes focused and bright, looking out for danger. They got out badges and shotguns from their duffels.
"One minute," he whispered to Crabtree, who nodded, pulling his cap around so the brim was towards his neck. William did the same - the war taught each of them it was worth your life to be unable to see above you in a fire fight. The two of them moved closer to the main door for a bit of shade, letting their eyes start adjusting to the low light they will encounter inside. "Thirty."
Murdoch kept his eyes on his watch, counting down while his heart rate became more rapid in preparation. Three. Two. One.
"Go!"
Crabtree did his quick magic on the lock and they barged in. Crabtree lunged right to get the lights, he darted left into the two-story portion of the space. Ahead were second floor glass offices overlooking the production floor. "Halt! Toronto Constabulary. Everyone down on the ground. Now!"
His shout and the chich-chich of sending a shell into each of their guns reverberated within the dim building. The empty building. He saw un-lit burners under three large copper vats with brass columns and tubing, boxes and crates, stacks and stacks of barrels and hissing canisters - but not a single person. Hissing? Four steps in he smelled it.
"Crabtree! Stop…" he screamed the order, but Crabtree's hand was already moving the switch, creating a small arc of electricity, enough to ignite the gas.
A hot roar pierced his ears as the pressure wave flung Murdoch against the building's concrete floor with an excruciatingly painful whump. He got up slowly, dizzy, choking on smoke, wiping blood away, desperate to locate George. Inhaling air was painful. Through a grey haze he saw Crabtree slumped against the wall, underneath the light switch. He hobbled over to him. Crabtree's eyes were open. Thank God. "Crabtree!" he tried to croak. "Get up."
He hauled on his friend's arm, nearly losing his balance when Crabtree lurched to his own feet. Behind him constables were coming through doors on the opposite side of the building. Murdoch and Crabtree helped each other back out into the sunshine, gasping for oxygen.
The next thing he knew he was lying on some grass. His ears rang and his head and back were killing him. "Where is Crabtree?" He wasn't sure his voice produced any sound.
"He is fine." The reassurance was muffled.
He read her lips just to be certain. Her lips? "Julia?!" He blinked, bewildered to see her bending over him.
She repeated. "Constable Crabtree is fine, Detective." He heard it better the second time. "Nothing is broken, you or him. You just got the wind knocked out of you."
He pushed her aside, not bothering to puzzle out what she was doing here. He turned over, getting his scraped hands and knees under him in order to rise. Brackenreid moved to give him a hand. "I have to get in that building, sir. How many of our men are dead?" Once up, he wobbled, grabbing the inspector's hand to steady him.
"None, Murdoch." Brackenreid looked like he was shouting to be heard.
"Good. And the bootleggers? How many dead? How many did we arrest?" He noticed his jaw hurt when he talked.
Brackenreid's face crumpled. "None. Because we found no one in the building, no one alive that is. We've got damned nothing except a busted-up building. No arrests, no proof and no bloody Rocco Perri! For Christ's Sake, what the hell happened, Murdoch?"
