The Wrecker Page 14

  The Wrecker strode alongside the last car, the observation-lounge, matching its pace, his eyes everywhere.

  Far ahead, just behind the baggage car, he saw a man leaning from the steps of the first Pullman, holding on to a handrail so he could swing out to get a clear look at whoever was catching the Limited at the last minute. It was six hundred feet from there to where the Wrecker was reaching for a handrail to pull himself aboard the last car of the moving train, but there was no mistaking the sharp silhouette of a hunter.

  The head of the train moved out of the shadow cast by the station, and he saw that the man leaning out to watch the platform had a full head of flaxen hair that gleamed like gold in the light of the setting sun. Which meant, as he had suspected, that the hunter was none other than Detective Isaac Bell.

  Without hesitation, the Wrecker gripped the handrail and stepped onto the train’s end platform. From this open vestibule, he entered the observation-lounge car. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the smoke and noise, and luxuriated in the peace and quiet of a first-class transcontinental flyer decorated with heavy moldings, polished-wood panels, mirrors, and a thick carpet on the floor. Stewards were carrying drinks on silver trays to passengers lounging on comfortable couches. Those who looked up from newspapers and conversation acknowledged the well-dressed late arrival with the sociable nods of brother clubmen.

  The conductor broke the mood. Flinty of eye, hard of mouth, and impeccably uniformed, from his gleaming visor to his gleaming shoes, he was imperious, brusque, and suspicious like conductors everywhere. “Tickets, gents! Ogden tickets.”

  The Wrecker flourished his railway pass.

  The conductor’s eyes widened at the name on the pass, and he greeted his new passenger with great deference.

  “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  THE FAVORED FEW

  15

  OCTOBER 14, 1907

  EASTBOUND ON THE OVERLAND LIMITED

  “TAKE ME TO MY STATEROOM IMMEDIATELY!”

  Isaac Bell would be racing to the back of the train to see who had boarded last minute, and the Wrecker intended to confront the detective at a time of his own choosing.

  The conductor, obsequious as a palace courtier serving a prince robed in ermine, led the Wrecker down a window aisle to a large suite in the middle of a car where the train was smoothest riding.

  “Come in! Shut the door!”

  The private suite, reserved for the railroad’s special guests, was palatially fitted with hand-carved cabinetry and an embossed-leather ceiling. It included a sitting room, a sleeping compartment, and its own bathroom with a marble tub and fixtures of pure silver. He tossed his Gladstone bag on the bed.

  “Any ‘interests’ on your train?” he asked the conductor, meaning were there other important personages aboard. He made the inquiry with a confidential smile and slipped the conductor a gold piece.

  No guest of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company had to tip to ensure lavish treatment and fawning service. But the conductor of a transcontinental train, like the purser of an Atlantic liner, could be a useful confederate and a source of inside information about the powerful passengers traveling across the country. The combination of pretended intimacy and cold cash was an investment that would pay off in spades. And indeed it did, as the conductor answered freely.

  “Mr. Jack Thomas, president of First National Bank, got on at Oakland, along with Mr. Bruce Payne, Esquire.”

  “The oil attorney?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Payne and Mr. Thomas are very close, as you can imagine.”

  “Money and petroleum law make fast bedfellows,” the Wrecker smiled, encouraging the conductor to keep talking.

  “Judge Congdon and Colonel Bloom, the gentleman in coal, have been on the train since Sacramento.”

  The Wrecker nodded. Judge James Congdon had joined with J. P. Morgan to buy Andrew Carnegie’s steel trust. Kenneth Bloom owned coal in partnership with the Pennsylvania Railroad.

  “And Mr. Moser of Providence, the mill owner, whose son sits in the Senate, sir.”

  “Capital fellow,” said the Wrecker. “His father’s textile interests are in good hands.”

  The conductor beamed, basking in the proximity of such celebrated plutocrats. “I am certain that they would be honored if you would join them for dinner.”

  “I’ll see how I feel,” he answered casually, adding with an almost imperceptible wink, “Any talk of a little game of draw?”

  “Yes, sir. Poker after dinner in Judge Congdon’s stateroom.”

  “And who else is aboard?”

  The conductor rattled off the names of cattle barons, western mining magnates, and the usual complement of railroad attorneys. Then he lowered his voice to confide, “There’s a Van Dorn detective got on at Ogden just before you, sir.”

  “A detective? Sounds exciting. Did you catch his name?”

  “Isaac Bell.”

  “Bell ... Hmm. I don’t suppose he is sleuthing ‘undercover’ if he told you his name.”

  “I recognized him. He travels often.”

  “Is he on a case?”

  “I don’t know about that. But he’s riding on a pass signed by President Hennessy himself. And the orders came down that we are supposed to give Van Dorn agents anything they ask for.”

  The Wrecker’s smile hardened as a wintery light filled his eyes. “What has Isaac Bell asked of you?”

  “Nothing yet, sir. I presume he is investigating all those Southern Pacific wrecks. ”

  “Perhaps we can make things expensive for Mr. Bell in our friendly game of draw.” The conductor looked surprised. “Would a detective have the blood in him for your gentlemen’s game?”

  “I suspect that Mr. Bell can afford it,” said the Wrecker. “If he’s the same Isaac Bell who I’ve heard rumored is a wealthy man. I’ve never played poker with a detective. It could be interesting. Why don’t you ask him if he would care to join us?” It was not a question but an order, and the conductor promised to invite the detective to join the high-stakes poker game after dinner in Judge Congdon’s stateroom.

  The way a man played poker revealed all there was to know of him. The Wrecker would use the opportunity to size Bell up and decide how to kill him.

  ISAAC BELL’S STATEROOM WAS in a Pullman car that had a gentleman’s washroom at the front end with beveled mirrors, nickel fixtures, and massive marble sinks. There was room for two easy chairs. A potted palm in the room swayed in rhythm with the train, which was speeding along the Weber River, drawn by its powerful locomotive, up the one percent grade into the Wasatch Range.

  Bell shaved there before dressing for dinner. While he could afford a lavish suite with its own facilities, he preferred shared facilities when he traveled. In such lounges, just as in the changing rooms of gymnasiums and private clubs, something about the combination of marble, tile, running water, and comfortable chairs in the absence of women made men boastful. Boastful men talked openly to strangers, and there was always some tidbit of information to glean from overheard conversations. And indeed, as he slid his Wootz steel straight razor across his face, a rotund and cheerful slaughterhouse owner from Chicago put down his cigar to remark, “Porter told me that Senator Charles Kincaid boarded the train in Ogden.”

  “The ‘Hero Engineer’?” replied a well-dressed drummer stretched out comfortably in the other leather armchair. “I’d like to shake his hand.”

  “All you gotta do is corral him in the dining car.”

  “You can never tell with those senators,” said the salesman. “Con gressmen and governors will shake any hand that still has blood flowing in it, but United States senators can be a stuck-up lot.”

  “That’s what comes from being appointed instead of elected.”

  “Was he the tall fellow who jumped aboard at the last second?” Bell asked from the shaving mirror.

  The Chicago meatpacker said he’d been reading the newspaper as the train pulled out and hadn’t noticed.

  T
he drummer had. “Hopped on quick as a hobo.”

  “A mighty well-dressed hobo,” said Bell, and the meatpacker and the drummer laughed.

  “That’s a good one,” the meatpacker chortled. “Well-dressed hobo. What line are you in, son?”

  “Insurance,” said Bell. He caught the drummer’s eye in the mirror. “Was the fellow you saw jump on last minute Senator Kincaid?”

  “Could have been,” said the drummer. “I didn’t look close. I was talking to a gent at the front of the car and the conductor was blocking my view. But wouldn’t they hold the train for a senator?”

  “Reckon so,” said the meatpacker. He heaved his heavy body out of the chair, stubbed out his cigar and said, “So long, boys. I’m heading for the observation car. Anyone use a drink, I’m buying.”

  Bell went back to his stateroom.

  Whoever had jumped on at the last minute had disappeared by the time Bell reached the observation car at the rear of the train, which was not surprising since this Overland Limited was an all-stateroom train, the only public spaces being the dining car and the observation car. The dining car had been empty except for the stewards setting tables for the evening meal, and none of the smokers in the observation car resembled the well-dressed man Bell had seen at a distance. Nor did any of them resemble the lumberjack’s sketch of the Wrecker.

  Bell rang for the porter. The black man was in late middle age, old enough to have not only been born into slavery but to have endured it as an adult. “What is your name?” Bell asked. He could not abide the custom of calling Pullman porters “George” after their employer George Pullman.

  “Jonathan, sir.”

  Bell pressed a ten-dollar gold piece into his soft palm. “Jonathan, would you look at this picture? Have you see this man on the train?”

  Jonathan studied the drawing.

  Suddenly, a westbound express flashed by the windows with a roar of wind and steam as the two trains passed each other at a combined speed of one hundred twenty miles an hour. Osgood Hennessy had double-tracked much of the route to Omaha, which meant that limit eds wasted little time on sidings waiting for trains to pass.

  “No, sir,” said the porter, shaking his head. “I’ve not seen no gentleman who looks like this.”

  “How about this one?” Bell showed the porter the sketch with the beard, but the answer was the same. He was disappointed but not surprised. The eastbound Overland Limited was only one of a hundred fifty trains that had left Ogden since the outlaw in the stable had been stabbed. Though fewer, of course, would connect to New York City, where the Wrecker’s baiting note had virtually promised he was going.

  “Thank you, Jonathan.” He gave the porter his card. “Please ask the conductor to call on me at his earliest convenience.”

  Less than five minutes later, the conductor knocked. Bell let him in, established that his name was Bill Kux, and showed him the two sketches, one with beard, one without.

  “Did anyone board your train at Ogden who looked like either of these men?”

  The conductor studied them carefully, holding the first one in his hand, then the other, turning then to the light cast by the lamp since night had blackened the window. Bell watched Kux’s stern face for a reaction. Charged with the safety of the train and responsible for making every passenger pay his fare, conductors were sharp observers with good memories. “No, sir. I don’t think so ... Though this one looks familiar.”

  “Have you seen this man?”

  “Well, I don’t know ... But I know this face.” He stroked his chin and suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s how I know that face. I just saw him at the picture show.”

  Bell took back the sketches. “But no one who looks at all like either of these got on at Ogden?”

  “No, sir.” He chuckled. “You had me on the go there, for a minute, ‘til I remembered the moving picture. You know who that looks like? Actor fella. Broncho Bill Anderson. Doesn’t it?”

  “Who was the man who boarded the train at the last minute?”

  The conductor smiled. “Now, there’s a coincidence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was already heading to your stateroom when the porter gave me your card. That gentleman you’re inquiring after asked me to invite you to a game of draw after dinner in Judge Congdon’s stateroom.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Why, that’s Senator Charles Kincaid!”

  16

  “THAT WAS KINCAID?”

  Bell knew it had been a long shot. But there was something purposeful about the way the last man had come aboard, as if he had made a special effort to leave the Ogden depot undetected. A very long shot, he had to admit. Aside from the number of trains the Wrecker could have taken, men routinely ran to catch trains. He himself did it often. Sometimes deliberately, either to dupe someone already on the train or give the slip to someone following him in the station.

  “The last I heard,” Bell mused, “the Senator was in New York.”

  “Oh, he gets around, sir. You know those officeholders, always on the go. Can I tell him you will play draw?”

  Bell fixed Bill Kux with a cold stare. “How is it that Senator Kincaid happened to know my name and that I am on this train?”

  It was unusual to see a conductor of a limited flustered by anything less than jumping the tracks. Kux began to stammer. “Well, he, I ... Well, you know, sir, the way it is.”

  “The way it is, the wise traveler befriends his conductor,” Bell said, softening his expression to take the man into his trust. “The wise conductor endeavors to make everyone on his train happy. But especially those passengers most deserving of happiness. Do I have to remind you, Mr. Kux, that you have orders straight from the president of the line that Van Dorn detectives are your first friends?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bell. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.”

  “Don’t worry yourself.” Bell smiled. “It’s not as if you betrayed a confidence to a train robber.”

  “Very big of you, sir, thank you ... May I inform Senator Kincaid that you’ll join his game?”

  “Who else will be gaming?”

  “Well, Judge Congdon, of course, and Colonel Bloom.”

  “Kenneth Bloom?”

  “Yes, sir, the coal magnate.”

  “Last time I saw Kenny Bloom, he was behind the elephants with a shovel.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t understand.”

  “We were in the circus together briefly as boys. Until our fathers caught up with us. Who else?”

  “Mr. Thomas, the banker, and Mr. Payne, the attorney, and Mr. Moser of Providence. His son sits with Mr. Kincaid in the Senate.”

  Two more slavish champions of the corporations would be harder to imagine, thought Bell, but all he said was, “Tell the Senator that I will be honored to play.”

  Conductor Kux reached for the door. “I should warn you, Mr. Bell ...”

  “The stakes are high?”

  “That, too. But if a Van Dorn agent is my first friend, it is my duty to advise you that one of the gentlemen playing tonight has been known to make his own luck.”

  Isaac Bell showed his teeth in a smile. “Don’t tell me which one cheats. It will more interesting to find out for myself.”

  JUDGE JAMES CoNGDON, the host of the evening’s game of draw poker, was a lean and craggy old man with an aristocratic bearing and a manner as hard and unbending as the purified metal on which he had made his fortune. “The ten-hour workday,” he proclaimed in a voice like a coal chute, “will be the ruination of the steel industry.”

  The warning elicited solemn nods from the plutocrats gathered around the green-felt-topped card table, and a hearty “Hear! Hear!” from Senator Charles Kincaid. The Senator had opened the subject with an ingratiating promise to vote for stricter laws in Washington to make it easier for the judiciary to issue injunctions against strikers.

  If any
one on an Overland Limited steaming through the Wyoming night doubted the gravity of the conflict between labor unions and factory owners, Ken Bloom, who had inherited half of the anthracite coal in Pennsylvania, set them straight. “The rights and interests of the laboring men will be looked after and cared for not by agitators but by Christian men to whom God in His infinite wisdom has given control of the property interests of the country.”

  “How many cards, Judge?” said Isaac Bell, whose turn it was to deal. They were in the middle of a hand, and it was the dealer’s responsibility to keep the game moving. Which was not always easy, since, despite the enormous stakes, it was a friendly game. Most of the men knew one another and played together often. Table talk ranged from gossip to good-natured ribbing, sometimes intended to smoke out a rival’s intention and the strength or weakness of his hand.

  Senator Kincaid, Bell had already noticed, seemed intimidated by Judge Congdon, who occasionally called him Charlie even though the Senator was the sort who would demand to be called Charles if not “Senator, sir.”

  “Cards?” Bell asked again.

  Suddenly, the railroad car shook hard.

  The wheels were pounding over a rough patch of track. The car lurched. Brandy and whiskey sloshed from glasses onto green felt. Everyone in the luxurious stateroom fell quiet, reminded that they, along with the crystal, the card table, the brass lamps affixed to the walls, the playing cards, and the gold coins, were hurtling through the night at seventy miles an hour.

  “Are we are on the ties?” someone asked. The question met nervous laughter from all but the cold Judge Congdon, who snatched up his glass before it could spill any more and remarked, as the car shook even harder, “This reminds me, Senator Kincaid, what is your opinion about the flood of accidents plaguing the Southern Pacific Railroad?”

  Kincaid, who had apparently had too much to drink at dinner, answered loudly, “Speaking as an engineer, the rumors of Southern Pacific mismanagement are scandalous lies. Railroading is dangerous business. Always has been. Always will be.”