Farraday Road

by Ace Collins

  With a high-pitched creaking, the door opened and a small man, standing barely five and a half feet, his dark eyes set off by wavy snow white hair, bowed his head in greeting.

  “You would be Lije Evans?”

  “I am,” Lije replied, sticking out his hand. “I know this home’s older than you are, so I have to ask, who had the imagination to build it?”

  “An interesting question, and the answer would be a very wealthy Chicago businessman who used it as a summer retreat during the Depression. As is obvious, he loved trains as much as I do.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Wait until you see the inside.”

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Dr. Cathcart. It is nice to finally meet you.”

  “Mr. Evans, I would be remiss if I did not first share with you something that lies heavy on my heart. I met your late wife on three different occasions. She was a remarkable woman. I cannot begin to comprehend your loss. She was strong, driven, and yet caring and loving. Her beauty was simply breathtaking. I was at the funeral, and the service, as beautiful as it was, did not begin to cover the majesty that was Kaitlyn.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Lije replied. “I was unaware that you two had met. But I’m glad you did and even happier that she had a profound effect on you. In fact, her death is what brings me to your door today.”

  “I’m at a loss as to what I can do,” Cathcart replied. “But if I can be of some aid, it will be my honor to help. Now, come into my home. I have some tea prepared, both hot and iced. We can sit in the study and you can explain why you think this poor student of history can shed light on the events of a modern world.”

  Cathcart’s home was the stuff of local legend. Lije had wanted to visit it for years. He and Kaitlyn had once been invited to a charity event for an after-school program that was held in the house, but it had conflicted with a previous engagement at their own home. He had wanted to cancel his own party just to attend the one in Hardy, but Kaitlyn wouldn’t let him.

  Now, as he followed his host through the massive structure, what filled his eyes was almost too much to comprehend. In every one of the large rooms they passed, from the stone floor to the top of the vaulted, two-story-high ceilings, were railroad paintings, memorabilia, and scores of electric trains. Old signal lanterns hung from the ceiling’s thick hand-hewn log beams. Crossing signs were nailed to walls. Sidecars served as end tables. Ticket windows were room dividers. And a twenty-foot-long mahogany table dominated what appeared to be a library. There had to be more than a thousand different items in the foyer, hallway, and the first four rooms they passed. When they finally crossed into the study, Lije saw that sticking through a back wall was a full-sized diner car, circa 1930s. It rested on rails that had been built into the floor. It looked as though it had just come out of the factory.

  Cathcart must have noted the awestruck look on his guest’s face. “Yes, it’s real. I also have a caboose in my bedroom. The car you’re looking at is from one of the famed Zephyr trains. They were the railroad’s first attempt at streamlining. I always thought they looked like cousins of the rocket ships seen in the old Buck Rogers movies. Would you like to sit in the dining car to talk? If you walk to the end that’s on the outside of the house, there’s a beautiful view of the river.”

  “That’d be fine,” Lije replied, suddenly feeling more like a little boy than a grown man.

  “Then get on board. I hope you’ll pardon my mild pun. And I’ll bring the refreshments. What would you like, iced or hot?”

  “I’ll take iced tea, sweet if you have it.”

  “This is the South. Of course it’s sweet,” Cathcart answered.

  Climbing onto the platform, Lije opened the door. From the velvet curtains to the bone china and heavy silverware, it was just as if he had stepped back into the glamour age of railroading. Even the magazines sitting on the bar were relics from the Depression era. There was Jean Harlow on the cover of Time, FDR on Life, and Clark Gable smiling from Liberty. As if the memorabilia inside the old relic were not overwhelming enough, seeing Spring River from the bluff was breathtaking. Two hundred feet below, the stream sparkled in the sun as its water splashed over rocks following a course it had mapped out thousands of years before John Smith landed at Jamestown. The natural glory of this scene would be hard to beat anywhere between the Smokey Mountains and the Rockies. Tears found their way into his eyes as he was struck by how much Kaitlyn would have loved this.

  “Here we go,” Cathcart announced as he brought a silver tray holding the drinks onto the train. “I hope this will meet with your approval. An old bachelor like myself usually doesn’t take much pride in cooking.”

  Cathcart sat opposite his guest. “Mr. Evans, when you called, you said that you had a question about train robberies on the old Hardy to Mammoth line. You specified one involving Jesse and Frank James. My guess was this would have taken place from just after the Civil War to sometime in the mid- to late 1870s. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know the year. A woman in Mountain View claimed the loot was hidden in a cave on Swope’s Ridge. The information had been passed down in her family for generations.”

  The educator rubbed his brow, his expression reflecting a hint of disappointment. “I know the location of the Ridge. Yet I found it strange I recalled nothing of a train robbery on the line. Still, as I have studied so many papers and done so much research in my sixty years of life, I thought I could be mistaken. I’ve committed much of my collection of records and newspaper clippings to computer files, so I did some digging. Sadly, in all of my materials, there’s not a single mention of a train robbery by the James Gang or the James-Younger Gang or anyone else. If Jesse had robbed another train in southern Missouri or even eastern Oklahoma, he would not have carried heavy chests on horseback very far. So I think this is nothing more than, as the hill folks call it, ‘a big windy.’”

  Lije had been convinced that the story was real even though Mabel Dean had warned him that her great-grandfather’s story was nothing but a fable. Was this the end of the trail? If it was, then Kaitlyn, Micah Dean, and probably Mikki Stuart were all killed for nothing. Nothing but fool’s gold.

  Cathcart took another sip of tea. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news. But there’s nothing there. If there had been a robbery, it would’ve been covered in the newspapers and recorded in the railroad logs. In fact, during the late 1800s, only one mystery was ever connected to that old rail line, and Jesse James had been shot and buried before those events transpired.”

  Lije stood up and forced a smile. “I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time. I do appreciate seeing your place.”

  “I too am sorry,” Cathcart said, “but I’ll keep digging. When it comes to legends, there’s usually some truth in them. Maybe I can find something that’ll open a door for you.”

  EVEN IF THE LEGEND WASN’T TRUE, THOSE WHO believed it had pursued it and possibly been killed for it. Lije had one more stop to make before he returned home.

  The outer office of James R. Cook’s law firm was crammed with second- or third-hand furniture pressed into service by someone who had no instinct for decorating. It was the business equivalent of a male college student’s apartment. It appeared that no one was home. Lije waited awkwardly for a few moments, then yelled, “Anybody here?”

  “I’m in the back office.”

  He headed down the twenty-foot hall and found himself at the door of the modest office Cook called his business home. A large, middle-aged man, Cook was dressed casually in blue knit slacks, a pullover short-sleeve shirt, and black eel cowboy boots. Above his lip was an unruly mustache, badly in need of a trim. His hair, dyed black, was thinning in spots, and he made full use of what little hair he did have in a comb-over.

  “What can I do for you? ” Cook asked, pointing Lije to a wooden chair.

  “My name’s Lije Evans, and as I mentioned on the phone, I need some information on a piece of property. I’ve been told that you hand
led the last two sales of Swope’s Ridge.”

  Cook leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his neck. “Your information is right, Mr. Evans. I did the work five years ago and assisted again about a month ago.”

  “What can you tell me about the German who originally owned the property?”

  When asked about the German, Cook’s professional side seemed to kick in. He acted as if he was about to clam up. The last thing Lije needed was a man with lockjaw. The only card that might open up the game was the last resort for many lawyers: the truth.

  “My wife, Kaitlyn, bought the property off Mabel Dean. As you probably know, Kaitlyn was killed a few days ago, and I feel the reason for her murder might be tied to the land purchase. I need to get as much information as I can to at least be satisfied whether this is the case. I feel sure that you know more than anyone else in regard to the property itself.”

  “Evans. I should have made the connection when you called. But there are so many Evanses in this area. My grandmother was an Evans.” Cook paused for a moment. He looked as if he was searching for words. When he spoke, his voice was much softer. “Your wife was a very beautiful woman. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  It appeared the door was opening. Now it was time to push his way through and pray that there was something of value on the other side. “Thank you. I hope you understand why I need the information.”

  “Let me be honest, Mr. Evans, I don’t know of anything that will help you, but here is an overview of the information I do have. His name was John Schleter, and he was a German. I represented him the last few years of his life. I can tell you he was very tightlipped. He rarely spoke of himself or his past. I do know he was a German soldier in World War II. He did tell me a little bit about that. He claimed he was a truck driver and never fired a gun during his four years in uniform. I have no reason to believe that wasn’t true. My grandfather had the same role for us in that war.”

  “Any idea what brought him to Swope’s Ridge after the war?”

  “Not really. I know he had no connection to the area, but after World War II, a lot of land could be bought around here for back taxes. That was the case with Swope’s Ridge. So he picked it up. It was pretty cheap. I do know he bought an old school bus about the same time he purchased the property. He lived in the bus while he built his house. The bus is still up there behind the house, but it’s been pretty much covered over by new growth.”

  “Did he have any friends?”

  “Not really. He did attend the Lutheran church over in Cherokee Village some. Even gave the money for the addition they built a few years back. But he didn’t talk much and left right after each service. Mainly he just stayed in that strange house.”

  “Strange?”

  “Well, I was only there once. He was pretty sick toward the end, and I took him some papers he needed to sign. The house looked like something out of a Bavarian forest. It was dark and drab with a steep roof. It had thick brick walls, almost like a fortress. He even had metal shutters that he could close to cover all the windows. He had more locks on the front door than a maximum-security prison. On that visit, he told me that everything in the home, as well as the building materials, had been imported from Germany. It had all been shipped over in large crates after the war. Then he built the house, every bit of it, by himself.”

  “You mean nothing came from America?”

  Cook quickly rethought. “I guess nails, mortar, and basic items like that. But even the doors and windows were from the Old Country.”

  “That must’ve cost a pretty penny.” Why, Lije thought, would someone spend so much to bring in materials that could be easily and cheaply purchased locally?

  “Well, he never seemed to lack for pennies,” Cook said. “He never worked, raised nothing on his land. Yet he had no problem buying food and other items he needed for the house. Always paid his taxes and utilities. He only kept a small amount in the bank, and that amount always remained about the same. If he took some out, it was soon replaced. He never waited to pay bills either. I’d give him my invoice in person and get the payment. He’d just write me a check and hand it to me.”

  “Did anyone visit Schleter?”

  “As far as I know, and I have asked a lot of the old-timers, the only people who ever approached that home were men like Micah Dean who either wanted to buy the place or at least get to hunt on it. Each of them was pretty rudely turned away.”

  Yeah, having your backside filled with rock salt might make a person feel a bit unwanted, Evans thought. Why was the German so protective of Swope’s Ridge? “What did he do with the property?Did he fish? Hunt?”

  “He was as pale as a ghost, so I’m guessing he spent most of his time in the house. I know he was never outside when folks drove down the old logging road that runs by the property or when they passed by on the river. He never bought a television and didn’t even have a phone. He did have an old radio, but when I was there, it wasn’t on. One day I asked him what he liked best about the place. His answer—‘the solitude.’ I inquired about what the land away from the house looked like, and he shook his head. By the way he reacted, I’m not sure he ever walked the property. He was a peculiar one.”

  Lije agreed. Anyone who didn’t marvel at the scenery on the ridge had to be peculiar. But why stay there and spend so much to build a fortress if no one ever visited? “I understand that he left the estate to a niece in Germany.”

  “Actually, it was his brother’s daughter’s daughter. So it would have been a great-niece. She didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Wasn’t the least bit interested in her uncle or in America. Just asked me to sell it as quickly as possible and get her the money. I knew Micah was interested, so I called him. I set the price at the appraised value and that was it. I later found out I moved too fast. If the great-niece had been more patient, I could have gotten twice what Micah paid.”

  “Really? ” Now he finally had discovered something that hinted at a motive. Someone besides the German and Dean who felt there was something of value on that property.

  “Yes, two men from Cleveland called and made an offer just two weeks later. They vaguely explained to me they were going to develop the land somehow. They really didn’t say anything more specific about their plans. When I informed them that Micah Dean had bought it, they asked me how to get in touch with him. I gave them his number, but I understand that when they called, he wouldn’t even give them the time of day. I think that’s when they turned to Jonathon Jennings. He was trying to establish his own real-estate company at the time. That’s when everything went really bad. I always thought that Johnny was a good guy, but he must have snapped.” Cook added, “They’re going to execute him next week.”

  “The two men from Cleveland, did they call you back?”

  Cook nodded. “Yes, a few weeks after the trial ended. They again asked if the property was for sale, but I told them it wasn’t. Then they asked if they could lease Swope’s Ridge for a year. I couldn’t arrange that either. Dean’s will was out of date and it took his wife a long time just to get the property put in her name. Then she had to pay some taxes before she could sell it. So nothing could be done with it then. Earlier this year when she finally got control of it, she contacted me, asking if I knew of anyone who wanted the place. I immediately called the old number for the men from Cleveland. The number was no longer in service. That’s when your wife contacted me. The timing was right. Mabel Dean wanted to sell, and the rest is history.”

  “Do you still have the old number for the men from Cleveland?” Lije asked.

  “Yeah. It’s here in my address book.”

  “Could I have that number?”

  “Won’t do you much good; it’s out of date.”

  As Cook scribbled the number, Lije posed a final question, “What were the men’s names?”

  “I know this is going to sound crazy, but even though both of them called me from time to time, only one ever left me a name. You’re gonna laugh,
but he said he was Robert Smith.”

  Lije did not laugh. Nothing about this was funny. He stood and reached across the desk to shake the other man’s hand. “Thanks. I appreciate the information.” He stuck the number in his pants pocket.

  “Hope I’ve been some help to you,” Cook replied.

  “I think you have.”

  LIJE HURRIED FROM COOK’S LAW OFFICE AND WALKED back to the car. The story Cook told did not ring true. Two elements were not logical.

  First, the men wanted to buy Swope’s Ridge to develop it. When they couldn’t buy it, they tried to lease it for only a year. Why would anyone lease something they wanted to develop? A building project made sense only if they had title to the property.

  And who would buy in to such a development once it was completed?While Swope’s Ridge was beautiful and had a host of wonderful building locations, it was too remote. The property was not on a main highway. The incredibly high offer the men made for just the land would have pushed the price for each parcel way up. Only the wealthy could afford such a place and this area had few wealthy people. Plus there were already too many places like that on Spring River. Lije was certain the men were not planning a major development on the property.

  So that meant they were convinced there was something else there that was very valuable. Perhaps there really was truth in the story about the Jesse James treasure.

  Back in his car, Lije decided to start with a background check on Schleter. But how would he dig up information that went back almost a century? Did he go to D. C.? Or to Berlin?

  He drove slowly, his eyes glued to the curving road, and considered the other strange tidbit dropped by Cook. To many it would have seemed insignificant, but for the moment it was the focus of his thoughts. The men who tried to buy Swope’s Ridge were from the same area as the trench coat found at the diner.