The Illusion of Murder

by McCleary, Carol

  “What time do you want to reach New York, Miss Bly?” Mr. Bissell, general passenger agent of the Atlantic and Pacific system, asks me.

  “No later than Saturday evening.”

  “Very well, we will put you there on time,” he says quietly. “At least the first leg, the Queen will carry you to Chicago.”

  “How will you get me there on time if the pass is still closed?”

  “We are taking a route that Mr. Pulitzer chose,” he says, “which I must say is quite clever. Instead of going directly east to Chicago, we’re sending you hundreds of miles south and then across the southwest deserts through Arizona and New Mexico before turning north to the Windy City. It’s five hundred miles longer, but it has less snow and rail traffic.”

  As I board, the conductor, porter, engineer, and fireman introduce themselves.

  “I’ll keep the throttle wide open,” the engineer proudly states.

  “And I will keep the boiler red hot,” the fireman says.

  I’m so tickled by their enthusiasm, I feel like I should also contribute. “If you tire of shoveling coal,” I tell the fireman, “I’ll help you shovel until the Queen is flying.”

  Changing my mode of conveyance from steamship to steam locomotive makes me reflect upon how dependent I’ve been for the past couple of months on the strong arms of men shoveling coal into boilers and how fortunate I’ve been so far that the engines themselves did not fail me.

  Crossing my fingers, I pray my luck will continue

  While we are doing some fine running the first day, the horn blasts and there’s a bump as if we strike something. Brakes screech, we come to a stop and go out to see what has occurred. My first thought is there’ll be a delay.

  It is overcast, with rain in the air, and it’s hailing when we step out and see two men coming up the track. The conductor meets them and returns to tell us, “We hit a handcar.” He points down the track to a piece of twisted iron and a bit of splintered board—all that remains of the four-wheeled platform with a hand pump that rail crews used for transportation.

  When the men come up, one remarks, with a mingled expression of wonder and disgust upon his face: “Well, you are running like h—!”

  “Thank you, I am glad to hear it,” I say, and we all laugh.

  “Is anyone hurt?” I inquire.

  “No.” They assure me they are not.

  With good humor being restored all around we say good-bye, and the engineer pulls the lever, and we are off again.

  * * *

  AT MERCED, OUR SECOND STOP, a great crowd of people dressed in their best Sunday clothes have gathered about the station.

  “Are they having a picnic? I ask the conductor.

  “Oh, no … they’ve come to see you.”

  “Me … oh my.”

  A loud cheer, which almost frightens me to death, greets my appearance and the band begins playing, “By Nellie’s Blue Eyes.”

  A large tray of fruit, candy, and nuts, the tribute of a dear little newsboy, are passed to me, for which I am more grateful than had it been the gift of a king.

  After waves to the crowd and yells of “Thank you!” we are off again.

  The three of us in the train car have nothing to do but admire the beautiful country, through which we are passing as swiftly as clouds along the sky, or to read, or count telegraph poles, or pamper and pet the monkey.

  Having little inclination to do anything but to sit quietly, I rest, bodily and mentally. There is nothing left for me to do now. I can’t hurry anything or change anything, and this makes me realize the same goes for Mr. Cleveland’s murder. It is completely out of my control—it’s done, it’s over with. I can only sit and wait until the train lands me at the end of my journey and then I shall go to the British Embassy and give them the key and Amelia Cleveland’s name.

  With this resolution, I close my eyes and enjoy the rapid motion of the train so much that I dread to think it could stop.

  * * *

  AT THE NEXT STATION, the town turns out to do me honor and I am the happy recipient of exquisite fruits, wines, and flowers—all the products of Fresno County, California.

  The men are interested in my sunburned nose, the delays I have experienced, the number of miles I have travelled, the women want to examine my one dress in which I have travelled around the world as well as the cloak and cap I’ve worn, and are anxious to know what is in the little valise, and all about the monkey.

  A man on the outskirts of the crowd shouts, “Nellie Bly, I must get up close to you!”

  The crowd evidently feels as much curiosity as I do about the man’s objective, for they make way and he comes up to the platform. “Nellie Bly, you must touch my hand,” he says, excitedly.

  Anything to please the man. Reaching over, I touch his hand and then he shouts: “Now you will be successful. I have in my hand the left hind foot of a rabbit!”

  Well, I don’t know anything about the left hind foot of a rabbit, but later my train runs safely across a bridge that was held in place only by screw jacks and fell the moment we crossed it; following that near disaster, the engine which had just switched off from us, loses a wheel. At such moments I think of the left hind foot of a rabbit and wonder if there is anything in it. I also wonder if it will counteract any of the bad luck that seems to be associated with the key in my shoe heel.

  Another place, where a large crowd greets me, a man on the limits of it yells, “Did you ride on an elephant, Nellie?”

  When I reply, “No, I didn’t,” he drops his head and walks away, leaving me to feel that I’d let him down.

  Then we stop at another place where the policemen have to fight to keep the crowd back; everybody wants to shake hands with me, but at last one officer is shoved aside and the other, seeing the fate of his comrade, turns to me, saying: “I guess I’ll give up and take a shake,” and while reaching for my hand he is swept on with the crowd.

  My entire trip down California’s central valley and across the deserts of the southwest went on like that—leaning over platforms and shaking with both hands at every station, and when the train pulls out crowds run after us, grabbing for my hands as long as they can.

  My arms ache, but I don’t mind the pain, my trip being a haze of happy wishes, congratulating telegrams, fruit, flowers, loud cheers, rapid hand-shaking, and a beautiful car filled with fragrant flowers attached to a swift engine that is tearing like mad through flower-dotted valleys and over snow-tipped mountains, on—on—on!

  During this time I find myself living in the moment and forgetting all my cares and worries. Mr. Cleveland no longer exists to me. I am home, safe, and very happy.

  “Come out here and we’ll elect you governor,” a Kansas man says, and I believe they would have, if the splendid welcomes they give me are any criterion.

  It’s impossible to mention one place that was kinder than another. Over ten thousand people greet me at Topeka. To say I feel honored is an understatement. Everyone has been so kind and as anxious that I should finish the trip in time, it’s as if their personal reputations are at stake.

  It’s only when I’m alone at night, in my bunk, listening to the rails sing as we roll along that little doubts and fears sneak back into my head. Sometimes I feel as if there’s a spider in my ear, whispering a question that became a mantra to me when things went from bad to worse.

  When will the other shoe fall?

  60

  I’m sleeping late when George the porter knocks and tells me we will be arriving on the outskirts of Chicago shortly.

  I dress myself leisurely and drink the last drop of coffee there is left on our train, for we have been entertaining anybody who cared to travel any distance with us, before joining my two train mates in the stateroom.

  There is little for us—Henry the conductor, George the porter, and myself—to do in the Pullman car except watch the fields and hills slip by as we roar down the tracks with the throttle wide open.

  I listen with interest a
s they talk about the history of the Pullman car, how not too long ago it revolutionized train travel, literally creating a hotel on wheels for the ordinary traveller and palatial luxury for the rich.

  The inventor of the sleeping car, George Pullman, designed his car after spending miserable overnight trips sitting up in a train seat. The other option was to sleep on the dirty floor, using one’s bag as a pillow.

  Mr. Pullman’s concept of berths that fold up by day, a washroom for men and one for women, clean sheets, towels, and pillows, became so popular he built cars just for sleeping while travelling.

  The car on my “special train” had thick carpeting, draperies, carved mahogany paneling, French upholstered chairs, a stocked bookcase, a card table, a chandelier and oil lamps rather than candles, plenty of head room, and water provided from an overhead system of tanks. And, of course, “George” the porter. All Pullman porters are called “George”—the name being taken from George Pullman.

  George tells me my special car pales in comparison to the private cars for wealthy people that are built specifically to their specifications, with as much attention to detail as the construction of their yachts. But, Abraham Lincoln so disliked the ornate railroad car supplied for his service as president, he only rode in it once—when it carried his coffin.

  “The Lincoln funeral train is still running on the tracks, filled with ghosts,” George says. “Every April it comes through at midnight, following the route it took when it carried his body home. It passes by with long black streamers waving, a band playing, and skeletons sitting around.”

  I stare out the window watching telegraph poles flying by as I listen idly to their conversation about railroading when I hear a name that gives me a start.

  “What did you say, George?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “What was that name you just said?”

  “You mean Amelia?”

  “Yes, what about Amelia?”

  “Why, Amelia’s the finest private rail car in the country. I spent a month serving on it last year when a porter friend took ill.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “To Stirling Westcot, the wealthy railroad magnate.”

  Westcot. His name is recognizable not just to me, but to people in all forty-two states as one of the richest men in the nation. He owns railroads and coal mines. His name is also synonymous with ruthless business practices.

  “Is Amelia his wife’s name?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s the name of his horse that won the Kentucky Derby last year.”

  What had Sarah said to me just before we sailed from Hong Kong? Something about her being as important as a racehorse.

  Pieces fall into place. Amelia. Sarah’s remark about a racehorse. A Pullman car named Amelia owned by a rich horse-racing enthusiast.

  A coincidence?

  The hair quivering on the back of my head says it’s not. So do the knots in my stomach. Getting up, I pace back and forth, thoughts flying through my head, none of them forming a coherent pattern.

  How do I make a connection with a murder in an Egyptian marketplace, a holy war to drive the British from Egypt and the Suez Canal, a train car named Amelia, the world’s greatest actress, and an American racehorse enthusiast as rich as Midas?

  No matter how the pieces are twisted, they don’t fit together. Connecting them requires a romantic link between Sarah and Stirling Westcot. While he is immensely wealthy, he also is very short with an oversized head, and is famous for being as mean as a snake and as cheap as a Memphis minister.

  A man with enough money can attract beautiful lovers, even if he looks like a toad and acts like a cad. But when Sarah spoke of her mysterious lover, there was real passion in her voice. A fire lit up in her eyes and she got that “glow” only real love can produce.

  Stirling Westcot doesn’t fit with her passion. And neither do fanatical terrorists halfway around the world and the struggle to control the Suez Canal. Westcot makes money, not nations.

  “There’s no connection between them despite the name,” I tell the conductor and George.

  They both agree without knowing to what they have assented.

  Sitting down, satisfied that I have reached the correct conclusion, it occurs to me there is one more item concerning Mr. Cleveland that I have not resolved.

  As the men go back to talking, I slip off my shoe and twist the heel to let the key drop into my hand. “What do you turn, little fellow?”

  George the porter stares at my key and then checks the ring he carries on his belt.

  “What is it, George?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, for a moment I thought you had my key.”

  “You have a key like this?”

  “Of course I do. All porters have them. It opens the storage area beneath the car.”

  Oh my God.

  CHICAGO

  Day 70

  THE KEY TO AMELIA

  61

  Just before the train is to pull into a station outside Chicago, I slip back into my compartment with the excuse of needing to freshen up, but I want the time alone to get my wits about me.

  There is a connection between the killings in Port Said, Sarah, the struggle for Egypt and the Suez Canal, and one of the richest men in America: The sleight of hand that weaves them all together is the key.

  No longer is there any doubt as to what the key opens—for over twelve thousand miles, I have carried a key that unlocks the storage bin in the underbelly of a private Pullman car.

  Now I am completely stumped by the importance of the key.

  Why it was hidden in a scarab seems obvious—it allowed the key to be passed secretly on to someone without drawing attention. Whoever passed it or received it must have believed that they would be watched and didn’t want the key to be seen exchanging hands.

  Mr. Cleveland intercepted it, literally grabbing it and running, so it wasn’t meant for him. And it got him killed.

  A scarab is a good choice to hide the key in. Of all the things a European tourist might purchase in an Egyptian marketplace, a souvenir scarab ranks very high on the list, probably at the top, beating out cartouches and hieroglyphic art painted on papyrus. Definitely avoids attracting attention.

  The scheme starts to take some shape in my mind, at least the passing of the key. The person who was supposed to receive the key was a European, probably someone from our ship. While many passengers on board may have visited the marketplace, only a few of them stand out in my mind, Lord and Lady Warton and Von Reich, and only because I accompanied them. It was Lord Warton who insisted we go to that area of the marketplace because he wanted to pick up something for his sister.

  That doesn’t meant that there weren’t a dozen other passengers in the area or that the pass off wasn’t to take place later. That snake magic had me engrossed and I wasn’t paying attention to what was happening around me.

  Whoever picked up the scarab-key intended to carry it to America and open the storage area underneath Westcot’s private train car. But why?

  What is in that locker that is so important it triggered murder and intrigue halfway around the world, has some connection to a holy war in Egypt against foreigners, and can rattle the sabers of the British Empire because their hold on the Suez Canal is threatened?

  From the news stories I read about Stirling Westcot, he was an unlikely candidate to be involved in international intrigue or anything across the seas. He prided himself on making money, period, and the only business he had with politicians were the stuffed envelopes he slipped them when he wanted something. Other than gouging as much money as he can from coal mines and railroads, his only passion is horse-racing. If it wasn’t for Sarah’s cryptic remark about a racehorse, I would not be able to make a connection between Egypt, the canal, and a Pullman car called Amelia.

  The secret I still have no clue about is the contents of the storage box, but no matter how I stirred the pot, it all boils down to one thing: When the key is used on the Amelia, it will open
Pandora’s box. And it will trigger something with international consequences. There is no other explanation for a Mahdi connection.

  Somehow Sarah is mixed up in the intrigue, but I’m certain it’s an innocent involvement. I found her too blunt and open about her thoughts and feelings to picture her as a schemer. Nor does she strike me as politically zealous. I’m sure Sarah could care less whether the Suez Canal belonged to Egyptians, the British, or the man in the moon, and she is definitely too melodramatic for spying.

  Whatever earthshaking events are unfolding, they don’t seem to relate to Sarah but to the important man she is clandestinely rendezvousing with. And try as I might, I can’t see her romantically connected to Stirling Westcot. A man had to have more than money to capture her heart. Perhaps Westcot has a son Sarah has become involved with? One in the diplomatic corps?

  No matter how I try, I can’t get the pieces to stack into nice, neat piles. Maybe I’m building a mountain out of a molehill; perhaps I’m wrong, a train car named Amelia might just be a bizarre coincidence—but it sounds right to me.

  Now I’m worried for Sarah. I need to contact her, find out where she is going and where this train car Amelia is. But how?

  I must finish my race. Too many people are counting on me. I’ve gone this far, there’s no turning back. Damn! What I desperately need is time, which I don’t have.

  George knocks on my door. “Miss Bly, there’s a reception committee here for you.”

  I find the social area of the car quite filled with good-looking men.

  “Hello, Miss Bly, I’m Mr. Cornelius Gardener, the vice president of the Chicago Press Club.” He steps forward, with his hat in his hand. “We’ve come to Joliet to escort you to Chicago.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before the train departs the station, I give the conductor a telegram to run in to the station office, a query to Mr. Bissel, the kind railroad executive I met in Oakland. I request a most urgent reply; I’m hoping that I will find a response at Chicago, our next stop.