The Illusion of Murder

by McCleary, Carol

  Before we are into the station I have answered all the questions of the newsmen, and even joked about my sunburned nose and discussed the merits of traveling around the world with only one dress and a devilishly clever—and bad-tempered—monkey.

  Since I’m changing trains in Chicago, I bid a teary-eyed farewell to the wonderful men of the rails who have brought me safely and speedily two-thirds of the way across the continent in record time. It was done only because the crew on my train and many dozens of trainmen on the Santa Fe route made my winning the race a part of their own lives and I shall be forever grateful to them.

  The Miss Nellie Bly Special was given the right of way along the entire route and all speed limits were ignored. As news of the train’s impending arrival flashed over the telegraph lines to the next station, switchmen, engine changers, and coal and water tenders were standing by and went into action like a race crew, breaking many records, including switching an engine in forty-five seconds.

  Because of their efforts, we set a new record for a run from the San Francisco Bay to Chicago—nearly 2,600 miles at an average speed of 37 miles per hour and occasional bursts of 60 miles per hour.

  The rails between Chicago and the Eastern Seaboard are too crowded with rail traffic to permit my special train to dominate the tracks, so now I must leave the Miss Nellie Bly Special to board a regular passenger train for the rest of the race.

  My train in Chicago is not ready to depart when we arrive and carriages are waiting to take me and the group of newsmen to the meeting room of the Press Club.

  As I step aboard a coupe I shall share with Vice President Gardener, George the porter comes huffing and puffing from a good run to catch up with me and thrusts the reply to my telegram in my hands.

  “Here you are, Miss Bly. God’s speed to the finish line!”

  The query to the Oakland manager had requested the progress of certain passengers from the Oceanic who had left behind me. It is easy for a railroad man in a very short time to determine the progress of trains because most of the telegraph lines across the country follow the tracks.

  My specific question is about Sarah, Frederick, the Wartons, and Von Reich. The answer: They left together on the train that crossed the mountains and are due to arrive in Chicago several hours after I am scheduled to leave.

  Mr. Gardener interrupts my thoughts.

  “Sorry, I was lost in thought,” I apologize. “What did you say?”

  “My dear, Miss Bly, I am strongly tempted to steal you. You are quite a lady.”

  “Well, Mr. Gardener,” I say, giving him my innocent young-woman smile that worked many times with Mr. Pulitzer, “that is an opportune suggestion because I do indeed need to have you and the Press Club members steal me for a few hours. I’m changing my departure time so I can join up with friends coming in from the west.”

  “Isn’t that risky?”

  “I hope not.” But I know it is.

  Those words that have become a mantra with me, “If I lose the race, I will not, cannot return to New York,” create a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach.

  I can see the headlines: NELLIE BLY FAILS! SHE FAILED AMERICA AND WOMEN! Instead of HURRAHS, I’ll be receiving BOOS.

  But there is no other choice. Delaying my departure to join my former shipmates is the only honorable thing for me to do. I’m certain Sarah is in danger, more than she realizes.

  War, death, illicit love—deadly sins are all in some way wrapped up in Sarah’s journey, events not far from her description of armies marching on darkling plains.

  “You appear sad, Miss Bly.” Mr. Gardiner gives me a kind smile. “I hope it’s because you know that you will only spend hours in our beautiful city.”

  “I was just thinking about how peaceful it was when I was very small and had not one care in the world.”

  62

  In the beautiful rooms of the Press Club I meet the president, Stanley Waterloo, and a number of clever newspapermen. They weren’t expecting me in Chicago until noon. The club had arranged an informal reception for me, but when they were notified of my speedy trip and consequently earlier arrival, it was too late to notify the members.

  After a most delightful reception they escort me to Kinsley’s, where the club has a breakfast prepared. Owing to some misunderstanding, none of the men has had anything to eat since the night before. After breakfast, the members of the Press Club, acting as my escort, take me to visit the Chicago Board of Trade, the commodities exchange, where I encounter two surprises.

  First: Their billboard lists my name as a guest for this day to address the commodities traders.

  Second: Mr. Stirling Westcot, the millionaire and owner of the Amelia, is listed below my name. He is going to address the commodity traders tomorrow night.

  I must have been staring at his name because my escort notices.

  “Acquainted with Mr. Westcot?”

  “Only by reputation, but I would like to meet him.”

  “Unfortunately, you’ll miss him on this trip. He addresses us tomorrow and leaves for the West Coast the following morning.”

  Going west in his private train car, of course. And I’m going east. So are my shipmates. Sarah wouldn’t come all the way to Chicago just to turn around and head west. Maybe there is more than one Amelia in this world and I have been focusing on the wrong one.

  When we enter the commodities trading room, the pandemonium that seems to reign all during business hours is at its height.

  My escorts take me to the gallery and just as we get there a man raises his arm to yell something to the roaring crowd, but he spots me and yells instead: “There’s Nellie Bly!”

  In one instant, the crowd that has been yelling like mad becomes so silent a pin could have been heard falling to the floor. Every face, bright and eager, turns up toward me; instantly every hat comes off, and then a burst of applause resounds through the immense hall.

  I am in shock. People can say what they please about Chicago, but I do not believe that anywhere else in the United States can a woman get a greeting which will equal that given by the Chicago Board of Trade.

  The applause is followed by cheer after cheer and cries of “Speech!”

  I take off my little cap and shake my head at them for I can’t speak. I just pray I can hold back my tears; I can’t have these men seeing me cry … it’s just so incredible.

  My gesture only serves to increase their cheers.

  * * *

  IT IS LATE AFTERNOON when Press Club members escort me to the Pennsylvania Station, where I reluctantly bid them good-bye, unable to thank them heartily enough for the royal manner in which they have treated a little sunburned stranger.

  From Mr. Bissel’s telegram, I already know the Wartons and Von Reich have compartments in one car. Frederick Selous and Sarah are in other cars. My compartment is in the same car as Sarah’s. Sarah and I will be next-door neighbors and the rest closer together than when we were on ships. It will be interesting to see what happens with all of us sandwiched together like sardines.

  Right now I’m very curious as to how they will react when they see me. And what Sarah tells me when I demand answers from her.

  A group of people boarding pause and look in my direction as a man takes off his hat and yells, “You’re on the last lap, Nellie! Get going and get across that finish line!”

  Smiling, I wave and mouth a “thank you” to him. God, I hope I will.

  Well, the cat’s now out of the bag.

  Lord Warton, who is entering a Pullman, two cars down from the one I will be riding in, turns and gives me the sort of frown and grimace I would expect a hanging judge to cast down on a prisoner in the dock. As for her ladyship, she merely glances in my direction, lifts her chin, and gives me her back. An ice-cold wind would have been a warmer welcome.

  Inside, I drop my bag and ulster in my own compartment and knock on Sarah’s door.

  “This is the police,” I whisper at the door. “We are investigating a my
stery woman.”

  A scream of joy comes from the other side of the door and it flies open. “Nellie!” She gives me a genuine, warm, enthusiastic hug. “Come in!”

  Pretending to peek around the tiny compartment, I ask, “What, no coffin to sleep in?”

  She dramatically puts the back of her hand against her forehead. “Alas, it ended up in the baggage car. I’m so delighted you are here! I thought for sure we had seen the last of each other.”

  “Me, too.” I close the door behind us. “Sarah, I have to talk to you.”

  She takes a seat, while I remain standing.

  “What is it, dear? You look positively alarmed.”

  “We need to talk about your rendezvous. You have to tell me—”

  She almost shakes her head off her shoulders. “No no no, you must not ask, you must stay completely out of the matter.”

  “I have to know. Especially about Amelia—”

  “Out!” She jumps up and slides open the door.

  “Sarah—”

  “Out.” She gives me a little push. As I start to step out she gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Some day I will make it up to you, but right now you are persona non grata to me.”

  “Sarah, I think you’re in danger.”

  “That’s so sweet; you are such an innocent little thing. Sometimes I feel like the whole world is in danger.”

  “Armies marching on darkling plains…”

  “Exactly.” She gives me another peck on the check. “Now run along, dear, and”—she leans close and whispers—“don’t come back unless I call for you.”

  She slips back into her compartment and closes the door.

  For a moment I stare at the door, tempted to slide it back open; then I hear the lock engage. Well, for now that takes care of that, and I start to enter my compartment but change my mind.

  “George, what car is Mr. Selous in?”

  “The next car up. But I saw Mr. Selous in the smoking car a moment ago. That’s three cars up.”

  “Thank you.”

  Smoking cars are my least favorite part of a train. I’d rather ride in the train’s coal tender with the fireman and the smoke from the furnace blowing back at us than be forced to breathe thick clouds of evil-smelling cigar smoke, a fact that I have shared more than once with men on a train. To no avail.

  Lord and Lady Warton are there when I enter, with her ladyship’s charming personality fortunately hidden behind her veil, along with whatever she thinks about the fact we have been reunited as travelling companions. They’re in a group that includes Frederick, who is engrossed in conversation with another man and doesn’t realize I entered.

  The Bluenoses both completely ignore me despite the fact I hear my name buzzed around the room and several people give a friendly smile of recognition. I feel like asking her if she’s faked any more heart attacks, but leave well enough alone.

  “What do you gentlemen think of the Westley 303?” a man asks Frederick.

  “A what?” Lord Warton asks.

  “It’s a tiger gun, isn’t that so, Frederick?” Lady Warton says.

  She demonstrates her knowledge of the weapon to put herself ahead of a simple little peasant girl like myself. That word my mother always dislikes me using, “bitch,” comes to mind whenever I am around Lady Bluenose.

  “Yes, it can bring down a tiger,” Frederick says, giving me a big smile as he spots me, “but you better hit at a kill point or you’ll end up with six hundred pounds of charging beast in your face with the force of a locomotive.”

  I move along, waiting for Frederick to disengage himself from men who want to ask questions of the renowned hunter, when I spot more familiar faces.

  The widow Murdock and Cenza—her assistant, lover, whatever—and the gregarious Von Reich, are sitting together at the back of the car. The Viennese explosives expert is leaning back in a chair with glass in hand and appears to have enjoyed quite a few drops of the nectar of the grape. The widow is smoking a cigarillo, a small, thin cigar. She has a glass of brandy and judging from the flush on her cheeks it isn’t her first.

  Cenza gives me a smirk that implies she knows something I don’t, and it’s about to drop on my head.

  Smirking, perhaps, is a permanent deformity of her lips, if not of her mind.

  It’s difficult for me to imagine Cenza with the Murdock woman. They are just not a match, whatever their personal sexual preferences. There has to be something else that glues them together and the only thing I can imagine is the pot of gold the widow acquired after her husband’s bizarre demise.

  I reverse direction to stay away from them and find Frederick breaking away, calling out, “Nellie! I’m so delighted you’re here.”

  Lord Warton gives me his back again, takes his charming wife by the arm, and exits. I catch something about “the bad penny is back” as they leave.

  “I apologize for Warton,” Frederick says, taking me out of hearing range of others. “He’s a rude bastard. Under different circumstances, I would take him to task for his boorish behavior toward you.”

  “What exactly are the circumstances that make the mere sight of me so offensive to him and prevent a gentleman from coming to my rescue?”

  He chuckles. “Nellie, you have a wonderful sense of inquisitiveness. But you must learn to control it.”

  “Does Amelia control it?” A shot in the dark.

  His eyebrows go up. “Amelia? Isn’t that the name you thought you heard—”

  “Yes, thought I heard, but I realize now that I was wrong. The truth is I never heard anything. I was never in Port Said. I don’t even know who you are. Or who I am.”

  “Nellie, I think—”

  “Please do. In the meantime, I’ll take some headache powders or something stronger for my weak feminine disposition or maybe I’ll just have some of Sarah’s damn coca wine.”

  If I wasn’t a lady, I’d … instead, I spin on my heel and am out of there without looking back, retracing my steps to my compartment. I enter and slam the door shut behind me. And lock it.

  Why did I do that? I went to talk to him in a civilized manner. I was happy to see him and could tell he wanted to see me. And what do I do? Blow up at him.

  My only excuse is that I’m angry, frustrated, befuddled, and bewildered because what I’m certain is a murderous conspiracy seems to be unimportant to others.

  “What is going on?” I demand from the wall separating me and Sarah.

  Maybe I am just a fool. I must be. I have risked winning my race to save Sarah and she doesn’t want to be saved. Doesn’t even want me around.

  I’m beginning to wonder if they are right, that I’m the one with the problem.

  Why else would I jeopardize the race my life depends upon to come back and travel with people who appear surprised—and some definitely annoyed—that I am still on the planet?

  Sarah adores me, but slams her door in my face and tells me to stay out of anything involving her. Frederick is laughing at me or, at the very least, has developed a patronizing amused tolerance of my antics. Lord and Lady Bluenose treat me like a leper. Von Reich ignores me. And Cenza, who radiates malice with her smug grins, gives me the willies.

  I know I am supposed to hide my head in the sand and pretend nothing is wrong, but despite the doubts that roll in my mind, my gut keeps telling me another shoe is about to drop.

  What do these people know that I don’t?

  63

  Instead of having an entire deluxe Pullman car at my disposal, I have but a stateroom, and my space is so limited that all my floral and fruit offerings had to be left behind, which I so do miss. I also miss the speed of travel my first train had. This train creeps along like a snail, and I fear I will not make this last leg of my journey on time.

  Before I reach my compartment, George hands me a telegram that was meant to be delivered in San Francisco, but has just caught up with me.

  The message gives me great pleasure and changes my mood:

  MR. VERNE W
ISHES THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE TO BE HANDED TO NELLIE BLY THE MOMENT SHE TOUCHES AMERICAN SOIL: M. JULES VERNE ADDRESSES HIS SINCERE FELICITATIONS TO THE INTREPID MISS NELLIE BLY.

  Oh, how I could use Jules’ help right now.

  * * *

  THE TRAIN IS RATHER POORLY APPOINTED and it’s necessary for everyone to get off for meals. Our first stop is Logansport for dinner.

  When I reach the platform, a young man whom I’ve never seen before or since, springs up on another platform and waves his hat shouting, “Hurrah for Nellie Bly! Hurrah for Nellie Bly!”

  A delegation of railroad men wait upon me and present me with beautiful flowers and candy, as does a number of private people. The crowd claps and cheers, and after making way for me to pass to the dining room, they press forward and their cheers go up again. They even crowd the windows to watch me eat.

  After I sit down, several dishes are put before me bearing the inscription, SUCCESS, NELLIE BLY.

  Despite all the attention I’ve gotten since I left the Oceanic, I’m not comfortable with the public displays of admiration. It makes me sad and angry—here are people who do admire me and are counting on me to finish and in a way I may have betrayed them because I could be hours ahead. How stupid I’ve been.

  I spoon my soup very carefully so at least these wonderful people won’t have the memory of soup running down my chin or dropping on my blouse.

  An ancient old dowager at another table has a note delivered to me. I open it, reading between sips of soup:

  I don’t even get this type of treatment when I’m in a hit play. Next time I need attention I shall travel around the world at great speed.

  Glancing over at the old woman, I get a subtle nod in return and give back a wry grin.

  What an actress she is.

  On my way back to the train I’m informed there will be a delay because a switching locomotive is adding another car behind the one my compartment is in. It provides a golden opportunity for me to walk along the tracks in the cool night air and to enjoy a moment alone to myself. Not much privacy has been available to me during the more than two months I’ve spent on ships, trains, and in hotels.