All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  True, there hadn't been any love lost between them, and Bradford's reputation as a hatchet man was well deserved. But even with his sadistic nature Bradford wouldn't go as far as to jeopardize a case, at least not without tacit approval from higher up. Bradford wasn't a leader, if anything he was a foot soldier, a yes man to someone further up in the political food chain. That meant there was someone else involved and that scenario caused the bitterness inside him to well up.

  Forget Bradford and his petty schemes, he scowled. If he intended to make any progress in this case, he would have to put aside his personal feelings and concentrate on the facts at hand. For the next few minutes he forced himself to relax. He closed his eyes, tilted his head backward, resting it against the Escort's door frame and savored the cooling breeze.

  Suddenly he bolted upright.

  What was the name of that record clerk? The one that discovered the missing engine folder. Beeham? Beeman? No, that wasn’t it. Beechum! He slammed his open palm against the rim of the Escort’s steering wheel. That was it, Harold Beechum! It was all beginning to make perfect sense. Harold Beechum was the key to his problem. It had been Beechum’s discovery that sparked the investigation, and more importantly, had placed him at the center of it. And now, Mr. Harold Beechum, he thought, you can just help me find my way out.

  Pulling the driver’s door close, he turned the ignition. The Escort's tired engine coughed, wheezed, and reluctantly sputtered to life. In a cloud of oily blue haze, he turned the wheel and pointed the Escort's nose downtown in search of Harold Beechum.

  His search proved to be short lived. It ended several feet inside the marbled lobby of the B&O Railroad's headquarters building.

  “Harold Beechum?” the slightly over plump woman at the information desk repeated, her eyes traveling approvingly over Matuszak’s features. “Certainly. Everybody knows Harold.”

  “Could you direct me to his office?”

  “Tell you what,” she cooed, her voice slipping several octaves lower took on a sultry tone. “I’m due for my break shortly.” She leaned forward, exposing more than a hint of the ample cleavage constrained by the tight fitting blouse, “Mr. Beechum’s office is located on the lower level. No one hardly ever goes there.” She smiled. “Why don’t I escort you personally?”

  Matuszak elected to decline. An overeager, middle age clerk could only spell trouble and that he had in spades. “Nothing would please me more, love” he replied. “Perhaps another time. Mr. Beechum is expecting me. If you could just direct me.”

  Seeing her efforts failing, she pointed to a nearby stairwell. “Take the stairs to the basement and just follow your nose. You can't miss it.”

  * * *

  Harold Beechum's office was in a small, cramped storeroom, sandwiched between two of the building's massive support columns. The gilded lettering on the door glass read: Archive and Reference Storage - Harold Beechum, Chief Custodian. The door stood slightly ajar.

  Matuszak pushed the door open. The room was cluttered beyond belief. A hodgepodge collection of filing cabinets and dusty trans-file boxes, haphazardly stacked on top of each other, formed a narrow aisle that serpentine its way toward the rear of the room. Harold Beechum's desk was there, lost somewhere among the room's senseless clutter, its presence revealed only by the flicker of a lamp's reflection against the tin ceiling and the occasional sound of rustling papers.

  “Mr. Beechum?” Matuszak called, tapping lightly on the door glass.

  The rustling sounds ceased. From behind the wall of boxes, a voice answered, “Just a moment.” This was followed by the scuffing of chair legs against the rough cement flooring. Seconds later, a frail-looking figure dressed in rumpled clothing appeared.

  “Harold Beechum,” he said, removing the depression era accountant's cap with the green, see-through visor. “Won't you come in, Mister...?”

  “Ken Matuszak,” Matuszak replied, producing his MARC identification.

  Harold Beechum squinted at the card case, grunted approval. Turning, he began the trek back to his desk. With a wave of his hand, he motioned his visitor toward a pair of railroad coach seats propped against a nearby filing cabinet. “Have a seat, Mr. Matuszak,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Matuszak removed the notepad from his pocket before settling into the one of the seats.

  “They're,” Harold Beechum said, indicating the coach seats, “from one of The Royal Blue coaches, circa 1933-34 if memory serves me. God only knows how they wound up here. Been meaning to call the museum to pick them up.”

  Placing one hand on the arm of the chair and the other at the edge of the desk, Harold Beechum cautiously lowered his arthritic frame into the chair's thick cushioning. The chair creaked as he shifted his weight, seeking a more comfortable position. Once settled, Harold turned the chair to face his visitor.

  “Now then, Agent Matuszak,” he said, reading from the business card Matuszak had given him. “Tell me, how can I be of service to MARC?”

  “I've been assigned to the recovered engine case. Thought you might be able to shed some additional light on the coaches. What’s their history, were they of any particular value to anyone? That sort of thing.”

  The smile on Harold Beechum's face faded. True, he had enjoyed the brief hunt. It, and the sudden notoriety, had been a pleasant intrusion into his otherwise placid life and he did not want to see it end so quickly.

  “No, I'm afraid not,” he replied, sadly shaking his head. “Normally, in cases like this, I would be only too glad to be of assistance. However, the sad fact is, back then rolling stock such as our missing coaches were leased equipment from the Pullman Company. There was little need or incentive for the company to maintain individual records on each car. I doubt if such records still exist.”

  A feeling of despair swept over Matuszak. He rose from his seat and snapped the notepad closed. “Strike two,” he sighed.

  Harold Beechum looked up, a puzzled expression stamped on his gaunt, thin face. “Strike two?” he said, cocking his head birdlike. “I'm afraid I don't quite follow you.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Matuszak. “It’s just that I’ve wasted the better part of the morning at the Sun paper’s archives, going over their records of the incident. Now it looks like I've drawn a blank here too. My only hope now hinges on my tracking down the yardmaster on duty that night.”

  A gleam appeared in Harold Beechum's eyes, completely erasing the row of furrowed lines from his brow. “Possibly, I can be of some service there,” he said. “By chance, you don’t have this fellow's name?”

  Matuszak nodded. “Yeah.” He flipped through the pages of his notebook until he came to the hastily scribbled name. “Ah, here it is. Farley. Matthew Farley.”

  Harold Beechum reached for the telephone. “Richard,” he said, “could you step in here for a moment please?”

  A short time later a clerk, a youthful, more erect version of Harold Beechum, appeared at the office door. Harold repeated the name to the clerk and jotted some instructions on a slip of paper.

  “You never can tell how long these things may take,” Harold said turning back to Matuszak. “Possibly a half hour, maybe more. I assume you can spare the time.”

  “Hell,” Matuszak said, easing back down into the chair, “after fifty years, what's another hour?”

  “Good!” Harold smiled. “Richard, that's the clerk that just left, he's as sharp as a new tack. Trained him myself. If this Farley fellow is to be found, Richard's your man.”

  Matuszak felt a ray of hope. “What's your plan?”

  Harold leaned back into the chair and absentmindedly began drumming his fingertips on the desktop. “First we'll check out Richmond,” he said, with all the confidence of a field marshal mapping out invasion plans. “That's where the company is headquartered. All the inactive personnel files are stored there. We'll run Farley’s name and see what we come up with. If we're lucky, our man hung around till pension time. That being the case, Railroad Retirement will maintain
a current file on him.” Harold ceased his drumming. Our man, he repeated, rolling the phrase over in his mind. I like the sound of that.

  “Mr. Beechum,” Matuszak said, glancing down at his watch. “I believe I owe you lunch.”

  Harold Beechum, pleased with the sudden turn of events, cast a critical eye at the brown bag containing the tiresome cheese sandwich, apple and tepid tea. Oh, how he longed for a cholesterol laden platter of fried seafood. “Never was one to turn down a client’s offer of lunch,” he said, sweeping the brown bag off the desk and into the trash can. “You know doctors says a man my age should avoid greasy food at all cost. But today,” he smiled a very wicked, satisfying smile, “today I’m in a mind for fried oysters. Do you like fried oysters, Mr. Matuszak?”

  * * *

  Returning from lunch, there was a neatly typed paper lying on Harold Beechum's desk. Harold scanned its contents. “Well, what do you know! Looks like we've hit pay dirt, Mr. Matuszak. According to this, not only is our man still alive, but he's living close by. Checks from Railroad Retirement are being sent to 607 South Carey Street.”

  “Here? In Baltimore? That's incredible.”

  Harold nodded. “True all the same.” He handed Matuszak the paper. “Here, see for yourself. It's over in Pigtown, near the railroad museum.”

  “Pigtown?” Matuszak said, as his lips twisted into a smile. “What kind of name is that? You're kidding me, right?”

  “No,” Harold replied. “Why would anyone want to do that?” Then, continuing on without waiting for a response, he said, “An odd sort of name, I’ll admit, but that section of Baltimore has been known as Pigtown for generations. Got its name sometime in the early 1900s, I believe. Back then, the public thoroughfares surrounding the rail yard were used to drive swine to nearby slaughterhouses. Times were bleak. Residents along the route would rush to their cellars and station themselves by an opened window in hopes of snagging a stray piglet as it passed. People started calling it Pigtown and the name stuck.”

  Matuszak smiled. He was beginning to take a liking to this odd character, with his shirtsleeve garters and the cap with its green, see-through visor. Now, thanks to Beechum's efforts, he finally had something concrete to go on. He had his first solid lead. Hopefully Matthew Farley held the key to the case or could point him toward it. He rose from his chair and looked at his watch.

  “There's still a couple of hours left on my shift,” he said, shaking Harold's outstretched hand. “Think I'll put it to good use and pay our Mr. Farley a visit. Thanks again for your help.”

  Harold beamed. “Not at all, my pleasure,” he said. “Be sure to let me know how things turns out. If there is anything further I can do, don't hesitate to give me a call.”

  As Matuszak turned to leave, Harold Beechum settled contentedly into the chair, a smile spread across his face. He felt a twinge of excitement surge through his body, just like it did when he first discovered the missing folder. If he were fortunate, this Matuszak character would be in need of his services again. Maybe the hunt wasn't over after all.

  7

  Pigtown

  Southwest Baltimore

  Late Afternoon

  607 South Carey Street turned out to be a drab, run-down tenement on the south side. It sat at the edge of a trash-strewn alley with little to distinguish it from its dismal surroundings. Mounting the steps, Matuszak chose to ignore the vandalized mailboxes and entered the building. A quick glance around the foyer confirmed his suspicions. To his left, under a layer of fresh construction dust, lay a newly installed bank of mail slots. He ran his finger down the narrow row of names, stopping at a neatly printed label.

  M. Farley

  3 Floor - Apt. A.

  He headed toward the stairs. Apartment 3A was on the top floor, overlooking the side alley. Following a series of light knocks, he detected the soft paddling of footsteps approaching the door. This was followed by the metallic click of a dead bolt as it slid backward releasing its grip. The door opened slightly, its movement restrained by a pair of stout safety chains. A nervous little face peered around the door's edge.

  “Yes? Who are you? What do you want?” the voice chirped in crisp, rapid succession.

  “Mr. Farley? Agent Kenneth Matuszak, Mr. Farley.” Matuszak held his badge and ID case to the shaft of light escaping through the narrow opening. “I'm from the Maryland DOT. Could you spare me a minute?”

  “Maryland DOT? Me? What does the DOT want of me?”

  “It's about that train incident, the one in the newspapers. I've been assigned to the case.”

  “And?”

  “Your name. It appeared in one of the reports.”

  “I see.” The voice lost some of its sharpness. “Surprised it took you this long to get around to me.”

  “You expected me then?”

  “Yeah. Once all that damn television and newspaper coverage started, I figured it would be only a matter of time before my name turned up and someone like you would come knocking on my door. But you're wasting your time. That all happened a long time ago,” Farley's voice snapped, with renewed vengeance. “I’ve got nothing more to say. They didn't see fit to believe me then. So, what do you want from me now?”

  “The reports were a bit sketchy. I'm hoping you could fill in some of the gray areas for me.”

  “Well I can't. Now go away.” To add emphases, Farley attempted to shut the door.

  “Mr. Farley,” Matuszak pleaded, placing his hand against the door preventing its closure. “I really could use your help. You're probably the last person alive to have seen the train.”

  “Seen the train?” There was a slight easing on the door pressure. The old man eyed the stranger at his door. “You say you've read all those articles, and what God awful things they had to say about me, and you still believe I saw something?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  The partially obscured face appeared confused. Several wordless moments passed as the elderly tenant studied Matuszak's features. Finally, reaching a decision, Farley silently nodded. Matuszak lowered his hand and the door closed. Moments later he heard the metallic rattle of safety chains surrendering their hold on the door.

  “Come in,” Farley said, opening the door and stepping aside.

  It was evident that in his youth, Matthew Farley had been a powerfully built man. The ensuing years had not been kind. Gone were the robust body and the brash swagger of youth, replaced by the slow, shuffling gait of old age. At seventy-eight, Matthew Farley - “Matty to my friends” as he would frequently say, was bent, a mere shadow of his youthful self.

  His clothing was that of a worker; a pair of faded green work pants restrained by a leather belt clinched to its last hole. A rumpled, faded white T-shirt. The traditional blue-and-white striped railroader's cap completed the outfit. The cap was frayed and timeworn. From the base of its threadbare rim, an occasional wisp of gray hair protruded.

  “Sorry ‘bout the neighborhood,” said Farley, as he set about re-securing the safety chains to their anchors. “Wasn't always so terrible of a place to live. Up until the late forties it was a real railroaders town. God!” he said, as the last chain slid home, “If you could have seen the old neighborhood then.”

  “There's no need to apologize,” Matuszak replied.

  If he heard, Farley gave no acknowledgment. “Should have a left long time ago,” he continued. “Could've too. Only, weren’t no need, you see most of my friends were gone by then. So, I stayed on. Wanted to stay close to my trains. I guess it's like they say, railroading kinda seeps into your blood and becomes part of you. Besides, the train museum is not that far away.”

  Farley drew back the gingham window curtain and pointed across a sea of flat, tarred rooftops dotted with the occasional TV antenna. “See that?” he said, “That there's the B&O's museum. I volunteer there several days a week. Helps keep a old feller like me going.”

  Following Farley's gesture, Matuszak could easily distinguish the old roundhouse, a massive, circular
shaped building with a bright yellow cupola protruding from the center of its massive roof.

  Matuszak turned to face the old man. “Would you tell me about the night The Royal Blue disappeared?”

  Farley shrugged. “Sure. I guess talking about it can't hurt me anymore. Leastwise not now.” His voice lowered and took on a solemn, sober tone. “Only you got to promise me one thing, Mr. Matuszak.”

  Matuszak nodded. “What’s that?”

  “Keep an open mind and don't be so quick to judge. When my coworkers heard about the train, they laughed. For years I was known as Mad Matty and the butt of every cruel joke they could conjure up.”

  “Twenty-six people disappeared that night,” Matuszak said, “by all indications, murdered. I see nothing to laugh at.”

  Farley paused, mulling over Matuszak's reply. Then, apparently satisfied nodded in agreement. Settling himself into an overstuffed chair, Farley motioned for Matuszak to sit. Matuszak selected the couch directly across from the old man, took out his notepad and waited for Farley to begin.

  Disregarding the smoldering remnants in the ashtray, Farley put a match to a fresh cigarette. “I was working the graveyard shift that night,” he said, letting his mind wander back to his youth. “Over in the yardmaster's tower at Camden yards. The old freight yard, along with the switch tower, are gone now, but at the time they were located in the yard right across from Camden Station's platform.”

  “Was there anyone with you?”

  “Yes sir,” Farley nodded. “There was old Riggins, the clerk. He's dead now, of course. He had been reading the News Post off in the corner and dozed off.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, not as I rightly recall. There were always some comings and goings, but just then there was old Riggins and me.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well sir, I guess it was getting nigh on one a.m.. I had run out of makings.”

  “Makings?”

  “Yeah makings,” Farley repeated. “You know, a tin of Prince Albert and a packet of cigarette papers. Them days, I rolled my own cigarettes. Still do on occasion.”