All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  Snap!

  The sound startled Matuszak and he turned.

  The lone waitress, her body partially hidden behind the display card of mints, had escaped his notice. She stood hunched over the counter, the “Help Wanted” section of the daily paper spread before her.

  Snap!

  On the downside of fifty, her puffy face was framed by a pair of blue horn-rimmed glasses and topped with an outdated, fifties beehive hairdo. Her plump body, rebelling at being squeezed into the undersized uniform, fought a lopsided war against the garment trying to contain the excess poundage.

  “What'll it be, Hon?” Snap!

  “Black coffee. And maybe a bagel,” he added as an after thought.

  “Sure Hon,” she said, without looking up from the paper.

  Her fleshy cheeks seemed to be in a state of perpetual motion, as they worked the wad of gum hidden somewhere behind the thick coating of makeup and red lipstick.

  “Booth?” Snap!

  “Yeah, rear booth,” he answered.

  She circled a promising ad, then returned the pencil to her heavily lacquered hairdo and closed the newspaper.

  “Terrible 'bout that old man, ain't it?” she said, turning to draw the coffee.

  “Old man?”

  “Yeah, old man Farley. Being thrown off that roof and all. And him a kindly old gent, too.”

  “You've heard about the incident then?”

  “Sure, Hon. Snap! Ain't much, good or bad, that happens ‘round here that I don't hear ‘bout. Besides, news like that spreads fast.”

  She stopped, turned, and cautiously eyed Matuszak.

  “You police?”

  “No, I work for a local transportation company.” It wasn’t an outright lie. Maybe a slight distortion, but not an outright lie.

  Apparently that satisfied the waitress. “Oh,” she said, turning back to fill the cup. “No offense, Hon. I only asked cause you look like maybe you could be, a police I mean. Don't like to be seen talking to no cops. Not plainclothes cops anyway. Starts too many rumors.”

  “He could have fallen,” Matuszak said, trying to steer the conversation back to Matty’s death.

  “Old man Farley?” She gave a slight chuckle. “No, Hon, he was pushed all right. Seventy-year old gentlemen might go for an evening stroll in a garden or maybe take the family dog for a walk. They don't go for no two a.m. sashay on rooftops among the TV antennas, especially in Pigtown.”

  “You could be right there.”

  “I know I'm right, Hon. You sure you're not police?” she said, studying Matuszak's face more intently now. “I ain't usually wrong 'bout that sorta thing either.”

  “No. I’m just a simple pencil pusher,” he said, heading toward the rear of the shop.

  He slid into the end booth. Since his assignment to this case, the almost forgotten routine of being a street cop had begun to silently creep back into his being. And choosing the rearmost booth facing the front of the shop hadn't been a haphazard choice. It was a survival tactic, learned early in his police career. It offered protection to the rear, but more important it afforded an unobstructed view of the shop’s lone entrance and anyone who might enter.

  He cast a longing look at the nearby cigarette machine with its colorful columns of brands visible through the machine’s glass front, his eyes searching for the familiar red package. He had given up the habit long ago. Now, with the events of the morning still fresh in his mind, the urge for a cigarette was strong.

  What the hell, he surrendered, digging into his pocket for some change.

  The arrival of the waitress with the bagel and coffee interrupted his search. “Were you friends with the old man?” he asked, abandoning the search and returning to the subject of Farley’s death.

  “Sorta,” she replied. “He’d stop in sometimes, usually in the morning on his way to the museum. Two honey dips, a coffee light, extra sugar. That was his usual order.”

  “Keep the change,” Matuszak said, pushing some small bills across the table. He had triumphed once again, for the urge for a cigarette had come and gone. “Think he could have been drunk and just fell?”

  The waitress shook her head. “Him? No way, Hon. Not the type. Mark my words, someone did a number on that old man,” she said, turning to retrace her way back to the palm tree and waiting newspaper. “I feel it in my bones.”

  The coffee's fresh aroma quickly filled his nostrils. It would be a welcome treat for his sagging spirit. The bagel? The bagel was a different matter. With the crumpled form of Farley still fresh in his mind, he was no longer hungry.

  Pushing the bagel aside, he tried to assess his meager progress so far. His biggest gain had been finding Matty. Tragically, that had resulted in Farley’s death. Now everything hinged on locating the missing coaches. It was clear they, not the engine, were the key to solving the-. He stopped, unable to continue. What should he classify the incident as? Surely this was a case of murder and he would continue to treat it so, but until he came up with something solid, the generic term “the train’s disappearance” would have to suffice.

  Next, he would have to decide who would profit most by the coaches’ disappearance? There was no record of a ransom demand, and, until the engine resurfaced, no portion of the train had turned up. Property was one thing he reasoned, but the lives of passengers and crew were a different matter. Twenty-six people don't stay quiet or hidden for very long; that is if they were still alive. People interact, contact family and friends and most importantly people leave paper trails. That was it! That’s where he must concentrate his efforts, in finding a paper trail.

  He used the public phone to make two calls. The first was to Nancy at the Baltimore Sun.

  “Sure,” her cheerful voice bubbled from the other end of the line. “It may take some time, but I should be able to come up with the passenger list. What are we looking for exactly?”

  “Paper trails. See if any of the passengers has silently resurfaced. Check with their families; see if they were ever contacted or if they’ve heard anything. Hell, I don’t know, Nancy, everyone on that train has got to be at least eighty by now. Check to see if anyone had filed for social security or veteran's benefits? Maybe check with the state's Bureau of Vital Statistics, see if they issued a death certificate in any of their names.”

  “For all twenty-six people? You're not in a hurry, I assume.”

  “No,” he lied. He was, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to say as much. Nancy had been enthusiastic. Despite being no longer assigned to assist him, she had continued to dedicate much of her free time to running down what had turned out to be fruitless leads. And now here he was, adding to the burden.

  “Good,” Nancy replied. “Bureaucrats can be stingy as hell when it comes to giving out personal information. I've got a few markers I might be able to call in. Give me a couple of days to work on it.”

  “Thanks, Nancy. I'll check with you later.”

  The second call went to Harold Beechum.

  “Agent Matuszak, how are you? I've been hoping to hear from you again. How did you find things in beautiful downtown Pigtown?”

  “Not very good, I’m afraid.” He told Harold of Farley’s death.

  The telephone went silent for a few moments. “I'm sorry to hear about that,” said Harold, the joviality drained from his voice. “Had it anything to do with your investigation?”

  “Possibly, but at this point I just don’t know.”

  “I see. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I could use your research skills,” Matuszak replied. “I need to locate a diagram or some type of a map.”

  “A diagram? What type of diagram?”

  “Something of the correct vintage that traces the original route of the train. I'm looking for abandoned industrial sites, once served by the B&O that might contain sidings the coaches could have been diverted onto.”

  “I’m certain the authorities looked into that possibility during their original investigation,” s
aid Harold. “Still it shouldn’t be too difficult of a task. Is that it?”

  Matuszak thought for a moment. “While you're at it, see if you can find out if anything of value was being shipped in the mail car. I want to make sure the government wasn't involved in any covert activity and using the railroad to cover its tracks. By all accounts, the car carried only routine mail, but-”

  “A slightly more difficult task,” interrupted Harold. “Are we looking for anything in particular? It might make things easier if I had an idea of what I was looking for.”

  “At this stage I’m not quite sure,” replied Matuszak, “though I don’t think it’s something as mundane as a single letter. A letter, even a registered one, could easily be lifted from a desk or mail room. Most likely what we’re seeking is a commercial shipment. Probably something heavy and bulky, like a strong box or a packing crate.”

  “In that case it shouldn't be too hard. Both the Post Office and Railway Express maintained excellent records of such shipments.”

  “Use your imagination,” cautioned Matuszak. “Watch for anything with a suspicious routing label. Especially any crate with seals destined for a commercial lab or government facility.”

  “Got it,” Harold said, eager to be on the hunt again. “Anything else?”

  “Remember, whatever it is, it's not going to be written in blinking neon. If it's a secret consignment, you'll have to dig hard and read between the lines.”

  “If there's the slightest hint of something dirty, this old nose of mine should be able to ferret it out.”

  “Good, give me a call when you come up with something.” Matuszak started to hang up. “Oh, and don't forget the map,” he said, quickly bringing the receiver back to his ear. “It'll come in handy.”

  “It's as good as done,” Harold replied.

  Satisfied he had done all he could for the present, Matuszak returned to the booth and his waiting coffee.

  9

  Baltimore Police Headquarters

  August 16th, 1992

  Becker's office wasn't an office in the conventional sense, merely a six by six foot section carved from the center of a noisy squad room. Its furnishings were spartan, consisting of a gunmetal gray desk, a telephone and an upholstered chair. A simple wooden chair, for interviewees and suspects, sat to the side of the desk and completed the meager arrangement.

  The squad room wore a coat of flat, institutional green. In need of fresh paint, its peeling walls reeked of stale smoke, age and the sickly odor of sweat mixed with fear. The outdated ventilation system, unable to cope with its assigned task, had surrendered sometime in the distant past and simply quit. The burden was left to several small, but noisy fans to scatter the stale air.

  Controlled chaos, Matuszak marveled, as his eyes swept across the room. Unlike the genteel drawing room atmosphere of an Agatha Christie cozy, this was urban homicide in its rawest form, an assembly line production of man's cruelty to man. Detectives shuffled between tearful victims, reluctant witnesses and the occasional suspect. To Matuszak's right, a twitching junkie, his wrists securely handcuffed behind him, squirmed nervously in the chair. The time for a fix had come and passed.

  “I ain't telling you shit, man. You hear? Not diddly shit,” the junkie whimpered over and over to the beefy, uniformed cop filling out the arrest form.

  Matuszak surveyed the room, easily picking out Becker's expensive tailored Italian suit. Against the backdrop of the grimy squad room and aging prostitutes, the flawlessly dressed detective looked strangely out of place. Matuszak began weaving his way across the crowded room.

  He had gone but a few steps when he was forced to sidestep, allowing room for the approaching men to pass. The first, a prisoner naked to the waist, wore only dirty sweat pants and an anxious look as he shuffled past. The shackles around his bare ankles clanked on the linoleum-tiled floor with each of his awkward steps. Indifferent to his pleading, the accompanying detective wore a tired, bland expression. The pungent odor of sweat and fear was strong as they passed.

  “When man? The desk sergeant promised me. He said I could.”

  “Later. After you've been fingerprinted and photographed, you'll be allowed to use the phone,” the detective recited. His voice, mechanical and lifeless, bore all the enthusiasm of a tape recording.

  Becker, having completed a phone conversation, looked up. He smiled acknowledging Matuszak’s presence. Quickly picking up a packet of papers, he rose and went to meet Matuszak.

  “Glad to see you could make it,” he said, placing a hand on Matuszak’s shoulder. Gesturing toward the exit he added, “Let’s get out of here. We'll never be able to talk in this din. Let's go to the canteen and grab a cup of coffee.”

  During the short walk the conversation turned to Becker and his interest in the case of the missing train. “It's different,” he said. “Certainly it's more sanitary. Not like the rotten garbage from this morning,” he frowned, referring to the side alley in Pigtown. “As I see it your problem is more of an academic study.”

  “Academic?” Matuszak shrugged. “Maybe so, but nevertheless it’s just as complexing. I could really use some help.”

  “At your service, my friend,” Becker said, as they pushed through the canteen’s swing doors. “I don’t mind telling you I'm intrigued. How does one go about finding a ghost train, not to mention its twenty-six occupants?”

  Matuszak filled Becker in on his recent telephone conversations with Nancy and Harold. He concluded by saying, “I need to come up with a motive, some logical reason for the train’s disappearance. As heartless as it seems, put aside the fate of the passengers and crew for a moment and concentrate on who, or what on that train was the highjackers’s intended target.”

  “A tough assignment, I’ll admit,” the detective acknowledged. He paused in front of a coffee machine and deposited several coins into the slot. “But once you’re able to establish a motive,” he said, “the rest should begin to fall in line rather quickly.”

  Matuszak nodded. “Let’s hope so. By process of elimination, the who keeps coming back to one individual, Jonathan Lambert. At this point of the investigation he's my primary focus.”

  “Lambert? The name seems familiar. Wasn’t he some type of industrialist tycoon?”

  Again Matuszak nodded. “I see you’re up on your local history. Lambert founded Lambert Industries, at the time one of Baltimore’s largest employers. No other passenger was as wealthy or well known as he was. It's got to be him.”

  Placing the small packet of papers on top of the machine, Becker lifted the dispensing door, removed the first cup of coffee and sat it aside. “How do you like your mud?” he said.

  “Black.”

  Becker turned back to the machine. “Assuming this Lambert character was the target, are you considering kidnapping as a motive?”

  Matuszak shook his head. “And that's the puzzling part. As near as I can figure, it wasn't merely a simple case of kidnapping. No demands or ransom note.”

  Becker grimaced. “Okay, so we eliminate Lambert. What’s plan B?”

  That, Matuszak hoped, he wouldn’t have to face. “The case becomes even more difficult,” he replied “If not Lambert, then we're left with the train itself as the target. We can eliminate the engine and its tender. They were shipped to England.”

  Becker nodded. “What about the passenger coaches? Anything there?”

  “No.” Matuszak shook his head. “I can't see the coaches as the target, by all indications they were of the ordinary, everyday variety. Their only value would be to another railroad and that doesn’t seem to be the case. Railroads don’t deal in stolen coaches.”

  “That leaves only the mail car as the target.” “A holdup?” Becker mused. I thought robbing trains ended with Butch Cassidy.”

  “No,” Matuszak said, accepting his coffee. “It was still a lucrative crime well into the mid 1900s. Remember the “Great Train Robbery” of the London to Glasgow mail train in 1964? The gang made off with over
a million dollars, most of which was never recovered. That doesn’t seem to come into play here. There is no indication of a large sum of money being shipped in any of the reports so far. Still you may be on the right track.”

  Becker looked at Matuszak. “But you just said we’re not dealing with a huge amount of money.”

  “Money no. But there is always the possibility of a secret consignment. Remember this occurred just before the outbreak of World War II, and the government could have been up to some mischief. They wouldn't readily admit to that, of course. I’ve got Harold checking into that possibility.”

  It was now Becker’s turn to nod in agreement. “Uncle Sam has been known to try and hush things up,” he said. “But getting back to Lambert and the other passengers. You'll have to go under the assumption they’re dead and more than likely still aboard the coaches. Otherwise, one or more of them would have surfaced by now.”

  “Right,” Matuszak said. “So, figuring Locust Point as the terminus of our search. That'll leave-”

  “Slightly over sixty miles of track between Aberdeen and Locust Point.” Becker retrieved the packet of reports from atop the machine. “I've taken the liberty of looking it up while I was waiting for you.” He began weaving his way through the crowded canteen with Matuszak in tow. “That's assuming the train stayed on the main line and didn't stray onto any of a dozen side tracks,” he said, over his shoulder. “All in all, a helluva lot of territory to conceal even something as large as a train in.”

  “Harold is also looking into that angle. Hopefully, the original route map will narrow our search.”

  They were at a small table in the corner of the canteen. Two paper cups of machine coffee and a packet of reports between them.

  “The only reports available are these,” Becker said pushing the packet across the table to Matuszak. “It contains copies of the reports, mostly taken off microfilm. Not the best of quality, but you might find them interesting. Oh, and I managed to dig up some black and white photographs.” He smiled. “A returned favor from a record clerk.”