by R. T. Ray
Moving closer, Matuszak could make out partial phrases.
“So sorry. Alone in the dark tunnel.”
“We should go now, Agent Matuszak,” she said, picking up the tea service. “He'll stay like that for hours. Sometimes they have to sedate him.”
They left the room, Patricia paused to lock the door. Victor Ewald, unaware of their departure, continued his lone vigil. Swaying from side to side, he chanted, “So sorry. All alone, in the dark tunnel.”
Later that afternoon, two muscular orderlies carried the struggling Victor Ewald to bed, where a duty nurse administered a sedative. Within moments, Victor Ewald was asleep.
26
B&O Headquarters
Baltimore, Maryland
Late afternoon
In the soft green glow of the banker's lamp, Harold Beechum pored over stacks of old records and charts. Tired, he removed the ill-fitting glasses and laying them aside, massaged the tender, rub spots on the bridge of his nose.
The Westminster chimes broke the silence. Picking up his glasses he squinted at the old wall clock... six-thirty. With the conclusion of the chimes, the clock settled back into its dull, hypnotic ticking.
The day had been a long, trying one and Harold looked forward to going home. Relaxing with a good book, along with a small glass of wine would be a fitting reward for his efforts. He had not resented the call, only its timing. It had come late in the day, just as he was gathering his papers in preparation of leaving.
“No, no bother at all, Agent Matuszak,” he said, reluctantly removing his coat and hat. “Certainly. I will be more than happy to assist you. What is it you require?”
“I was hoping you could compile a list of inactive tunnels between Aberdeen and Baltimore.”
“No such animal exists,” Harold said. “Not in this day and age. What exactly were you looking for?”
“A tunnel, or more precisely anything remotely resembling a tunnel,” Matuszak said, correcting himself. “Something large enough to conceal the coaches.”
Harold’s head shook in disagreement. “But I’ve already done, that several times.”
“I know,” Matuszak said. He gave Harold a brief recounting of his visit to Huntsmore and his conversation with the Senator Ewald’s father. “The old guy is nearing senility, but he was adamant in his statement. He claims the coaches were abandoned in a tunnel.
Harold removed his coat and returned it to the peg on the wall. “Okay, if you think it’s important, I'll double-check. Call you tomorrow.”
* * *
Harold justified his unwillingness to speak out on the fruitlessness of the request, on the grounds of the urgency in Matuszak's voice. Besides, tired or not, he rather enjoyed this game of playing detective.
It was the hunt all over again.
The large pile of charts spread before him presented a difficult challenge. From assorted time frames, they all bore one common trait; they depicted the same geographical area, the fifty-plus miles laying between Aberdeen and Baltimore's Camden station. Sadly, like most of the archive's material, the drawings had received poor care and were old, faded and required delicate handling to decipher. Even so, with care and the aid of a magnifying glass Harold was able to trace the train's route.
His long, boney fingers rattled through brittle document after brittle document, finding numerous tunnels and sidings of varying degrees and lengths. Each was summarily dismissed. In the heavy, congested northeast corridor, each tunnel was in constant use. No line of coaches could possibly sit idle in such location for any period of time without discovery.
Another dead soldier, Harold declared, carefully placing yet another chart onto the growing pile of rejected material.
Only when the search reached some of the earliest dated material did Harold begin to notice anything out of the ordinary. Dated 1895, the drawing before him was a supplement plan for the then new Howard Street Tunnel, a mammoth 1.4 mile long structure running beneath the streets of Baltimore. Dipping beneath the surface at Mt. Royal Station (in the northern portion of Baltimore city) it didn't resurface until it reached Camden Street Station in the south.
An engineering marvel, the tunnel served one of the most active rail lines on the eastern seaboard. Harold was about to discard the chart when his eye caught the words Spur Tunnel. That's odd, he thought, spreading the drawing out for a better view. Still, there it was, as plain as the nose on his face, Spur Tunnel printed next to the proposed underground station. From his early days as an office boy Harold could recall hearing stories of an abandoned, underground station. But he couldn't remember any mention of a spur tunnel in connection with the station. Also, he was intrigued by the placement of the words, “spur tunnel”. Even the most competent of draftsmen made mistakes, but who would place the words “spur tunnel” in an area clearly depicted as being solid earth?
He reached for the telephone.
“Spur tunnel?” Matuszak said, mentally trying to sort through the hundreds of reports and maps he had examined. “No, I don't recall any mention of an underground station or spur tunnel.”
“Probably a typographical error,” said Harold, prepared to dismiss the idea. “After all, the chart shows only a continuous solid tunnel wall, no indication the tunnel was actually constructed.”
Matuszak wasn’t prepared to readily dismiss the idea. “No,” he said. “It's probably nothing, but you should keep at it. At this stage of the game, we can't afford to pass up any chance. I'll see Nancy tomorrow and go through the computer again.”
Replacing the receiver, Harold headed toward the blueprint storage area. Surely the master drawings survived and were still available. If so, they would settle the question.
* * *
Matuszak found Nancy at a reading table in the archive department. Pouring over yellowed newsprint, she was unaware of his presence. He stood in the doorway for the next several minutes, content merely to observe her undetected.
Nancy took the tooth-scarred pencil from her mouth and, moving to notepad, made several hastily scribbled entries. Matuszak made a clumsy, youthful attempt at whistling Nancy with the laughing face, something he had been attempting to master since they had first met. Nancy never looked up, but her tense, studious expression instantly softened when she heard the first of several off-key notes. It was then the pixie-like smile appeared.
“You old devil. Where have you been?” she said finally looking up. Rising from the table, she rushed across the room to meet him.
“I heard about your accident on the JFX,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pushed back and looked at him questionably. “Are you okay? No scars, broken bones?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little sore that’s all.” Then, holding her at arm's length and looking down into her smiling face, he added, “But what's this I've been hearing about you? Getting serious over some reporter, I'm told.”
“Harold? That blabbermouth,” she laughed, wrapping an arm around his waist and leading him back to the table. “He told you, didn't he? Never should have told him, he can’t keep a secret.”
“Could've been the gypsy that told me,” he teased. “Remember her prediction about you finding a new love? Tell me all about him. Does he work for the newspaper? Is his name Richard, by some odd chance?”
Her smile widened. “There’s time for that later. But first tell me what brings you here?”
“I really need some help, if you can spare a few moments.”
“Sure, always glad to help. But it'll cost you lunch this time.”
“A fair enough price,” he replied. “How about tomorrow? The old Chevy's back in running form. We'll take it out for a trial spin. I know a little inn out in the country that serves a delicious crab cake.”
Nancy was quick to agree. “It's a date. And I'll hold you to it. Now, to keep my part of the bargain, what can I do for you?”
“I’m in need of your computer skills.”
“No problem. What are we looking for?”
He shrugged. “Probably nothing. But at this stage things are getting a little desperate. I’m looking for any mention of the words spur tunnel in connection with the Howard Street Tunnel.”
“Spur tunnel,” Nancy said, moving to the computer keyboard. “Shouldn't be too hard.”
They spent the next hour in front of the computer, submitting inquiry after inquiry. Each time, the computer responded with the negative reply, NO RECORD FOUND. Determined not to fail, Nancy reworded the request and tried again. Finally, she turned to Matuszak.
“Sorry, I've tried every trick I know. No luck. That's not to say the spur isn't there, only that we don't have any information in our database on it. Adding old data isn't one of management's top priorities.”
“Thanks for trying,” he said, gathering up his material. He rose. “Pick you up tomorrow, say tenish?”
She nodded. “That will be fine. I'll be ready.”
Matuszak left the Sun paper’s building, but the wording “spur tunnel” wouldn't go away. After lunch, he had one more avenue to explore.
* * *
Remembering Matty and the wealth of information he possessed, Matuszak returned the B&O Train Museum. Perhaps one of the staff members there could help.
“Terrible, what happened to Matty Farley,” said Henry Roberts, one of the museum’s volunteer docents. “Matty and me, we were old friends. Worked out of Bayview, and the east end, for the better part of ten years. Matty was one hell of a fireman, I can tell you that. Naturally anything I can do to help find his killers...”
“What can you tell me about the possible existence of a spur line inside the Howard Street Tunnel?”
The docent was quick to respond. “The Howard Street Tunnel? Sure, at one time there was a small branch spur leading off the main line,” the docent said. “But. I doubt if it’s the one you’re looking for though. As I recall it wasn’t very long, hardly qualifies as a tunnel.”
The two men were sitting in a small break room, tucked away in a recess off the roundhouse's main exhibition floor. Enjoying a steaming cup of coffee, the docent had been relaxing between tours and had invited Matuszak to join him.
“There was?” Matuszak sputtered, nearly spilling his coffee. He eased his cup to the table for fear he would drop it. “I’ve never ran across any mention of it in my investigation.”
“Not surprising,” the docent retorted. “It goes back before my time. Like all companies, the B&O don’t like to be reminded of their failed ventures. It was a fiasco as far as tunnels go,” he said in response to Matuszak’s puzzled look.
Matuszak nodded, leaned forward. “Tell me more about this spur tunnel.”
The docent reached for the pack of cigarettes laying next to the ashtray. “Around the turn of the century,” he began, “the B&O was locked in power struggle with the Pennsylvania RR over the lucrative Washington to New York market. The spur tunnel was the brainchild of John K Cowen, he was president of the B&O at the time. Old John’s solution was to dig a double tracked spur inside the Howard Street Tunnel eastward, under the harbor and emerge somewhere on the east end of Baltimore, thereby eliminating the outdated and much slower belt line. If successful, the spur would have cut off nearly an hour’s travel time to New York. Faster times, and The Royal Blue’s reputation for undisputed service, would have established the B&O as the premiere leader on the Washington to New York run for decades to come.” He waited for the flare of the match to die before lighting the cigarette. “Old John,” he took up, releasing a stream of blue/grey smoke upward, “was what you might call a visionary. His scheme was grandiose, but downtown real estate, even back then, was expensive.
Matuszak nodded. “I see. On the surface it sounds like a good plan. I take it things didn’t quite work out. What happened?”
“Engineering problems,” replied the docent. “Construction started sometime in the late eighteen hundreds, 1891 I believe. Just like the Howard Street Tunnel project, there were engineering setbacks. The earth along the proposed spur route was composed mostly of clay and sand, and littered with pockets of quicksand created by numerous underground streams. Excavation undermined buildings. Street cave-ins were daily occurrences. Foundations needed constant shoring up, and complaints of the noise from constant dynamiting filled the daily newspapers. Construction ceased before they reached the harbor’s edge.
“And the railroad? What did they do?”
“They tried to salvage what they could. If they couldn’t shorten the route, they would alleviate the overcrowding at Camden Station by constructing an underground station and using the spur tunnel for passenger boarding.
“I gather that didn’t work.”
“No. Like with the main tunnel excavation, problems plagued the station from the start. Soot and toxic buildup were the main culprits. In such a confine space the ventilation shafts couldn’t get rid of the steam and soot generated by the engines. Naturally it didn’t sit well with the passengers. Eventually the station was forced to shut down.”
Matuszak mulled over the conversation. “You said there was a spur tunnel. What I need to find out is, is this spur tunnel still in existence?
“Naaa,” the docent said, giving his a vigorous shake, “not very likely. Last I heard it had been abandoned.”
When was this?” Matuszak asked, between sips of coffee.
“Ah, there you got me, Mr. Matuszak. If memory serves it should have been about the same time WWII started.
Matuszak pressed the docent. “But surely a tunnel doesn’t simply cease to be. I need to know what happened to it? Think, it’s important.”
The docent’s brow wrinkled. “Back filled most likely.” He shrugged. “Again, I don't know for sure. You see, I was mostly working out of Brunswick at the time. With gas rationing and money tight, I didn’t get to Baltimore very often. If it's important, you can stop back later. Maybe I could find out some more.”
“Thanks, I will.” Matuszak Hypothetically speaking, if this tunnel does still exist, and the missing coaches are down there, several questions spring to mind. For example, how could a trio of coaches sit abandoned at a subterranean train station, for half a century, without being discovered? And how could hijackers possibly stop something as massive as a speeding train? Is such a feat even possible?”
The docent nodded knowingly. “I’ll leave the first part of your questions to keener minds than mine. As to stopping the train. On the surface it looks quite impossible, I’ll admit. But it's really fairly simple, when you think about it. Archie, that's one of the other docents, and I were talking about that when we read about the engine being discovered. Here, I'll show you.”
Setting his coffee aside, he led Matuszak to a nearby equipment display area containing a display model of a track-side signal box.
“All anyone intent on stopping the train would have to do,” he said, opening the signal box door, “is break the lock, open the door, and manually set the controls to display the stop signal. Or they could simply break the circuit between the bond wire leading from the rail to the signal box. It's a built-in safety feature and it would default to the stop or proceed with caution signal.”
Matuszak rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Electrical wiring? Seems all too complicated to me.”
“No, not really. It's common-enough knowledge. Anyone working around trains would have known.”
Closing the control box, he led Matuszak back to the break room. Picking up his cup of coffee, he said, “Either way the engineer would be already slowing for his approach to Camden Station. Seeing the stop/proceed signal, he would bring the train to a halt.”
“But wouldn't the train crew be suspicious of that signal?”
“No, no reason to. It was a common signal, much like the flashing traffic light you see at a street intersection. Different signal, but serves the same purpose. Besides, you have to remember that this was before radio communications came into standard use. Signals or a track torpedo were the only ways to communicate back
then. The engineer, with no reason to doubt the signal or a means to verify it, would stop. Once the train stopped, all anyone would have to do was climb aboard and overpower the crew.”
The first beginnings of an insane, almost inhuman, idea began forming in Matuszak's head. Inconceivable, yet all the basic ingredients were there; no mention of the spur or of its search, located along the route of the train and finally, sealed off, probably just after the train's disappearance.
It had to be!
He had to get into that tunnel. Harold would know whom to call to arrange it.
27
Matuszak's home
Linthicum, Maryland
Late afternoon
Matuszak, with Nancy at his side, turned the steering wheel pointing the Chevrolet's long tapered nose down the street and toward home. The engine, which only moments before ran with Swiss clockwork precision, suddenly began to sputter. Between bouts of coughing and random backfires, it resumed its normal smooth cadence until finally it uttered one final wheeze and fell silent.
Coasting, the old car drifted quietly to the curb, coming to rest at the foot of Matuszak's driveway. They were stalled, but within steps of the garage.
“What rotten luck,” he said, switching the dead ignition to the off position. “Take a beautiful girl out for a day in the country, and the damn car waits until it gets to the foot of my driveway to die.”
“Good thing it happened here,” Nancy said, with the hint of laughter in her voice. “On a lonely country lane, a girl might have thought you were getting fresh and making a pass at her.”
“Well.... the thought did cross my mind a time or two,” he teased. “But, you're far too sophisticated to fall for an old line like that.”
“Maybe and maybe not,” she said, pretending to consider the idea. “But for now your thoughts should be on fixing the car. It's getting dark.”
Nancy was right. It was late, nearly five and daylight was fading. Together they had spent the afternoon exploring the fall countryside. It had been a beautiful day, one he didn't want to end so quickly. Nancy seemed to have enjoyed the lunch and the leisurely drive as much as he had.
