All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “Wait here. I'll just get some tools from the garage. It shouldn't take a minute to fix.”

  The old, Victorian style garage sat at the end of the long, curved drive nestled among the trees. Its double, cross-bucked doors faced the street, offering a clear view of the disabled vehicle with Nancy waiting patiently in the passenger seat.

  Inserting the brass key into the antiquated lock, Matuszak found the mechanism stiff and unyielding. True, the lock was original, but it had always functioned smoothly before. He tried again, this time applying more pressure to the large key. Reluctantly the lock's inner workings began turning, releasing its grasp on the door. Free from the lock's hold, the door swung easily.

  Curious, Matuszak bent down for a closer examination of the lock. There were several fresh gouges on the brass escutcheon plate, evidence that someone had tampered with the lock's mechanism. Easing the snub nose from its holster, he set about checking the garage's interior, paying special attention the door connecting the garage to the house.

  Nothing appeared disturbed.

  His apprehensions satisfied, at least for the moment, Matuszak’s thoughts returned to Nancy and the Chevrolet. He set about gathering the necessary tools. Returning to the car, he was quickly absorbed in tracing the cause of the breakdown. The lock incident was temporarily forgotten.

  Nancy having exited the car was at his side. “Scoot over and I'll lend you a hand,” she offered.

  “You're kidding, right?” he said, glancing up from beneath the Chevrolet's hood.

  “No,” she answered, “I'm quite serious. I can do it.”

  “Can you really work on a car's engine?”

  “Certainly. My dad was a real gear-head when it came to old cars. I practically grew up around them.”

  “Well, okay,” he said attempting to suppress a laugh, “but if you break a nail, don't say I didn't warn you.”

  “Men,” teased Nancy, her eyes rolled upwards. “You're all alike. Do you think you're the only ones capable of repairing machinery?”

  “No, but it's hard to picture you with grease smeared all over that pretty face of yours.”

  Confidently, Nancy chose a few tools and disappeared under the hood. In short order, she had removed the oil bath air cleaner and handed it to an astonished Matuszak.

  “Here, make yourself useful, hold this,” she said, with a touch of impish delight in her voice.

  She dove under the hood and several moments passed before she appeared again. This time, a smudge of oil glistened on her cheek.

  “The carb’s getting gas and wasn’t flooded,” she announced. “So I popped the distributor cap. Probably should have done that in the first place. Short story, the points had closed up. I regapped them, it should fire up now.”

  “Good job!” he said, dabbing at the smudge with his handkerchief. “I believe you're -”

  The distant ringing of the telephone drifted down from the garage interrupting his conversation.

  “Damn that phone,” he swore.

  “You go ahead and answer it. I’ll finish up here.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, worry wart. Now get the telephone. Hurry up now, it might be Harold calling about the tunnel.”

  Midway up the drive he called over his shoulder, “As soon as I finish with the telephone, I'll show you how to start it up.”

  Jogging the last few steps, he entered the opened garage, and headed toward the wall phone. From here, he could see Nancy at the foot of the drive. She had just closed the Chevrolet’s hood.

  He picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said. He waved, acknowledging Nancy's everything's OK signal, as she opened the driver's door and slid behind the Chevrolet’s wheel.

  “Matuszak? Kenneth Matuszak?” the raspy voice at the other end of the line growled.

  “Yes, it's Kenneth Matuszak,” he said, frowning, turning his attention back to the telephone and the strange request. “Do I know you?”

  “The correct question is, do you want to live?”

  “Do I want to live? Who is this? Is this some kind of a game?”

  “No, Mister Matuszak, this is no game. We're serious. In fact, you might say we're deadly serious.”

  “What-”

  “Shut up and listen close,” the voice commanded. “I'm only going to say this once. You've been a thorn in our side long enough. This is your final warning.”

  “What do you mean? What final warning?”

  “Get off the Lambert case. Now!”

  “Now just a moment.” Matuszak demanded. “Who is this?

  “This call activated a remote control transmitter,” the caller continued, ignoring Matuszak’s questions. “Its signal armed a device I planted in that precious, old car of yours. If you're smart, you'll call the bomb squad. Tell them to check under the drivers' seat.”

  Matuszak stiffened. “You put a bomb in my car!”

  “Yeah, you've got it, pal. Did it yesterday while you were out. Enough C4 to blow both you and that old Chevrolet sky high, if you're foolish enough to try starting it. Look, I'm only telling you this to show you how easily we can get to you. The next time there won't be a warning.”

  * * *

  Nancy drummed her fingernails against the steering wheel, and looked anxiously up at the garage.

  “What's taking him so long?” she grumbled. “He’s not in a hurry to come back. Probably thinks I didn’t fix this old jalopy of his.”

  Bored, she began looking around the auto's interior. She readjusted the rear view mirror. That led to refreshing her lipstick and returning a wayward strand of hair. It was then that her gaze fell upon the ignition switch. The set of dangling keys started an idea forming in her head.

  Perfect! she thought. I'll show him. I'll start this thing up and drive up it up to the garage. That'll prove I fixed it.

  She turned the key. Nothing happened. No grinding of the starter, no clicking sounds to signify a dead battery.

  “Now, what's wrong?” she grumbled, trying the key several more times. “Oh shit,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Nancy, you dummy. You forgot these old cars have a separate starter button.”

  She searched the dashboard, looking for the button. Old cars were individuals, each employed their own unique sequence for starting. Think, what did Chevrolet use in thirty-nine?

  Glancing once more toward the garage, she noticed Matuszak becoming animated, pacing back and froth, shouting into the telephone. What in the hell is that all about? she wondered. He's certainly riled up about something. Must be arguing with the caller. But, being too far away, she could neither hear nor understand what was being said. Losing interest, she shrugged, and returned to her search for the elusive starter button.

  * * *

  Panic raced through Matuszak's mind as he turned and saw Nancy sitting in the driver’s seat. Please Nancy, he prayed. Don't start the engine.

  “The next time we'll-”

  “No, wait!” Matuszak screamed into the receiver. “You don't understand. There's someone sitting in the car.”

  “What!” the raspy voice replied.

  “There's someone in the car right now,” Matuszak repeated.

  “You idiot! Get them out! If they touch that starter button, it'll blow-”

  Matuszak didn't wait for the voice to finish. Dropping the receiver, he screamed, “Nancy! Wait!” He sprinted headlong down the driveway, racing toward Nancy and the Chevrolet.

  * * *

  Inside the closed vehicle, Nancy couldn't hear Matuszak's frantic calling. Amused, she had watched Matuszak drop the phone and start to run toward her.

  She chuckled. Look at that. The typical male ego in action. Afraid I'll start it. And he wanted to be the one to show me how. Now, let's see. Where is that button?”

  “Nancy, don't!”

  Ah! she smiled. Now I remember. On the floor, over the gas petal. Turn the key and push the starter button to start the engine.
>
  Triumphantly, she pushed the pedal, and gave a broad smile at the hysterical Matuszak running toward her. She waved as if to say, Too late, I found it.

  * * *

  Matuszak had covered only a short distance, but he was close enough to see Nancy's smile. It was as if she was saying goodbye to him. The last image he saw was Nancy smiling as she waved to him.

  Then, Nancy's smile vanished, extinguished in the explosion and ball of orange flame that enveloped the Chevrolet.

  * * *

  “For Christ sake, man, speak to me. What in the hell happened here? Are you Okay?” the muffled voice demanded, filtering through the foggy curtain surrounding Matuszak's mind.

  Sitting inside the sterile confines of the ambulance, a heavy blanket draped around him, Matuszak shivered. A Styrofoam cup of coffee, long since grown cold, sat untouched on the tray beside him. The odor of charred metal and smoke, mixed with the fumes of diesel exhaust, rifted in the ambulance’s open doors. It filled the crammed interior with its acrid, pungent scent.

  It too went unnoticed.

  Numb, he stared out into the night, transfixed by the eerie, floodlit scene. Through the cryptic chatter of the fire and police radios, the tactless questioning persisted. Refusing to go away, they forced their way into his thoughts, demanding to be heard.

  “Are you okay? How did this happen? Who did this?”

  He stared at the white and red reflections of the fire apparatus lights, bouncing off the wisps of smoke whiffing from the smoldering wreckage that had once been an automobile. Mesmerized by their pulsating strobes, he ignored the voice and its probing questions.

  Nancy wasn’t dead. How could she could be?

  He could still see her. The image of her smiling face was there, floating among the thin wisps of smoke.

  Nancy wasn't dead.

  She had stayed with him.

  Nancy was not dead.

  She was here. He could still see her smile; still hear the lilting laughter in her voice.

  “Matuszak,” the voice persisted, as a pair of hands roughly shook his shoulder. “God, what a mess. You look terrible. Are you okay?”

  “Huh,” Matuszak managed weakly, becoming faintly aware of his surroundings.

  “I said, What happened, are you okay?”

  He looked up, found the figure of Becker standing over him. Then slowly his eyes returned to the still smoldering wreckage. His vision blurred as his eyes clouded over. The moisture erased Nancy's smile.

  “No.” he said. “No, Sarge, I'm not.”

  “Tell me, what in the hell happened here?”

  “Nancy's dead,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Nancy's dead.”

  28

  Industrial Area

  South of Camden Station

  Baltimore

  Autumn was fading. Its lingering warmth, displaced by the telltale crispness of a November morn, told of the approaching winter. Matuszak maneuvered the Escort’s replacement onto the narrow, barren patch of land adjacent to the grade crossing. Located in the desolate, run-down industrial section of south Baltimore, the crossing was as close as he could get to the entrance of the Howard Street Tunnel. The dark, arch-shaped portal loomed less than a hundred yards away.

  Harold was his companion. Bleary-eyed and sporting an uncustomary three day gray stubble, Harold appeared more frail and bent than usual. He had taken Nancy's death hard, perhaps even as hard as Matuszak himself had. Leaning against the front fender, Harold nervously fingered a faded set of ink drawings as he stared anxiously at the tunnel entrance.

  Having arrived early, the pair were standing alongside the car, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a track inspection crew that would accompany them into the tunnel. The CSX, perhaps due to curiosity, Harold’s constant prodding or simply in its own eagerness to put an end to the mystery surrounding the missing coaches, had reluctantly granted permission to inspect the Howard Street Tunnel.

  Matuszak removed the plastic lid from his coffee and cautiously sipped its steamy contents. “Bradford will be all over my ass if this hair-brained idea of ours doesn't pan out,” he said, displaying a feigned look of anxiety. “The rotten bastard has been looking for an excuse to nail me to the cross. Today may be his golden opportunity.”

  In reality, Matuszak was well past the stage of caring what Bradford or anybody else thought or did. All he knew or cared about was that two innocent people were dead. Murdered because of their association with him. He looked to the bent, arthritic frame of Harold. The same won’t happen to you, he silently vowed.

  “You?” Harold replied, giving a nervous sort of laugh. “I’ve staked my reputation on this. If this fails, I'll be the laughing stock back at headquarters. Probably the entire eastern division as well!”

  That possibility, whether real or imaginary, troubled Harold. Even so, his hunter's instinct refused to let the matter lie. In some strange sense finding the coaches would be a small step towards avenging Matty and Nancy’s deaths. He looked at the portal that served as the tunnel’s entrance. The train was there, he swore. It had to be! It was the only logical place left.

  * * *

  A white pickup, bearing the blue CSX logo, rounded the tracks on the Ostend Street curve and slowed to a stop at the crossing. Discarding the coffee cup into the weeds, Matuszak approached the vehicle.

  The truck had started life as a standard, four-door crew cab, but there the similarity ended. In addition to the normal street tires, a set of hydraulic activated steel wheels had been installed fore and aft, giving the truck an awkward, almost crab-like appearance. This modification allowed the truck to operate equally as well on tracks or public highways. The latest communications equipment, an array of high tech lighting equipment and assorted gear completed the truck's transformation.

  “Agent Matuszak?” the deep, friendly voice inquired from inside the truck's cab. “I'm Jeff Lowery, crew foreman, and this is my partner, Chuck Roberts. Dispatch said to meet you here. Something about helping you look for a lost train?” The puzzlement that accompanied the statement showed equally on his face and in the tone of his voice. “Mind telling me how MARC managed to lose one of its trains?”

  “Not MARC,” Matuszak chuckled. “But the B&O did over a half century ago. I’m investigating The Royal Blue case. We believe it's in the tunnel.”

  “Impossible,” Lowery grumbled, not for fifty years. You couldn't leave a maintenance cart, let alone The Royal Blue, sitting in there for more than a couple of minutes without it causing a major derailment.”

  “I know,” said Matuszak. “But there's suppose to be an abandoned spur, near the underground station. We’re counting on the coaches being in there.”

  “The station's there all right,” Lowery said, “under Lombard and Howard Street. I've seen it. Closed up tighter than a gnat's ass in winter. But there's no such thing as a spur siding. I ought to know. I've been through that tunnel a thousand times.” He laughed. “Someone's pulling your leg.”

  “Harold,” Matuszak said, gesturing toward Harold,”is an archive supervisor with CSX. He's found an old drawing. If the spur exists, the drawing should pinpoint its exact location for us.”

  Harold carefully unrolled the still-pliable oilskin drawing on the truck's hood. Completed long before the age of computer generated drawings, it was a laboriously hand-drawn document, done in pen and ink by a long forgotten draftsman. Dated prior to the turn of the century, it was faded and a little dog-eared, but its lines and printing were remarkably clear. Its identification legend, located in the document's lower right corner, was clearly legible.

  Title: Howard Street Tunnel with Proposed Spur

  Draftsman: Beecher Eary

  Date: March 17, 1896

  The drawing illustrated the tunnel's entire 1.4 mile length, from its beginning at Mt. Royal Station on the north to its emergence at Camden Street Station at the southern terminus. Also clearly labeled, and of particular interest to Matuszak, were the placement of the four, ston
e encased ventilation shafts and the then-unnamed underground station.

  The location of the spur opening was depicted as being midway between ventilation shaft number one and the underground station. Running to the rear of the underground station, it veered eastward, away from the tunnel's north-south route.

  “That should place it on a parallel course with Lombard Street,” Matuszak said.

  A small notation indicated the spur was eight hundred feet in length, and was designated as being still under construction.

  Lowery shook his head. “Well, if we're to find your mysterious spur, we'd better hurry,” he said, glancing at his watch. “CSX frowns on having to reroute traffic. We only have less than a hour of clearance time before a local freight out of Bay View is due.”

  “Right,” Matuszak said. “Lets get to it then.”

  Harold rerolled the drawing, and tucking it under his arm followed Matuszak as he climbed into the truck's rear seat.

  “There's a couple of hard hats and some heavy canvas work jackets hanging behind you,” Lowery called over his shoulder. “Better put them on. There's always bits of mortar and stone chips falling from the tunnel’s roof. Even the small ones will put a nasty gash in an unprotected head.”

  “Dispatch - Maintenance truck five,” Lowery said, picking up the mike.

  “Go ahead truck five,” the radio crackled in reply.

  “Place this unit 10-7 inside Howard Street Tunnel, routine check. Will advise when clear.”

  There was silence for a few seconds, then the radio came to life and acknowledged Lowery's transmission.

  “10-4, truck five. Be advised, there's a southbound freight, ETA your location, forty-five minutes.”

  “10-4”

  “Dispatch clear at 0917 hours.”

  “It's normal procedure to advise dispatch of our location before entering a tunnel,” Lowery explained, returning the mike to its cradle. “Once inside, our radio is as useless as tits on a boar hog. We want someone to know where we are in case of trouble, or if there is a rescheduling of trains.”