Hennessy was no less annoyed than the Senator. “I will not have that grandstanding, opportunistic, self-promoting blowhard’s name uttered in my railcar.”
“You should count yourself lucky that I only smoke. Alice Roosevelt is also known to appear at White House parties wrapped in a python.”
Mrs. Comden looked up from her needlepoint. “Osgood, may I presume that you will not permit snakes in your railcar?”
“If Roosevelt’s for snakes, I’m agin”em.“
Senator Kincaid laughed heartily.
Bell had already observed that the Senator assumed his KINCAID FOR PRESIDENT button had raised his stature in Hennessy’s eyes. He also noticed that Hennessy appeared to be recalculating the Senator’s potential.
“Tell me, Kincaid,” the railroad president asked in all seriousness, “what would you do if you were elected president?”
“Learn on the job,” Kincaid answered boldly. “Just like you learned railroading.”
Mrs. Comden spoke up, again. “Mr. Hennessy did not learn railroading. He teaches it.”
“I stand corrected.” Kincaid smiled stiffly.
“Mr. Hennessy is empirizing the railroads of America.”
Hennessy shushed her with a smile. “Mrs. Comden has a way with words. She studied in Europe, you know.”
“You’re too kind, Osgood. I studied in Leipzig, but only music.” She stuffed her needlepoint into a satin-lined bag. Then she rose from her corner chair, saying, “Please don’t stand, gentlemen,” and left the parlor.
They sat awhile, puffing cigars, sipping brandy.
“Well, I think I’ll turn in,” said Isaac Bell.
Kincaid said, “Before you go, do tell us how your hunt for the so-called Wrecker is going.”
“Damned well!” Hennessy answered for him. “Bell’s stopped the murdering radical at every turn.”
Bell rapped his chair arm with his knuckles. “Knock wood, sir. We’ve caught some lucky breaks.”
“If you’ve stopped him,” said Kincaid, “then your job is done.”
“My job is done when he hangs. He is a murderer. And he threatens the livelihood of thousands. How many men did you say you employ, Mr. Hennessy?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“Mr. Hennessy is modest,” said Kincaid. “Factoring in all the lines in which he holds controlling interests, he employs over one million hands.”
Bell glanced at Hennessy. The railroad president did not dispute the enormous claim. Bell was struck with admiration. Even engrossed in the titanic effort to build the cutoff, the old man continued to extend his empire.
“Until you do hang him,” Kincaid asked, “what do you think he intends next?”
Bell smiled a smile that did not warm his eyes. He was reminded of the last time he’d jousted with Kincaid, trading table talk over their game of draw poker. “Your guess is as good as mine, Senator.”
Kincaid smiled back as coolly. “I would have thought that a detective’s guess is better than mine.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“My guess is, he’ll take a crack at the Cascade Canyon Bridge.”
“That’s why it’s heavily guarded,” said Hennessy. “He’d need an army to get near it.”
“Why would you guess that he would attack the bridge?” asked Bell.
“Any fool can see that the saboteur, whoever he is—anarchist, foreigner, or striker—knows how to guarantee the greatest damage. Clearly, he’s a brilliant engineer.”
“That thought has crossed several minds,” Bell said drily.
“You’re missing a bet, Mr. Bell. Look for a civil engineer.”
“A man like yourself?”
“Not me. As I told you the other day, I was trained and able but never brilliant.”
“What makes a brilliant engineer, Senator?”
“Good question, Bell. Best put to Mr. Mowery, who is one.”
Mowery, ordinarily talkative, had been very quiet ever since Bell had spoken with him in the shadow of the bridge. He waved Kincaid off with an impatient gesture.
Kincaid turned to Hennessy. “Even better put to a railroad president. What makes a brilliant engineer, Mr. Hennessy?”
“Railroad engineering is nothing more than managing grade and water. The flatter your roadbed, the faster your train.”
“And water?”
“Water will do its damnedest to wash out your roadbed if you don’t divert it.”
Bell said, “I put the question to you, Senator. What makes a brilliant engineer?”
“Stealth,” Kincaid replied.
“Stealth?” echoed Hennessy, shooting a baffled look at Bell. “What in blazes are you talking about, Kincaid?”
“Concealment. Secrecy. Cunning.” Kincaid smiled. “Every project demands compromise. Strength versus weight. Speed versus cost. What an engineer grasps in one fist, he surrenders with the other. A brilliant engineer hides compromise. You will never see it in his work. Take Mr. Mowery’s bridge. To my journeyman’s eye, his compromises are invisible. It simply soars.”
“Nonsense,” rumbled Franklin Mowery. “It’s only mathematics.”
Bell said to Mowery, “But you yourself told me about engineering compromises just the other day at the Diamond Canyon Loop wreck. What do you think, sir? Is the Wrecker a brilliant engineer?”
Mowery brushed the point of his beard distractedly. “The Wrecker has shown knowledge of geology, explosives, and the roadbed, not to mention the habits of locomotives. If he’s not an engineer, he’s missed his calling.”
Emma Comden returned, bundled to her chin in a fur coat. The collar framed her pretty face. A matching fur cap was perched jauntily on her hair, and her dark eyes sparkled.
“Come, Osgood. Let’s stroll along the siding.”
“What the heck for?”
“To look at the stars.”
“Stars? It’s raining.”
“The storm has passed. The sky is brilliant.”
“It’s too cold,” Hennessy complained. “Besides, I have telegraphs to wire as soon as Lillian stubs out that damned cigarette and gets her notepad. Kincaid, take Mrs. Comden for a walk, would you? Good man.”
“Of course. It will be my pleasure, as always.” Kincaid found his coat and offered Mrs. Comden his arm as they started down the steps to the roadbed.
Bell stood up, chafing to get to Marion. “Well, I’ll leave you to your work, sir. I’m going to turn in.”
“Sit with me a moment ... Lillian, would you excuse us?”
She looked puzzled but didn’t argue and retreated toward her stateroom in Nancy No. 2.
“Drink?”
“I’ve had enough, thank you, sir.”
“That is a fine woman you’ve tied onto.”
“Thank you, sir. I feel I am very lucky.” And hoping, he thought to himself, to demonstrate how lucky he felt very soon.
“Reminds me of my wife—and she was a gal to reckon with ... What do you know about your friend Abbott?”
Bell looked at him, surprised. “Archie and I have been friends since college.”
“What’s he like?”
“I must inquire why you ask. He’s my friend.”
“I understand my daughter showed an interest in him.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No. I learned it from another source.”
Bell thought a moment. Mrs. Comden had not been in New York but had stayed in the West with Hennessy. “Since you inquire about my friend, I have to ask you who told you that.”
“Kincaid. Who do you suppose? He was with her in New York when she met Abbott. Please understand, Bell, I am fully aware that he would say anything to undermine any rival for her hand ... Which he will get over my dead body.”
“Lillian’s too, I imagine,” said Bell, which drew a smile.
“Although,” Hennessy went on, “I must admit that this president talk is a new wrinkle. I may have underestimated Kincaid ...” He shook his head in amazement.
“I’ve always said I’d rather have a baboon in the White House than Theodore Roosevelt. We should be careful what we wish for. But at least Kincaid would be my baboon.”
Bell asked, “If you would accept a baboon in the White House, provided he was your baboon, would you take him as a son-in-law?”
Hennessy dodged that question, saying only, “I’m asking about your friend Abbott because when I have to weigh suitors, I want to know my options.”
“All right, sir. Now I understand. I will tell you what I know. Archie Abbott—Archibald Angell Abbott IV—is an excellent detective, a master of disguise, a handy fellow with his fists, a deft hand with a knife, deadly with a firearm, and a loyal friend.”
“A man to ride the river with?” Hennessy asked with a smile.
“Without reservation.”
“And his circumstances? Is he as poor as Kincaid claims?”
“He lives on his detective salary,” said Bell. “His family lost everything in the Panic of ‘93. His mother stays with her brother-in-law’s family. Before that, they were reasonably well-off, as the old New York families were in those days, with a good house in the right neighborhood.”
Hennessy looked at Bell, sharply. “Could he be a gold digger?”
“Twice he walked away from wealthy young ladies whose mothers would be thrilled to marry them into as illustrious a family as the Abbotts. One was the only child of a man who owned a steamship line, another the daughter of a textile magnate. He could have had either for the asking. In both cases, their fathers made it clear they would take him into the business or, if he preferred not to work, simply put him on an allowance.”
The old man stared hard at him. Bell held his eye easily.
Hennessy finally said, “I appreciate your candor, Bell. I won’t be around forever, and I’m pretty much the only family she has. I want to see her set before anything happens to me.”
Bell stood up. “Lillian could do a lot worse than Archie Abbott.”
“She could also do worse than First Lady of the United States of America.”
“She is a very capable young woman,” Bell said neutrally. “She’ll deal with any hand dealt her.”
“I don’t want her to have to.”
“Of course you don’t. What father would? Now, let me ask you something, sir.”
“Shoot.”
Bell sat back down. As much as he wanted to join Marion, there was a question troubling him that had to be answered.
“Do you really believe that Senator Kincaid has a chance for the nomination?”
CHARLES KINCAID AND EMMA COMDEN had walked in silence past the special’s insistently sighing steam engine, past the train yards and into the night, beyond the glare of the electric lights. Where the ballast laid for new rail ended, they stepped down to the newly cleared forest floor that had been brushed out for the right-of-way.
The stars were vivid in the thin mountain air. The Milky Way flooded the dark like a white river. Mrs. Comden spoke German. Her voice was muffled by the fur of her collar.
“Be careful you don’t twist the devil’s tail too hard.”
Kincaid responded in English. His German, honed by ten years studying engineering in Germany and working for the German companies building the Baghdad Railway, was as good as hers, but the last thing he needed was someone to report he had been overheard conversing in a foreign tongue with Osgood Hennessy’s mistress.
“We will beat them,” he said, “long before they figure out who we are or what we want.”
“But every way you turn, Isaac Bell thwarts you.”
“Bell has no idea of what I have planned next,” Kincaid said scornfully. “I am so close, Emma. My bankers in Berlin are poised to strike the instant that I bankrupt the Southern Pacific Company. My secret holding companies will buy it for pennies, and I will seize controlling interests in every railroad in America. Thanks to Osgood Hennessy’s ‘empirizing.’ No one can stop me.”
“Isaac Bell is no fool. Neither is Osgood.”
“Worthy opponents,” Kincaid agreed, “but always several steps behind.” And, in the case of Bell, he thought but did not say, unlikely to survive the night if Philip Dow was his usual deadly self.
“I must warn you that Franklin Mowery is growing suspicious about his bridge.”
“Too late to do anything about it.”
“It seems to me that you are growing reckless. So reckless that they will catch you.”
Kincaid gazed up at the stars, and murmured, “They can’t. I have my secret weapons.”
“What secret weapons are those?”
“You for one, Emma. You to tell me everything they’re up to.”
“And what do I have?” she asked.
“Anything money can buy when we have won.”
“What if I want something—or someone—money can’t buy.”
Kincaid laughed again. “I’ll be in great demand. You’ll have to get in line.”
“In line . . . ?” Emma Comden raised her sensual face to the starlight. Her eyes shone darkly. “What is your other secret weapon?”
“That’s a secret,” said Kincaid.
In the unlikely event Bell somehow survived the attack and got lucky enough to thwart him again, he could not risk telling even her about “Lake Lillian.”
“You would keep secrets from me?” she asked.
“Don’t sound hurt. You know that you are the only one I have ever given the power to betray me.”
He saw no profit in mentioning Philip Dow. Just as he would never tell Dow about his affair with Emma, which had started years before she became the railroad president’s mistress.
A bitter smile parted her lips. “I have never known a worse man than you, Charles. But I would never betray you.”
Kincaid looked around again to make sure absolutely sure no one could see them. Then he snaked an arm inside her coat and drew her close. He was not at all surprised when she didn’t resist. Nor was he surprised that she had removed every stitch of her clothing before she put her fur on.
“And what have we here?” he asked, his voice thickening with desire.
“The front of the line,” said Mrs. Comden.
38
“WHEN IT COMES TO POLITICS,” OSGOOD HENNESSY SNORTED IN answer to Isaac Bell’s question, “I’ll believe anything that happens.”
Isaac Bell said, “I’m serious, sir. Do you believe that Kincaid is making an earnest run for the office of president?”
“Politicians can delude themselves into anything that suits their fancy. Could he get elected? I suppose. Voters do the damnedest things. Thank God, women don’t vote. He’d get elected on his pretty-boy looks alone.”
“But could he get nominated?” Bell pressed.
“That’s the real issue.”
“He’s got Preston Whiteway behind him. Whiteway must think there’s a chance.”
“That rabble-rouser will stop at nothing to sell newspapers. Don’t forget, win or lose, Kincaid for President still makes for a story right up to the last night of the convention.”
Bell named several of the California businessmen in Whiteway’s group. “Do they really believe they could bull Kincaid past the party regulars?”
Osgood Hennessy chuckled cynically. “Successful businessmen believe they succeed because they’re intelligent. Fact is, most businessmen are birdbrains except for that one small thing each was clever at in order to make money. But I don’t understand why they wouldn’t be perfectly happy with William Howard Taft. Surely they know that if they split the party, they would hand the election to the Democrats and William Jennings Bryan, that populist fiend. Hell, maybe they’re just soaking up a free holiday at Whiteway’s expense.”
“Maybe,” said Bell.
“Why do you ask?” said Hennessy, probing him with shrewd eyes.
Bell probed back. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“You wouldn’t by any chance be undermining your friend’s rival for my daughter’s hand?”
Bell stood up. “I’m not sly. Nor furtive. I’ll tell you here and now, to your face, that your daughter deserves better than Charles Kincaid. Good night, sir.”
“Wait,” said Hennessy. “Wait . . . Wait... I apologize. That was uncalled for and obviously not true. You’re a straight shooter. I do apologize. Sit down. Keep an old man company for a moment. Emma will be back from her walk any minute.”
CHARLES KINCAID SAW EMMA COMDEN to the door of the double stateroom she shared with Osgood Hennessy. They heard Bell and Hennessy still talking in the parlor at the front of the car.
“Thank you for walking me to see the stars, Senator.”
“A pleasure as always. Good night, Mrs. Comden.”
They shook hands chastely. Then Kincaid headed to his own stateroom several cars back in the special. His knees were shaking, the usual effect Emma Comden had on him, his head still reeling, and he had unlocked his door and closed it behind him before he realized that someone was sitting in the easy chair. Dow? Escaping pursuit? Never. By the killer’s strict code, he would shoot himself in the head before he would risk betraying a friend. Kincaid pulled his derringer from his pocket and turned up the light.
Eric Soares said, “Surprise, Senator.”
“How did you get in here?” Kincaid asked the engineer.
“Jimmied the lock,” he answered nonchalantly.
“What the dickens for?”
Soares removed his wire-rimmed glasses and made a show of polishing them with his handkerchief. Finally, he put them back on, smoothed the tips of his handlebar mustache, and answered, “Blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” Kincaid echoed, thinking furiously.
As Senator Kincaid, he knew that Eric Soares was engineer Franklin Mowery’s assistant. Only as the Wrecker did he know that Soares falsified inspection reports to Mowery about the state of the stone piers supporting the Cascade Canyon Bridge.
He pressed the derringer to the young engineer’s head. Soares didn’t flinch.
“You can’t shoot me in your own stateroom. Which is mighty fancy compared to my miserable little upper Pullman berth. It’s even posher than Mr. Mowery’s.”
The Wrecker Page 29
