The Great Train Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Business Broker

  “Mr. Wood, you can come in now,” McGill said.

  Not wanting to identify himself as the name on the wanted poster, Matt had taken the name of one of Smoke Jensen’s top hands, Cal Wood.

  “Mr. Wood, this is Lucas Conroy,” McGill said when Matt stepped into the office. “I have spoken to him about your flyer, and he says he knows nothing about this document either.”

  “How did you come by this poster, Mr. Wood?” Conroy asked.

  “I found it nailed to a tree in Colorado,” Matt replied.

  “I see. And you are here to claim the reward, are you?”

  “Suppose I am. Who would I see for the reward?”

  “Did you kill this man, Jensen?”

  “I don’t see as I need to go any further into it,” Matt said. “The point is, that dodger,” he pointed to the flyer Conroy was holding, “says to come here for the reward. Well, I’m here, and I have spoken with all the other occupants of this building—Dr. Urban, the folks at Golden Gate Realty, Mrs. Pinchon of the dance academy, and Mr. McGill—but I can’t find anyone who knows anything about it. You are my last hope.”

  Conroy shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Mr. Wood, I believe you have been made the victim of a hoax,” McGill said. “If you had examined the poster closely, you would have noticed that there is no authorizing official. I’ve been a lawyer for some time now, and in the course of my legal practice I have been exposed to numerous reward posters. But never have I seen one issued without some validating authority.”

  “Do you know what I think?” Conroy asked.

  “What’s that?” Matt replied.

  “I think someone just wanted this . . .” he made a point of looking at the name on the poster, “Matt Jensen dead, and he hoped that by printing up an official-looking dodger, someone would do the job for him. I don’t believe that whoever did it had any intention of actually paying the reward. That’s why he put the name of this building on the poster but omitted the name of a person to contact.”

  Conroy handed the flyer back to Matt.

  “I’m sorry. If you have come to collect your reward, I’m afraid there is no money here for you.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said, taking the poster back.

  “I’ll walk you back downstairs,” McGill said.

  Conroy waited until he heard their footsteps going down the stairs before he closed the door and returned to his desk. He let out a sigh of relief. If he had not learned but half an hour earlier that Matt Jensen was alive and in town, he would have questioned Cal Wood more intensely to determine whether or not Matt Jensen actually was dead. And had he done so, he would have fallen right into the trap that Matt Jensen was setting for him. And yes, Conroy was thoroughly convinced that the man who had just been here was Matt Jensen, here to find out what he could about the posters.

  Chapter Eight

  The Gillespie Building

  Jake Fowler, John’s private secretary, stepped into the office.

  “Mr. Gillespie, Mr. Emerson is here to see you, sir.”

  “Emerson? Yes, show him right in, Jake,” John said.

  A moment later the private detective was extending his hand in greeting.

  “Jeff,” John greeted. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your trip to Chicago,” Emerson replied.

  “I hope you’re not going to try and talk me out of it, because I am going. I don’t know what this was all about. As I said earlier, it could have been anyone from a disgruntled employee to someone who is holding a grudge. But whoever it is, I refuse to change my life around out of fear. I’m going to Chicago, and I’m taking my daughter with me.”

  Emerson chuckled. “Relax, John, I’m not going to try and talk you out of going to Chicago. But you remember that I told you I wanted to send a bodyguard with you?”

  “Yes, I remember. Someone named Jenkins, was it?”

  “Jensen. Matt Jensen. He is someone with whom I have recently worked, and I was very impressed with him. I want you to hire him.”

  “Well, sure, if you think I should. You have faith in this man, do you?”

  “I have absolute faith in him,” Emerson replied. “In fact, short of having a company of soldiers guarding you, I can’t think of anyone in the country who could do a better job. He is one of the best, if not the best, but it’s going to cost you.”

  “He comes high, does he? Well, I expect someone that good would be charging a lot for his services. How much is he asking?”

  “He isn’t asking anything, because I haven’t approached him yet. I’m the one who is saying it’s going to cost you a pretty penny.”

  “All right, I’ll go along with that. Just how do I reach this one-man army?”

  “It just so happens that Mr. Jensen is in San Francisco right now, and he is staying in one of your hotels.”

  “All right,” John said. “Approach Mr. Jensen on my behalf, and feel free to offer him whatever you think is appropriate.”

  “Five thousand dollars,” Emerson said.

  “Five thousand dollars?” John let out a low whistle. “My Lord, man, that is an enormous amount of money!”

  “How much is your life and the life of your daughter worth?”

  John nodded. “You have a point.”

  “Would you like to meet with him?”

  “Yes, I think I would.”

  “Very well, I’ll set it up for you.”

  “I’ll walk you to the front door,” John said.

  The two men walked through the building with John exchanging pleasantries with the employees he encountered. Then, as John returned to his office, he was met by Drew Jessup.

  “Was that Jeff Emerson?” Jessup asked.

  “Yes, remember that I told you he was going to hire someone to make the trip to Chicago with Mary Beth and me?”

  “Yes. I believe you said his name was Matt Jensen.”

  “My, no wonder you are so efficient. Yes, that is his name. You have a great memory!”

  San Francisco, Royal Hotel

  With 755 guest rooms, the Royal was the largest hotel in the western United States. It was also the tallest building in San Francisco, with a skylighted open center that featured a grand court overlooked by seven stories of white-columned balconies.

  Matt wasn’t used to staying in such elegant accommodations. More often than not his accommodations consisted of a blanket for his bed, a saddle for a pillow, a rabbit or a can of beans for his supper, and the serenade of wind through the tree limbs, accompanied by owls and coyotes. But why not indulge himself? He had a thousand dollars in his pocket, and how often did he get to a city like San Francisco?

  At the moment, Matt was lying on the bed in his room, with his hands laced behind his head, thinking about his visit this morning to the Solari Building.

  Maybe the business broker was right. Maybe whoever published the poster just added the name of the Solari Building to give the illusion of it being an official document. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to worry about it. Besides, it was nearly lunchtime, and he was getting hungry. Setting up, he pulled on his boots, then went downstairs to the restaurant.

  As Matt was walking through the lobby, he was approached by a uniformed bellboy.

  “Mr. Jensen?”

  “Yes?”

  The young bellboy handed Matt an envelope. “I was told to give you this, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said. He gave the boy a quarter.

  “Thank you, sir,” the boy said, but when he didn’t leave, Matt looked up at him.

  “The gentleman who gave me this envelope asked me to stay for a moment. If you accept his invitation, I am to show you where he is.”

  “All right,” Matt said, opening the envelope.

  Mr. Jensen,

  You may recall that when last we spoke, you suggested that you might be amenable to occasional employment. A situation has just presented
itself. If you are interested in learning more about this, please allow the young man who delivered this note to bring you to my table.

  Jeff Emerson.

  “All right,” Matt said. “Take me to him.”

  “This way, sir.”

  Matt followed the boy into the restaurant, and as they started toward the back corner, a well-dressed man, sitting alone at a table, stood.

  “That’s the gentleman, sir,” the bellboy said.

  “Yes, thank you, I recognize him,” Matt said.

  “Mr. Jensen, it’s good to see you again,” Emerson said, extending his hand when Matt reached the table. “Won’t you allow me to buy your dinner?”

  “I never turn down a free meal,” Matt replied with a smile.

  “Are you enjoying your visit to San Francisco?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Good.”

  The two engaged in friendly but meaningless conversation until after they ordered. When the waiter left, Emerson looked directly at Matt.

  “Mr. Jensen, have you ever heard of a man named John Gillespie?”

  “Yes. Actually, my barber and I discussed him a few days back.”

  Emerson laughed. “That’s no surprise, he is well known. He owns the Consolidated Rail Car Company, the Far West Gold Mine, McKnight-Keaton, that’s a wholesale company in Wyoming, I think, Nebraska Livestock, the Assumption Coal Mining Company, American Meat Packers of Chicago, a ranch in Texas, and several hotels, including, I might add, the very one we are sitting in.”

  “I believe I read that he also recently bought Northwest Financials,” Matt said.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”

  “Does the job you mentioned have something to do with Gillespie?”

  “It does,” Emerson replied. “A couple of weeks ago, after he and his daughter left the theater, someone manufactured an accident that could well have killed them. I think that Mr. Gillespie could handle it if he had been the sole target, but the assassination attempt also included his daughter.”

  “I can see how he would find that troubling,” Matt said.

  “In a few more days Mr. Gillespie and his daughter, Mary Beth, will be traveling to Chicago. I told him that you and I had worked together, and I am convinced that you will be able to keep him and his daughter safe. If you accept the job, it would require that you go to Chicago with them. Would that be a problem for you? Going to Chicago, I mean.”

  “The only problem that concerns me would be, what would I do with Spirit?”

  “Spirit?”

  “My horse.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s at Heckemeyer’s Stables.”

  Emerson nodded. “I know, Matt, that Heckemeyer runs an excellent stable. I will see to it that Spirit is very well taken care of in your absence. He’ll be fed well and exercised daily. And that will be part of the arrangement between you and John Gillespie.”

  “That sounds very generous.”

  “Oh, you don’t know how generous Mr. Gillespie can be,” Emerson said with a broad smile. “He has authorized me to offer you five thousand dollars if you will accept the job.”

  “Five thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money,” Matt said.

  “Yes, it is for you, for me, and for almost everyone in America. But for a few men, men like Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, Andrew Carnegie, and John Bartmess Gillespie, five thousand dollars is but a drop in the bucket. And it is something he would gladly pay for someone to protect him and his daughter.

  “If you will agree, I’ll set up a meeting for you. In the meantime, whether you decide to accept his offer or not, your stay here at the hotel is gratis as well as any meal you may eat in the hotel restaurant.

  “Will you agree to meet him?”

  “Of course,” Matt said. “It wouldn’t be courteous to not at least meet with him.”

  “His corporate office is on the corner of Fremont and Market. May I tell him that you will meet him this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “I’ll be glad to meet with him.”

  “I’ll set the appointment up for two o’clock. It’s very easy to get there from here. Just take the car to Fremont.”

  “Excuse me, sir, have you the time?” Matt asked a fellow passenger on the Market Street cable car.

  “I do indeed, sir. It is lacking five minutes of two o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said. He stepped off the car at Fremont, then looked at the large building in front of him. The sign over the entrance, worked in gilded letters, read: Gillespie Enterprises.

  When Matt stepped through the front door, a uniformed security guard approached him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t wear a gun in this building.”

  “No, that’s all right, Clyde, I’ll take care of this gentleman,” a man said as he approached the front door.

  “Very good, Mr. Fowler,” the security guard replied.

  “You would be Matt Jensen?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Jensen, I’m Jake Fowler, Mr. Gillespie’s personal secretary. If you would come with me, sir.”

  Matt followed the rather plump, bald-headed man up a set of marble stairs. They were met on the second floor by someone whose closely cropped black moustache extended no further than the smile of his thin lips. He had dark hair, graying at the temples.

  “I’ll take it from here, Jake.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said, obsequiously. He left silently.

  “Mr. Gillespie?” Matt asked.

  “No, I’m Drew Jessup, chairman of the board and chief executive for Gillespie Enterprises. John will be with you in a few minutes. Would you like to come to my office?”

  Matt walked across the hall into Jessup’s office. This was a large room with a huge desk as well as leather chairs and a leather sofa. The walls were filled with original art.

  “Mr. Jensen, have you ever acted as a bodyguard for anyone before?” Jessup asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “What do you know about Mr. Gillespie?”

  “I know only that he is a very wealthy man who owns several businesses.”

  “And yet, you have agreed to take five thousand dollars to protect him,” Jessup said.

  “No, I haven’t agreed to protect him.”

  “You haven’t agreed? Then, may I ask why you are here?”

  “I have agreed only to meet with him,” Matt replied.

  “Assuming you do agree, do you feel you are capable of providing him and his daughter with the protection they would need?”

  “I wouldn’t accept the job if I didn’t feel that,” Matt replied.

  The challenging expression on Jessup’s face was replaced by a broad smile.

  “Good, good. You will forgive me, please, Mr. Jensen, if my questioning sounded rather harsh to you. But John Gillespie is the best friend I have in the world, and I couldn’t think more of Mary Beth if she were my daughter. I hope you can understand that I take very seriously any threat to their safety.”

  “I do understand,” Matt replied.

  “Good, good, I’m glad that you do. Well, come with me, and I will introduce you.”

  Jessup led Matt down a long hall to another office. Because this office was smaller than Jessup’s, Matt thought it might belong to someone else, perhaps Jake Fowler, but it wasn’t Fowler who met him. The man who extended his hand was taller than Jessup, nearly as tall as Matt.

  “I’m John Gillespie,” he said. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jensen.”

  “That is the least I could do, Mr. Gillespie. After all, you are paying for the hotel and my meals.”

  “Good.” John glanced toward the wall clock. “I’ve invited my daughter here to meet you as well. She’ll be going to Chicago, too, so I think it only right that she be a part of this interview process. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  Matt smiled. “I’ve never been one to turn away from the opportunity to meet a young lady.”

/>   “Good. Drew, there’s no need for you to stay,” John said. “Unless of course, you want to,” he added quickly. He laughed. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get rid of you.”

  “No such thought, John,” Drew said with an easy smile. “I have to go over the incorporation papers for Northwestern Financial anyway. Mr. Jensen, it was good to meet you, and if you accept the position, I’m sure we will meet again.”

  “Hello, Papa. Hello, Uncle Drew.”

  “Ah, here she is,” John said turning toward the young woman who had just stepped into the office. She was a very attractive girl, tall and trim, with delicate facial features and rich, glowing, auburn hair.

  “Hello, Mary Beth. John, I will leave you to do your business,” Drew said as he started toward the door left open by Mary Beth’s entrance.

  Chapter Nine

  “Mary Beth, my dear, this is Matt Jensen.”

  Mary Beth came toward him with her hand extended. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Jensen,” she said.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Matt replied, recalling some of the pointers in polite discourse he had learned over the years.

  “Are you the man who is going to protect us on our way to Chicago?”

  “Well, I’m certainly willing to discuss it,” Matt replied.

  “I don’t know what Emerson told you of my . . . that is, our experience,” John said, nodding toward Mary Beth. “But a little while back as we were returning home one evening the team suddenly separated from the coach, dragging our driver along the road.”

  “Poor Mr. Chan, he broke his collarbone and his leg, and he is still not able to be up and around,” Mary Beth added.

  “The coach, without a team or a driver, lurched over the drop-off and crashed to the ground, several hundred feet below,” John continued. “Mary Beth and I barely escaped by jumping out.”

  “I gather that you don’t think it was an accident?”

  “I thought at first that it might have been, but, just to be on the safe side, I hired Jeff Emerson to look into the wreck for me. This is what he found.”