“Troglobites are animals who spend so much time in caves that they’re practically blind, but their eyes adapt to seeing in the dark.”
“Bite me, Coop.”
“I would, but you’re walking too fast.”
Our presence in the tunnels, now at least one city block away from the terminal, had stirred up some of the population. Heads poked out above us and below. Huge rats—seemingly unafraid of us—played on the tracks while roaches the size of small rodents crunched under Hank Brantley’s feet.
Smitty, the former mayor of the Grand Central tunnel system, was waiting for us in the shadows of an enormous steel girder. I figured we were somewhere near 45th Street, in our slow trek north of the terminal.
Hank handed him a small plastic bag. “Three sandwiches and sodas and a carton of cigarettes. We appreciate your help.”
“The platform ends up ahead about fifty feet,” Smitty said, now leading our pack.
An outbound train made so much noise as it passed by us that I couldn’t hear what Hank said back to him.
“What happens when the platform ends?” I called out.
“We go the rest of the way on the tracks,” Smitty said, “but it’s a dead line. No trains running on it these days. It only goes so far as the siding up by the hotel you’re going to.”
“That makes no sense,” I said to no one in particular.
The walkway ended abruptly. There were two large steps down to the tracks. I didn’t question Hank Brantley, who seemed to have complete faith in Smitty.
Three men and a woman were sitting on the old rail ties in our path, playing cards and drinking beer. They greeted Smitty and expressed surprise at seeing the rest of us.
I flinched as a locomotive, which seemed to be heading in our direction, rounded the corner on an adjacent track as it slowed on its final approach to Grand Central.
Smitty turned to face us, making sure we all made it past the cardsharps.
“You heard about the other body they found last night?” Mike asked him.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the third rail, which was painted a bright neon orange and was painfully close to the trail we were taking.
“Yeah.”
“You know anything?”
“Like I told you, Mr. Detective, it’s not good to know too much down here. Private railcar, dead girl, big commotion. Anything that brings the man into the tunnels is a bad deal for us. We try not to bring trouble on ourselves.”
“That’s two bodies in as many days, Smitty. Must be some kind of talk.”
Smitty started to cough, grabbing his chest as he did. “Not so much. She wasn’t one of us, is all I know. The whole NYPD wouldn’t be taking such an interest if she was.”
“Not true. Carl came from your world.”
“So-so.” Smitty spat across the tracks, dislodging a gaggle of roaches. “Half up, half down.”
“You’ll let Hank know if you start getting information?” Mercer said. “We can pay you for it. Feed you and your sources.”
Smitty laughed. “That’s a whole lot of food you’d be haulin’ in. All I know so far is that the young lady here, she gave Dirty Harry a pass.”
“I—I didn’t really do—”
“You’re down with me, Ms. Detective. He didn’t hurt her.”
I was rethinking my own decision to tell the cops not to bother with Dirty Harry. My sympathetic instinct for a mentally ill man had overruled my usual concern about thoroughness.
Smitty had stopped talking and moved on his way again. We all had our flashlights on, stepping carefully on the tracks that skirted the active train line.
I thought of both young women, Corinne Thatcher and Lydia Tsarlev, and wondered whether they had been subjected to the torture of spending time in this underground hell. It was truly an inferno in this part of Terminal City. Filth and stench, rodents and insects, the mad and the disenfranchised, all dancing around a third rail that supplied a constant flow of electricity to the hundreds of trains coursing through here every day. The throbbing vitality of Grand Central and its busy concourses was turned upside down in this strange underbelly of Manhattan.
The path forked once more, and we again took the western route, separating slightly further from the incoming and outgoing commuter trains.
We trudged on, occasionally rattling some living thing—large or small—that got out of our way.
“What’s that?” I heard Mike ask, as he came to a standstill almost half an hour after we had started our exploration.
He moved to the left, one foot underneath the track and the other on one of the old ties on which we’d been walking. Then he reached back to grab my hand and move me forward so I could see—and Mercer behind me—what was directly in front of us.
“It’s a railroad car, Detective,” Hank Brantley said.
“I can tell that for myself.”
The enormous, windowless train looked like an armored tank on steel wheels. It was dark green, like a military vehicle, old, and covered with layers of dust.
The tracks on which we were walking had broken ties and didn’t appear able to support the weight of this mysterious train.
Mike approached it, running his hand across the side of it as though to remove a layer of grime. “It’s a relic, isn’t it? It must have been sitting on this siding for decades.”
“That’s because it was built for just one man, Mike.”
“The armored train?”
“The armored train and the special siding here. Track sixty-one.”
“Who was the man?”
“The president of the United States.”
Mike whistled. “Well, if he’s counting on this to spirit him out of Manhattan in case of a terrorist attack, he’d better send in a team to spiff it up. This iron horse isn’t about to make a run, Secret Service be damned.”
“Not for this president,” Hank said. “This train was designed for Franklin Roosevelt, during the Second World War. And so was this secret entrance to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.”
“We’re right below the Waldorf?” Mike asked. “And there’s a secret entrance?”
Hank pointed to an unusually narrow elevator shaft. “Terminal City ends here.”
THIRTY
“This was originally a spur that ran below an old warehouse and a railroad power plant,” Hank Brantley explained. “Those buildings were torn down to be replaced by a luxury hotel to anchor the terminal.”
“The Waldorf-Astoria. The Manhattan White House,” Mike said. He had disappeared out of sight, making his way around the presidential train.
There was a small platform between the train and the elevator shaft. Smitty sat on the edge of it, taking in all the conversation while eating one of his sandwiches.
Mike returned to the front of the machine and climbed the three steps to the door. He pulled on the handle, but it didn’t move. “Hank, how fast can you get someone to open her up?”
“There’s supposed to be a Metro-North security head meeting us. He’s just late.”
“Bad time to be late. We need to see whether Houdini made his way in here.” Mike kicked at the door and pulled the handle again, with no success. “I knew there was an armored car built for Roosevelt during the war.”
“First passenger railcar built for a president,” Hank said.
“The second, actually. The War Department had a special one made for Lincoln. Just too bad he didn’t take it to the Ford’s Theatre and sit inside it. What else do you know about it?”
“I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong, just like that fact.”
“I been on the tour,” Smitty said. “I know about it.”
“You what?” Mercer asked.
“Metro-North has a PR guy. He gives tours to bigwigs and stuff,” Smitty said, devouring a bag of chips. “I’ve heard his bit.”
“This here is track sixty-one, like Hank says. Right through that hole is track sixty-three,” he said, pointing through an archway beyond the front of the train. “See that blue boxcar?”
There was indeed another rusted machine, which appeared to have been abandoned just next to the presidential one.
“Roosevelt was crippled,” Smitty said. “Y’all know that. But he didn’t like anybody to see that he couldn’t walk. So during the war, they made up this special train for him. Armor plating on the side and bottom and both ends. There’s only tiny little windows you can barely see, done with bullet-resistant glass.”
Mike walked along the side of the train till he found the slits of glass, wiping them with his fingers and trying to look inside. “Thick as mud. I can’t make out anything.”
“The blue boxcar held Roosevelt’s fancy automobile.”
“A Pierce-Arrow, if I’m not mistaken,” Mercer said.
“I’m impressed,” I said to Mercer.
“Whatever it was, that boxcar was coupled to this train,” Smitty said. “Last time she was used was the fall of 1944.”
“Glad you listened up, Smitty,” Mike said. He was back on the front platform, climbing on the railing to get on the roof of the car.
“See these wide doors on the side of the armored train?”
“Yeah,” Mercer said. “They look like they belong on the side of a barn.”
“They slide apart and a lift comes down. The president’s limousine glided right onto that and got hoisted up into the railroad car.”
“So nobody got to see that Roosevelt couldn’t stand up or walk unassisted,” Mercer said.
“There are actually gun turrets up here,” Mike said, pounding against the roof of the old railroad car. “You gotta take a look at this, Mercer. This mother was really loaded for war.”
“What happened in the fall of ’44?” Mercer asked Smitty. “That was six months before the president died.”
“On this tour they were giving a couple of weeks ago, the man said Roosevelt spent the whole day in the city campaigning for local politicians. It was pouring rain, but he went everywhere in his fancy car, with the top down, so people could know he was okay.”
“Ebbets Field,” Mercer said. “My old man was there in the crowd. He loved Roosevelt and the Brooklyn Dodgers both, even before Jackie Robinson took the field. It was the only time, he used to tell me, that the president—who was a New Yorker—had ever been to Ebbets Field.”
Smitty continued. “Supposed to be that Roosevelt was seen by more than a million people that day.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Mercer said.
“Now what happens,” Smitty went on, “is that the whole train pulls into the tunnel here, and these last two cars are uncoupled on these tracks, while everyone else goes on ahead to the terminal.”
He gestured behind him to the elevator. “The Pierce-Arrow gets lowered down from the armored car and drives the prez across this short platform, onto the elevator.”
“It looks so narrow,” I said.
“Built for the specs of the presidential limo,” Smitty said. “Just wide enough to hold the car, and just tall enough to fit the Secret Service guys who stood on the running board. And nobody—nobody—ever saw that the big dude didn’t have a pair of legs he could stand up on.”
I could hear someone hurrying down the metal staircase that ran to the rear of the elevator. The man had on a blue Metro-North uniform and was carrying a metal ring, six inches wide, with several dozen keys hanging around it.
“I apologize for being late. I had to get all the skeletons,” the man said, waving the wad of keys. “What is it you gentlemen want to see?”
“Get us into this train,” Mike said.
“That’s damn near rusted shut. All I can do is try,” he said, fumbling with the keys.
“When’s the last time it was opened?”
“To my knowledge, it’s been years.”
“Are you still expecting the presidential train on Sunday?” I asked.
“We certainly are. It pulls in end-to-end with this one.”
“Is it also armored?”
The man scowled at me. “I can’t tell you anything about that, miss.”
“Look, I’m the prosecutor who’s working on these murder cases.”
“Do you have federal security clearance?”
“No, but I’m—”
“Then I don’t care who or what you are, I’m not authorized to tell you anything about the president’s train,” he said, mounting the steps to the platform of the armored car.
“You might be making a slip here, bro,” Smitty said with a laugh. “I think that’s the lady who’s driving this operation. The dude sitting on top of your train? He works for her.”
“Used to be that was true, Smitty,” Mike said, lowering himself onto the platform. “It’s why I look as old as I do.”
The Metro-North security guard was at the door of the train. He was trying to manipulate the key in the lock, but he couldn’t get it to turn.
Mike was at his back, expressing his impatience. The man became frustrated and passed the key to Mike, who rattled and rattled the knob until it finally gave out.
“Coop, you and Mercer walk it with me.”
I grabbed the railing and boosted myself onto the platform, followed by Mercer. Mike led the way, shining his flashlight into the dark, long-unventilated space.
The first part of the antiquated car was a lounge and dining area. Displayed on a shelf above the table was china bearing the presidential seal, and next to each chair—at eye level—was one of the slits that served as a window.
In the bathroom beyond the lounge was a small laminated sign that read ESCAPE HATCH, and directly opposite was a wheelchair, locked into place against the wall.
I knew Mike was looking for a murder victim, but the excitement of living history was what seized my imagination.
The next bay was the garage designed to hold the Pierce-Arrow. No car in place, but all the trappings to secure it, and a photograph on the wall—opposite the very large pocket doors and the lift—of the president and first lady riding in the smart silver machine.
Beyond that were two bedrooms—his and hers—that had taken on a very shabby look over the years. There were also small quarters for staff. To our great relief, none of the areas had been disturbed by our killer.
“I would have bet money our guy had been in here,” Mike said, “but not a sign of it.”
He turned around and ushered me out of Eleanor’s bedroom. “We’ve got to go, Coop.”
The Metro-North security guard was smug. “There are some places one simply can’t penetrate,” he said. “That’s why the president will be safe here.”
“You just never know,” Smitty said, grinning at me. “All depends on who’s around. I got peeps down here could be a greeting committee come Sunday and scare the crap out of the man.”
“Back off,” Hank Brantley said.
“How about the elevator?” Mike asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Does it go up to the Tower suites?”
“Now that would be foolish, miss, wouldn’t it? A car inside the hotel.”
“Open the elevator for us,” Mike said. “Ms. Cooper is a lot of crazy-ass things, but foolish isn’t one of them. Where does the damn thing go?”
“You’ve probably passed the elevator doors thousands of times on the street,” the guard said, fishing out the key—double-checking that he had the right one before he inserted it in the keyhole below the call button.
“What street?” I tried to imagine anything that looked like an elevator door but couldn’t.
“Forty-ninth Street, miss,” the agent said. He pressed the button, and the doors slid apart. We said good-bye to Hank and Smitty, and t
he three of us stepped on with him. “This was a pipe shaft before the siding was constructed for the hotel to receive its special guest.”
The conveyance was very primitive and slow to move up the shaft to its destination. The brick walls were exposed, and steam pipes still lined them from top to bottom.
“How often does this get used?” Mike asked.
“Never,” the guard said. “Why would it be?”
“And who has keys? Who has keys to all these remote outposts? This elevator, the president’s railcar, M42?”
“There are a good number of keys, Detective. There are occasional emergencies and many of us in senior positions have sets of skeleton keys.”
“How many and who are they is what he wants to know,” Mercer said. “Whoever you work for, you call and say we need that complete list in an hour.”
“We’ll be over in the stationmaster’s office,” Mike said. “Get it to us there.”
The doors slid back, and as they opened, the sunlight was almost blinding.
“Wait,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare, “there’s something here.”
Mike’s hand was already pressing against the small of my back. “Step out, Coop. Where are we?”
I took three steps forward and spun around, telling the guard to hold the door for a minute.
We were on East 49th Street, in the middle of the block between Park and Lexington Avenues, the south side of the great hotel. The portal to the elevator doors was gleaming in gilded paint, dappled by the sun’s rays. It looked more like the entrance to an exclusive spa than to a dilapidated railroad car siding and, yes, each of us had passed it by many hundreds of times.
“The president’s car would come out right here,” the guard said, “and one sharp right turn puts you directly into the Waldorf-Astoria garage.”
The garage opening was fifteen feet from the gilded doors. The killer could have been in and out in seconds, without being seen on the street.
“Damn it,” Mike said. “I got sidetracked when I was looking for the garage surveillance footage. That’s when we got the call about the body in the private car.”
“I kept the team on it,” Mercer said. “The camera was blinded, just like so many of the others. Your instincts were right.”
Terminal City (Alex Cooper) Page 23
