Marion Morgan said good night and headed back to her stateroom.
Isaac Bell, waiting a decent interval for propriety’s sake, continued to observe Kincaid closely.
PHILIP DOW LOOKED OUT the curtain when he heard someone enter the stateroom car from the front vestibule. He glimpsed a beautiful woman walking toward the porter’s station. She wore a red gown and a full necklace of red rubies. Such displays of wealth usually raised a visceral anger in the union man. But he was taken by her happy smile. Women as beautiful as she, with her straw-blond hair, long, graceful neck, narrow waist, and coral-sea green eyes always smiled like they were congratulating themselves on their looks. This one was different. She smiled with happiness.
He hoped she would not stop at Marion Morgan’s door. He dreaded having to kill such a lovely creature. But she did stop and enter Stateroom 4. He had never killed a woman. He didn’t want to start now. Particularly this one. But he was not eager to meet the hangman either.
Quickly, he revised his plan of attack. Instead of waiting for her to open the door when Isaac Bell knocked, he would strike the instant that Bell raised his hand to knock. Bell would not be as distracted as he would be a moment later, stepping into her arms. The detective would be more alert to defending himself, but that was the price Dow was willing to pay for not killing her. He shoved his revolver in his belt so he could grab it quickly if Bell managed to dodge the sap. A gunshot would complicate escape, but he would pay that price too not to kill the woman. Unless she gave him no choice.
37
ISAAC BELL WATCHED SENATOR KINCAID’S MOUTH WRINKLE with distaste as Lillian Hennessy demonstrated that she was a modern woman. Not only did she refuse to leave the gentlemen to their cigars, she lighted a cigarette herself, telling her father, “If President Roosevelt’s daughter can smoke, so can I.”
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.”