The office had a bare floor, ancient furniture, and a single window. Decoration consisted of wanted posters, the newest being the two freshly printed versions of the lumberjack’s drawing of the Wrecker, with and without the beard, noted by the sharp-eyed Southern Pacific ticket clerk in Sacramento.
Kisley and Fulton had regained their spirits, though Fulton appeared exhausted.
“Clearly,” Wally remarked, “the boss doesn’t waste money on office space in Ogden.”
“Or furnishings,” Mack added. “That desk looks like it arrived by wagon train.”
“Perhaps it’s the neighborhood that appeals, located within spitting distance of Union Depot.”
“And spitting they are, on our sidewalk.”
Continuing in Weber-and-Fields mode, they went to the window and pointed down at the crowded sidewalk. “Perceive Mr. Van Dorn’s genius. The view from this window can be used to instruct apprentice detectives in the nature of crime in all its varieties.”
“Come here, young Isaac, gaze down upon our neighboring saloons, brothels, and opium dens. Observe potential customers down on their luck earning the price of a drink or a woman by panhandling. Or, failing to kindle charity, sticking up citizens in that alley.”
“Note there, a mustachioed fop luring the gullible with shell games on a folding table.”
“And look at those out-of-work hard-rock miners dressed in rags, pretending to sleep on the pavement outside that saloon while actually laying in wait for drunks to roll.”
“How long was the man dead?” Bell asked.
“Better part of a day, Doc thinks. You were right about the stabbing. A narrow blade straight through his neck. Just like Wish and the Glendale yard bull.”
“So if the Wrecker killed him, he could not have left Ogden before last night. But no one saw him buy a ticket.”
“Plenty of freights in and out,” ventured Wally.
“He is covering mighty long distances in a short time to rely on stealing rides on freights,” said Mack.
“Probably using both, depending on his situation,” said Wally.
Bell asked, “Who was the murdered man?”
“Local owlhoot, according to the sheriff. Sort of a real-life Broncho Billy-our chief suspect … Sorry, Isaac, couldn’t resist.” Fulton nodded at the wanted poster.
“Keep it up and I won’t resist asking Mr. Van Dorn to post Weber and Fields to Alaska.”
“… Suspected of knocking over a stagecoach up in the mountains last August. The cinder dicks caught him robbing a copper-mine payroll off the Utah and Northern ten years ago. Turned in his partners for a lighter sentence. Looks like he knew Jake Dunn from prison.”
Bell shook his head in disgust. “The Wrecker is not only hiring hands to help but hiring criminals to hire help. He can hit anywhere on the continent.”
There was a tentative knock at the door. The detectives looked up, gazes narrowing at the sight of a nervous-looking youth in a wrinkled sack suit. He had a cheap suitcase in one hand and his hat in the other. “Mr. Bell, sir?”
Isaac Bell recognized young James Dashwood from the San Francisco office, the apprentice detective who had done such a thorough job establishing the innocence of the union man killed in the Coast Line Limited wreck.
“Come on in, James. Meet Weber and Fields, the oldest detectives in America.”
“Hello, Mr. Weber. Hello, Mr. Fields.”
“I’m Weber,” said Mack. “He’s Fields.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Bell asked, “What are you doing here, James?”
“Mr. Bronson sent me with this, sir. He told me to ride expresses to beat the mail.”
The apprentice handed Bell a brown paper envelope. Inside was a second envelope addressed to him in penciled block letters, care of the San Francisco office. Bronson had clipped a note to it: “Opened this rather than wait. Glad I did. Looks like he made you.”
Bell opened the envelope addressed to him. From it, he withdrew the front cover of a recent Harper’s Weeklymagazine. A cartoon by William Allen Rogers depicted Osgood Hennessy in a tycoon’s silk top hat astride a locomotive marked SOUTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD. Hennessy was pulling a train labeled CENTRAL RAILROAD OF NEW JERSEY into New York City. The train was drawn to look like a writhing octopus. Hand-lettered in black pencil across the cartoon was the question CAN THE LONG ARM OF THE WRECKER REACH FARTHER THAN OSGOOD’S TENTACLE?
“What the heck is that?” asked Wally.
“A gauntlet,” answered Bell. “He’s challenging us.”
“And rubbing our noses in it,” said Mack.
“Mack’s right,” said Wally. “I wouldn’t cloud my head taking it personal, Isaac.”
“The magazine is in there, too,” said Dashwood. “Mr. Bronson thought you’d want to read it, Mr. Bell.”
Seething inwardly, Bell quickly scanned the essence of the first page. Harper‘s,dubbing itself “A Journal of Civilization,” was reporting avidly the depredations of the railroad monopolies. This issue devoted an article to Osgood Hennessy’s ambitions. Hennessy, it seemed, had secretly acquired a “near-dominating interest” in the Baltimore amp; Ohio Railroad. The B amp;O already held, jointly with the Illinois Central-in which Hennessy had a large interest-a dominating interest in the Reading Railroad Company. The Reading controlled the Central Railroad of New Jersey, which gave Hennessy entry into the coveted New York district.
“What does it mean?” asked James.
“It means,” explained a grim Isaac Bell, “that the Wrecker can attack Hennessy’s interests directly in New York City.”
“Any train wreck he causes in New York,” said Mack Fulton, “will hit the Southern Pacific even harder than an attack in California.”
“New York,” said Wally Kisley, “being the biggest city in the country.”
Bell looked at his watch. “I’ve got time to catch the Overland Limited. Send my bags after me to the Yale Club of New York City.”
He headed for the door, firing orders. “Wire Archie Abbott! Tell him to meet me in New York. And wire Irv Arlen and tell him to cover the rail yards in Jersey City. And Eddie Edwards, too. He knows those yards. He broke up the Lava Bed gang that was doing express-car jobs on the piers. You two finish up here, make sure he’s not still in Ogden-which I doubt-and find which way he went.”
“New York is, according to this,” Wally said, holding up the Harp- er’s Weeklyand quoting from the article, “ ‘the Holy Land to which all railroaders long to make a pilgrimage.’ ”
“Which means,” said his partner, “he’s on his way already and will be waiting for you when you get there.”
Halfway out the door, Bell looked back at Dashwood, who was watching eagerly.
“James, do something for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve read the reports on the wreck of the Coast Line Limited?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Mr. Bronson I’m sending you to Los Angeles. I want you to find the blacksmith or machinist who drilled a hole in that hook that derailed the Limited. Can you do that for me-what’s the matter?”
“But Mr. Sanders is in charge of Los Angeles, and he might-”
“Stay out of Sanders’s way. You’re on your own. Catch the next flyer west. On the jump!”
Dashwood ran past Bell and thundered down the wooden stairs like a boy let out of school.
“What’s a kid going do on his own?” asked Wally.
“He’s a crackerjack,” said Bell. “And he can’t do worse than Sanders has so far, O.K. I’m on my way. Mack, get some rest. You look beat.”
“You’d look beat too if you’d been sleeping sitting up on trains for the last week.”