“Something more I can do for you, Sam?”
“Yeah, there is,” Sam said. “I’m looking for more information about that five forty-five express from Boston to Portland.”
“What kind of information?”
“Let’s just say… is there anybody working at the station who might have been on that train?”
Lowengard rubbed at his fleshy chin. “Gee, I’m not sure…”
Sam waited, but Lowengard kept silent. Sam said, “Well?”
“Huh?”
Sam said, adding a bit of sharpness, “Then find out, will you? I need to know if anyone here was on that train. The sooner the better, Pat.”
The man’s face flushed. He picked up the phone, started talking to his secretary, made a second call. Sam sat there patiently. From outside there was the sharp whistle of a steam engine heading out, its engine hissing and grumbling.
Lowengard put the phone down. “You’re in luck. A stoker named Hughes was on that train. He’s in the marshaling yard. I told his boss to send him over. That all right?”
“That’s perfect.”
Sam waited, took out his notebook. Lowengard said, “Heard there was a corpse found two nights ago near our tracks. I hope you don’t think we hit him, Sam. Even though the express goes through here pretty fast, our engineers would notice something like that.”
Sam said nothing. Lowengard wet his lips with his tongue, as if he couldn’t stand having his mouth being dry.
There was a knock at the door. Lowengard called out, “Come in!” and a man about Sam’s age came in, wearing greasy overalls and a denim cap. His skin was soiled as well, especially his big hands, and when he entered the office, he took off his hat. There was a white stretch of clean skin on his forehead, making it look like an errant paintbrush had struck him.
Lowengard told Sam, “This is Peter Hughes. Peter, this is Sam Miller. He’s an inspector from the Portsmouth P.D. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Hughes blinked and looked at Sam. “Is… Am I in some kind of trouble? Sir?”
Sam said, “No, not at all. I’m conducting an investigation, and I have some questions about the Portland express.”
Hughes was twisting his hat in his big greasy hands. “An investigation, sir?”
“A police investigation,” Sam said, flipping open his notebook. “You were on the express two nights ago, from Boston to Portland?”
“Yep.”
“Did the train hit anything when it came through town?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
“You sure?”
“’Course I’m sure. When we got to Portsmouth, hell, even if we did hit somebody, it probably wouldn’t’ve hurt ’em bad, anyway.”
Sam lowered his fountain pen. “I’m sorry, say that again.”
Hughes looked to Lowengard as if for reassurance, but Lowengard’s face had paled and Hughes found no reassurance there. He said, “Well, we were coming through town at a crawl.”
“You were? How fast was the train going?”
“Oh, crap, who knows. Three—maybe four—miles an hour. A nice slow pace.”
Lowengard said, “What the hell do you mean, four miles or hour? You’re supposed to be traveling much faster through there. Was the engine having problems?”
“No, the engine was fine, Mr. Lowengard. It’s just that, well, there was an auto on the tracks. On Market Street. Damnedest thing you ever saw. An auto, just sitting there pretty as you please. A yellow Rambler. Stan Tompkins, he’s the lead engineer, he hit the brakes and we slowed damn fast, and then the car drove off the tracks and headed downtown. Damn thing slowed us down right, that’s for sure. We had to pour on the steam somethin’ awful so we’d make our schedule to Portland.”
Sam looked at Lowengard. “And you didn’t know this?”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, indignation in his voice.
“Really? Station manager for Portsmouth and a train is forced to slow way down by a conveniently parked car, and this is the first you know of it?”
“If the train hit the car, fine,” Lowengard said. “Then I’d know. But a train slowed down by a car? Christ, Sam, every day something slows down the train. Kids playing on the tracks. A stuck truck. I don’t know everything about every damn train that comes through. This is the first I heard of it. Honest to Christ.”
Sam knew what both men were thinking: In these days, companies had no patience with anyone getting noticed by the law. If you caused a problem, any problem at all, you were out. Plenty of talented people were out there in the dole lines, begging for a job.
He said, “Mr. Hughes, thanks for the information. You can go.”
In an instant, the railroad worker was out the door. Sam said, “Pat…”
“Yes?” The station manager’s face was still pale.
“I want the passenger manifest for that express train.”
“That might be hard to get.” Lowengard frowned. “Lots of paperwork. Ever since the new law about internal transportation records kicked in a couple of years back, you wouldn’t believe the stacks of paper—”
“How long?”
A shrug. “Lots of paper. A week. Maybe two.”
“All right,” Sam said. “Two it is.”
The station manager grinned with relief. “Thanks for understanding.”
“Sorry, maybe you didn’t understand me. When I said two, I meant two days.”
“Days? Two days? That’s impossible!”
“Well, it’s going to have to be possible. Or there’re going to be lots of parking tickets around this station in the future. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Lowengard said, and Sam noted his forehead was shiny with sweat. The phone on the desk rang, and Lowengard grabbed it before the second ring. After listening for a few moments, he grunted a “yeah” and tossed the receiver back into the cradle. “There’s a train here that’s not on the schedule, that needs to be watered up. You wouldn’t believe the crap I have to put up with, Sam. Would not believe it… and then you waltz in here and add to it.”
“I’m investigating a homicide, Pat,” Sam said.
Lowengard picked up the phone again. “And I’m trying to run a train station and trying to keep my ass out of said train. Grace? Get me dispatch right away.”
Outside, Sam spotted some cars parked at the other end of the station, blocking the entrance. People were running away from the cars, heading to the tracks. A few of them were yelling, raising their arms, as other cars braked, two with steam spewing from their radiators.
He followed the noise to a fence blocking off the tracks. The men and women and some children were up against the chain-link fence, holding on to it with their hands, looking out to the train yard, to a parked locomotive, eight boxcars trailing and—
Sam saw National Guardsmen standing outside the train, carrying rifles with fixed bayonets. No wonder Lowengard had been so upset. A labor camp train, stopping here for coal or water before going out west or up north or someplace where the communists, the labor leaders, the strikers, any and all enemies, foreign and especially domestic, were dumped. Something cold tickled at the back of his neck. Those people in that train… they were heading to a labor camp for choices they had made, people they had associated with, organizations they had supported.
Choices. The cold feeling increased. And what kind of choices was he making now?
“Saul Rothstein!”
“Hugh! Hugh Toland!”
“Sue! Sue Godin! Are you in there?”
One heavyset woman with a blue scarf tied about her head turned to Sam, tears in her eyes. “Sir? Can you help? Can you?” She gestured at the train. “That train… it left Brooklyn two days ago. We followed it, best we can, they no tell us where it’s going. Now we just want to bring food and drink. That all.”