Scores of churches and relief organizations, big and small, are hard at work in the Big Easy. Those whose advertisements appear in this issue offer services that include temporary and permanent housing; aid to children and adolescents in crisis; counseling for those displaced; restitution of libraries; and support for individual creative artists and cultural institutions. Donations to the participating charities can be made through EQMm’s web site: www.themysteryplace.com.
The Sugar Train
by Edward D. Hoch
EQMm’s regular contributor Edward D. Hoch took his fans to New Orleans once before, with the sames series character he employs here, the turn of the last century’s Ben Snow. Alas, the story did not appear in this magazine but in the now-defunct The Saint Magazine (12/63). See “The Ripper of Storyville,” reprinted in The Ripper of Storyville and Other Ben Snow Tales.
Ben Snow concluded his business in New Orleans on Ash Wednesday, which in that year, 1901, fell on February twentieth. The frivolity and music of Mardi Gras had ended, and he had every intention of heading back to Texas the following morning. The Southern Pacific Railroad had a relatively new route that extended from New Orleans across Texas to El Paso and beyond, but when he reached the downtown terminal there was a surprise awaiting him.
“Ben Snow!” a familiar voice called out, and he turned to see Detective Inspector Withers striding toward him along the platform. That English accent, with a trace of the South in it, was unmistakable.
“I thought we were done with each other yesterday,” Ben said with half a smile. “You come to arrest me?”
“Not hardly, Mr. Snow. You helped me out a lot with this Ripper case and I wanted to get your assistance on something else.”
“My train leaves in thirty minutes,” Ben told him.
“Do you have to go right back? Could you spare me another few days?”
Ben was in no hurry to deliver some sad news to his client back in Texas. “I suppose I could do that,” he agreed. “What’s your problem?”
“Ever heard tell of the Sugar Belt Railroad? A plantation owner named Colonel Grandpere built it about six years ago and purchased a steam locomotive to haul sugarcane north from his plantation to the refinery, a distance of some twenty miles. Horseshoe Plantation is located in the area between the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain, and the railroad passes through several parishes on its way to the refinery. Lately someone has been trying to sabotage it, blowing up tracks at night. I’m short-handed right now and the colonel will pay someone to patrol the area, maybe catch whoever’s responsible.”
“You have any ideas about that?”
The detective shrugged. “Rival plantation owners, maybe. The sugar crops can be big business around here. You might be able to catch them at it in one or two nights.”
“I’ll have to return to my hotel. And I’ll need a horse to cover twenty miles of track. I retired my own to stud back in Texas a few months ago. Didn’t think I’d be needing him, heading east.”
“I can get you a horse. That’s no problem. I’ve got a carriage waiting. We can ride out and see Colonel Grandpere now if you’d like.”
“Why me?” Ben asked.
“He asked if I knew any gunfighters.”
Horseshoe Plantation, just a few miles from the city’s center, was a collection of sugarcane fields grouped around a great old plantation house with white pillars framing the front entrance. A black servant met them at the door and ushered them into a parlor that seemed to have been furnished by a woman. When Colonel Grandpere entered, walking with an ivory-handled cane and smoking a thick Cuban cigar, he seemed completely out of place in his surroundings.
“You are the man who’ll be protecting my railroad?” he asked, making no effort to shake hands.
“Correct, sir. Ben Snow’s the name.”
The colonel’s eyes dropped to Ben’s holstered pistol. “Gunfighter, are you?”
“I have been, when necessary.”
The colonel seated himself with some difficulty, favoring his right leg. He patted it with the cane and said, “Got that right here in New Orleans when the Union army captured the city back in ‘sixty-two. It was the end of the war for me. I was thirty-two years old and a colonel without an army.”
A quick calculation told Ben he’d be seventy-one sometime that year. “That’s when you got into the sugar business?”
“After the war. This house was my family home and with the abolition of slavery some of the adjoining plantation owners were only too willing to sell to me. I realized the same men who’d been our slaves would continue working the plantations as free men. I’ve built this into one of the largest plantations in the state. We have all the modern conveniences here, including a telephone line to our neighbors.”
“And your own railroad, from what I hear.”
He nodded, obviously proud of his accomplishment. “About ten years ago I started building a little tram to transport sugarcane to the refinery. We used strips of iron attached to heavy pieces of wood for the crossties. As the cane was harvested, the sections of track could be moved from field to field. At first the cars of cane were pulled by mule teams, but in ‘ninety-five I bought a steam locomotive and made it into a real railroad. That sugar train is worth a fortune to me.”
His conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a strikingly handsome woman clad in riding costume. “Are you boring your visitors, darling?” she asked, bending to kiss him on the cheek.
“This is my wife, Bedelia. Inspector Withers of the New Orleans police and Ben Snow, who’s going to safeguard our railroad.”
“Thank heavens!” she said with enthusiastic approval. “They’ve been blowing up sections of track every few nights lately, and the police seem powerless to stop them.”
“I can recommend Mr. Snow highly,” Inspector Withers told them. “He’ll get the job done.”
“Who do you suspect?” Ben asked. “The line must cross other properties on its way to the refinery. What sort of agreement do you have with them?”
Bedelia Grandpere smiled. “My husband could charm the birds from the trees. Our neighbors hold him in great esteem, and each year he presents them with a three-hundred-pound barrel of sugar for permission to cross their land with our railway. But you must put an end to this terrible sabotage. Come out here at sundown the next few nights and patrol the area.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Ben promised. Grandpere mentioned a generous fee, with a bonus if the bomber was caught or killed. Ben quickly agreed to it.
“Do you have a horse he could use?” Withers asked the colonel.
“Certainly. Bedelia, please show Mr. Snow to the stables and help him choose a suitable horse.”
“My pleasure.”
Ben followed her out of the parlor while Withers remained with the colonel. “It must be a great deal of work keeping such a large plantation running,” Ben said, making conversation while they walked through the great old mansion.
“My husband has some excellent overseers, and I help out when I can.” They walked through an enormous kitchen and exited the house by the back door. He could see the stable about fifty yards behind the house. When they reached it, a tall young man with a moustache was brushing down a chestnut colt. “This is our hostler, Rubin Danials. Rubin, Mr. Snow here needs a good horse.”
Danials ceased his brushing and turned his attention to Ben. “You an experienced rider?”
Before he could answer, Bedelia decided for him. “How about Duke? He’s a good gentle mount.”
Rubin saddled the horse and Ben mounted with ease. He was surprised when Bedelia gripped the reins before he could ride off. “Could I speak to you a moment? It’s about this sabotage business.”