“They’ll have it this evening.” The stenographer addressed the envelope, spread a sheet of 20th Century stationery, and poised his pen.
The train was accelerating up the cut that ran north out of the city. Stone walls cast shadows, darkening the windows, causing the glass to mirror the interior of the crowded car. The spy watched Isaac Bell’s pale reflection pass behind him. The conductor trailed solicitously, and it was clear that, ticket or no, Bell was a welcome passenger.
“Ready when you are, sir,” prompted the stenographer.
He waited for Bell and the conductor to pass through the vestibule to the next car.
“‘My dear K. C. Dee,’” he began. He had miscalculated Bell’s reaction to the killing of his fellow detective and underestimated how quickly Van Dorns moved when aroused. Fortunately, he had left Katherine Dee fully prepared to accelerate events. It was simply a matter of unleashing her early.
“Ready, sir?”
“It appears that our customer did not receive our last shipment,” he dictated. “New paragraph. It is imperative that you make a personal visit to Newport, Rhode Island, tonight to set things straight.”
ISAAC BELL HAD PRESENTED Scully’s ticket for upper berth number 5 in Pullman car 6 and asked to pay the extra fare for a stateroom. Informed that every available room was sold out, he had produced a railroad pass. It was signed by the president of a rival line, but competing titans accommodated one another’s personal whims.
“Of course, Mr. Bell. Fortunately, we do have a company suite empty.”
In the privacy of the rosewood-paneled stateroom, Bell tipped the conductor generously.
“With that special pass, you don’t need to tip for good service, Mr. Bell,” said train conductor William Dilber, his hand nonetheless closing like a rattrap around the gold pieces.
Isaac Bell did not need service. He needed an eager associate. He had less than eighteen hours before the 20th Century Limited reached Chicago to find out who killed Scully. No more passengers would board between New York and Chicago. Except Van Dorn detectives.
“Mr. Dilber, how many passengers is your train carrying?”
“One hundred twenty-seven.”
“One of them is a murderer.”
“A murderer,” the conductor echoed tranquilly. Bell was not surprised. As captain of a crack luxury express train, William Dilber was to remain unflappable in the face of derailments, disgruntled tycoons, and snowbound Pullmans.
“You’ll want to see the passenger list, Mr. Bell. Got it right here.”
He unfolded it from his immaculate blue tunic.
“Do you know many of the passengers?”
“Most. We get a lot of regulars. Most from Chicago. Businessmen back and forth to New York.”
“That will help. Could you point out those you don’t know?”
The conductor traced name by name with a clean, manicured fingernail. He was indeed familiar with most, for the 20th Century Limited was very much a rolling private club. The costly excess-fare express drew on the tiny minority of passengers who were extremely well off, and the train ran a proscribed route between New York and Chicago that was fully booked and rarely took on passengers at intermediate stations. Bell saw well-known names in business, politics, and industry, and some famous touring actors. He noted the names of those few Dilber didn’t know.
“I am particularly interested in foreigners.”
“We’ve got the usual handful. Here’s an Englishman.”
“Arnold Bennett. The writer?”
“I believe he is on a lecture tour. Traveling with these two Chinamen. Harold Wing and Louis Loh. They are missionary students, from an English seminary, I believe. Mr. Bennett made a point of telling me personally that he’s their protector in case anyone gives them trouble. I told him it was all the same to me as long as they pay their fare.”
“Did he say what’s he’s protecting them from?”
“Remember that murder last month in Philadelphia? The girl, and all that white-slaving talk in the papers? The police are shadowing Chinamen hot and heavy.”
Train conductor Dilber continued down the list. “I don’t know this German gentleman. Herr Shafer. His ticket was booked by the German Embassy.”
Bell, make a note.
“Here’s one I know,” the detective said. “Rosania-if he’s traveling under his own name. But he can’t be-a natty dresser of about forty?”
“That’s him. Snappy as a magazine ad.”
“What are you carrying in the express car?”
“The usual stocks and banknotes. Why do you ask?”
“The fellow is a regular wizard with nitroglycerine.”
“A train robber?” the conductor asked less unflappably.
Bell shook his head. “Not as a rule. Rosania generally favors mansions he can talk his way into to blow the jewelry safes after everyone goes to bed. Master of his craft. He can detonate an explosion in the library that they’ll never hear upstairs. But last I knew, he was at Sing Sing State Prison. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with him and see what’s up.”
“I would appreciate that, sir. Now, this Australian. Something told me he was trouble-not that he did anything, but I overheard him discussing the sale of a gold mine and caught a tone of the bunco man in his palaver. I’ll watch him close in the club car if he joins any of the card games.”
“And here’s another I know,” Bell said. “Funny.” Bell pointed at the name.
“Herr Riker. Oh, yes.”
“You know him?”
“The diamond merchant. He’s a regular, every couple of months or so. Is he a friend of yours?”
“We met recently. Twice.”
“I believe he is traveling with his bodyguard. Yes, this fellow here. Plimpton. Big bruiser in a Pullman berth. Riker’s got his usual stateroom. I reckon there’s something locked up in the express car that’s Riker’s.” He followed down the list. “No mention of his ward.”
“What ward?”
“Lovely young lady. But, no, she’s not listed this trip. Pity.”
“What do you mean.”
“Nothing, sir. I just mean, one of those girls that isn’t hard on the eyes.”
“Riker seems young to have a ward.”
“She’s just a student-oh, I see what you mean. Don’t you doubt it, sir. I see every sort of couple you could imagine on the Limited. Riker and his ward are completely on the up-and-up. Always separate staterooms.”