Isaac Bell pointed at the camera. “Look at the pictures that camera just took. Then tell me I’m not the best motorcycle rider in the movies.”
A Bremserhäuschen — a Brakeman’s van, which Detective Curtis had told Pauline was called a caboose in America — sat by itself on a lonely track siding. It had high spoked wheels like a freight wagon, a cupola above one end, three square windows, a tin chimney, and ventilators in the roof, which the wind was spinning. She saw a door in the middle and two more on the platforms in front and back.
It was starting to rain again. Night was falling. Pauline was cold, hungry, and still hundreds of miles from France. What, she asked herself, is the best thing possible at this moment?
None of the windows showed lights, and no smoke rose from the chimney.
No one was around. All day she had been surprised by the emptiness of the countryside the train tracks traversed. Germany’s population had grown enormous, even in her short lifetime. She had expected the freight trains to take her through busy cities and bustling suburbs. Instead, they trundled past farm after farm and more animals than people. It was an unexpected piece of good luck — this empty caboose. It would be dry inside, and out of the wind. There might even be food.
She checked for the tenth time that no one was near, then sprinted as fast as she could across a muddy field and climbed a short ladder onto the back platform. The door was locked. She climbed down, walked along the siding, and tried the center door. Locked. She went to the front of the caboose, climbed up, and discovered that door locked, too.
She was so cold she began shivering. The cupola! Maybe it had a hatch they’d forgotten to lock. A ladder was attached to the side. She climbed the wet metal rungs, scrambled along the roof, and knelt to inspect the cupola. There was no hatch in its roof, but then she discovered the entire roof was a hatch that hinged open and no one had locked it. She lowered herself down a ladder into near darkness, closing the roof hatch to keep out the rain.
She felt around until her hands brushed a lantern and a box of matches. She was afraid to light it because someone might see. But then she thought, the brakemen sleep in here when they are not working. She was right. The windows had curtains. She felt her way around, drew the curtains shut, located the lantern again, and lighted its wick.
She looked around in amazement.
It was neat and cosy as a dollhouse. It had sleeping bunks along the walls with warm blankets and a little kerosene stove with a teakettle, and she suddenly realized she would give anything for a warm drink. The kettle had water in it. She struck a match to the kerosene, and while the water heated she found a tin of tea and another of sugar. When she found a jar of blackberry jam, she thought she would cry with happiness.
She was spooning the jam from the jar when her active gaze fell on a map of the railroad system that covered one wall. She saw why the route was lonely. The tracks ran in a remarkably straight line southeast from Berlin, through Güsten, Wetzlar, and Koblenz to Metz, in Alsace-Lorraine. The Berlin-Metzer Bahn bypassed cities like Leipzig and Frankfurt in favor of a direct route. This was what people called the Kanonenbahn, the Army’s strategic railway, built with gentle curves and easy grades to transport cannon and soldiers quickly to the border to defend against French invasion. Looking east on the map she saw similarly straight lines radiating from Berlin across Poland to hold the Russians at their border.
Sipping hot tea, the first warm drink she had had in two days, Pauline traced her route from Berlin and saw with a sinking heart that she had a long way to go. Suddenly a train whistle blew. It was coming from the east, headed toward France. She doused the lantern, unlocked a door, jumped to the siding, and hid behind the caboose in hopes of hopping onto the approaching train. She had done this twice already and had survived it only because Detective Curtis had turned unusually talkative one evening when she couldn’t go home. He had told her that when he was her age “riding the rails” older hobos had taught him to jump on the front of a moving railroad car, not the rear. If you fell from the front, you fell to the side. If you fell from the back, you fell under the train.
She crouched on the embankment, shielding her eyes so as not to be blinded by the locomotive’s headlight. It sounded like it was coming too fast, but the instant the locomotive passed she ran alongside, scrambling to catch onto a boxcar ladder. She tripped on a tie and fell, rolled down the embankment, and jumped up. Too late. It was racing by.
Dejected, she went back inside the caboose, wrapped herself in blankets, and fell asleep on a hard mattress. Utterly exhausted, she slept without moving. Deep in the night she dreamed something was shaking her, but it stopped. Later she dreamed she was on a tram rolling along a Berlin street, lurching as it switched tracks. The tram stopped. Later it started again.
Suddenly she sat up, wide awake. The caboose was moving. She jumped to a window and pulled back the curtain on a blur of lights. The caboose was passing through a town at sixty kilometers an hour, attached to the back of a train that was picking up speed.
West to Paris?
East to Berlin?
She heard a rattling at the door, louder than the clatter of the wheels. The brakemen who had coupled the caboose to the train were unlocking the door.
Irina Viorets and Christian Semmler were watching Imperial’s latest film projected on a screen in Semmler’s ninth-floor apartment before showing it to their distributors. It ended with a bang-up chase involving brewery trucks dropping beer barrels, a puffing locomotive, and a motorcycle that jumped the barrels and landed beside a Pierce-Arrow limousine. A bride in a flowing wedding dress jumped out of the limousine and jumped onto the motorcycle, which raced off, pursued by beer trucks, careened onto railroad tracks, and was chased by a train.
Suddenly Semmler leaned forward and stared hard at the flickering screen.
“Who is that motorcyclist?”
“I hope it’s an extra and not a good actor,” answered Viorets. “He’s not going to live long.”
“He looks like Isaac Bell.”
34
“How can you tell under those goggles?”
“The way he straddles the machine.”
“But Isaac Bell is a Connecticut insurance executive. It can’t be Bell.”
“Of course not,” Semmler mused. “I can’t imagine an insurance man pursuing such a dangerous line of work.”
The picture ended happily with the eloping couple married in a Lutheran church and boarding a Hamburg-America ocean liner for a honeymoon in Germany.
“Irina, I want you to engage Marion Bell.”
“Bell’s wife?”
“How soon can you get her here?”
“Tomorrow, if she’s willing. She’s visiting her father in San Francisco.”
“She should make our history of the western railroads.”
“Why her?”
“I’m betting she’s ready to make something big.”
Irina Viorets looked at Semmler sitting in the shadows. The German general was a strange one up to stranger things, but he often had good ideas. He knew what he was up to in the moving picture business. The Iron Horse, Imperial’s history of the western railroads, would be an ambitious two- or three-reeler. Marion Morgan would bring a topical filmmaker’s sensibility to the story and all the skills necessary to take pictures of real events out-of-doors.
“I’ll telephone her long-distance. I just hope she hasn’t engaged with Preston Whiteway already.”
“Tell her if she’ll leave Whiteway she can have a fleet of locomotives at her disposal. Promise her you’ll put Theda Bara, King Baggot, and Florence Lawrence under contract.”