The Four Hundred
Page 41
"Mac!" he rasped urgently into the darkness. "Mac?" The boat hook was almost wrenched from his grasp and immediately sank beneath the surface. Instantly Johnny Dobbs's powerful hands seized it more firmly, and he began to pull with all his might.
§
No one in Seflor Bidwell’s dining room—no one in the entire assemblage—ever forgot what he or she then saw take place that night. The host of the evening leaped onto his dining table, scattered plates in all directions and attempted to run but, constrained by a mass of obstacles, began stumbling through the elaborate preparations, crashing into candelabra, dishes, cutlery, flowers, glasses, bottles, platters, food— everything assembled to pay homage to sophisticated demands of the stomach; all of it went right and left, spun into the air, was knocked aside—kicked away.
Although the time it took could have been counted in seconds, Austin seemed to continue down that table for minutes on end, his face frozen in an expression of utter desperation.
Only Elizabeth, from the corner of her eye, saw a figure stagger out of the smoking room brace itself against the doorframe and take clear aim down the center of the table, arm outstretched, squinting along the barrel of a large, cocked Colt revolver.
Curtain bellowed, "Bidwell!" So Elizabeth did the first thing that came into her mind. She stood up—effectively obscuring Curtain's target.
"Damn you!" he yelled, but the invective was lost amidst the noise of many scraping chairs, as on both sides of the long table the gentlemen who were not already standing—as a reflex of manners, despite the madness of the moment, seeing their hostess on her feet—immediately stood to join her. At the far end of the table, Austin launched himself toward the locked French doors behind the cowering quartet of Cuban musicians....
It seemed that the soldiers, reaching out between the guests, would seize him; that the Cubans could not move in time; that the distance from the table was too great; but there was no time for speculation. All in the dining room saw, without question, the man responsible for the great Bank of England crime falter in mid-air, then crash through glass and wood, which slivered and broke.
With debris that fell beyond the balcony, as Austin's momentum took him out into space, went his shout at the. pain of impact; then came a cry of fear as he began to fall. Light' streamed from the villa interior into the darkness. A thousand pinpoints glittered on slivers of glass that danced momentarily in its glow; then the raging tropical wind swept them away, and with huge noise—obliterating all else—at full force the hurricane struck.
§
A shrill whistle; billowing steam; the cacophony of pistons, wheels and belching smoke engulfed George Bidwell's exhausted senses as, running flat out with a last effort, he reached toward the fast-moving carriage parallel to him and now pulling away. For a fleeting moment, he saw an astonished face at the window of a door; then his hand gripped a bar beside the handle, which immediately dragged him off his feet. He reached out with his other hand, desperately seeking to secure his hold.
Screams filled the station. All on the platform saw George Bidwell strain to hang on, reach out a second time, fail to grasp the handle he sought, lose his grip—and as the train thundered out of Waverley Station, a hundred pairs of eyes saw him slip, begin to fall, then plunge between the platform edge and the scything wheels of the last carriages. The night express roared off south into darkness.
Pinkerton, Spittle and M'Kelvie came to a standstill amongst the anguished witnesses to the horror. The Express was quickly out of sight, gone into a tunnel. Distant sounds indicated that it had emerged again beyond, so that smoke rose once more into the dark sky. The southbound train rounded the rock above which rose Edinburgh Castle, then plunged into the second tunnel beneath King's Stables Road.
For all in Waverley Station, alarm had turned to shock. All three pursuers, especially M'Kelvie, were stunned by the tragedy. Slowly Pinkerton and Spittle walked toward the edge of the platform, their faces taut, mouths pressed, tongues dry; both men were sickened at the prospect of what would be before them. They became the eyes of the crowd, who now waited with bated breath.
Spittle suddenly felt squeamish. Unable to face the sight, he looked away—unlike Pinkerton, who, without a qualm, peered over the platform edge to find the mangled body of George Bidwell. The crowd saw the American detective stare down at the rails; a murmur rippled amongst them as they watched him sag a moment, obviously in anguish. He shook his head from side to side.
George knew about wheels and rails, suspension bars, coachwork, bolts, axles and generally the underwork mechanics of a railway car. The world over, they were much the same, and years before, he had learned the hard way: hanging beneath the coachwork and above the wheels of a Reb train until it had carried him out of town—eighteen miles; had he relaxed once... He certainly knew all about the power of wheels on rail. His face had been inches away as tons of wheel and carriage ground dust to powder....
"All you ever need," George always said, "is confidence, expertise, imagination—and, of course, a little luck."
Slowly Pinkerton looked up into the darkness, put hands on hips and, despite his exhaustion, began to sob with uncontrolled laughter. What he already knew the crowd on Waverley Station were about to discover. He'd seen for himself, and that was proof enough. George Bidwell was not there.
§
Upstairs at Delmonico's, on the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street in New York City, the boy come to clean was already at work. Dust was suspended in the sunshine as brilliant shafts of light penetrated the morning gloom of the restaurant.
Harry McCann inverted the last four chairs one by one and slammed them down atop the corner table. He crossed to the bar area, opposite the windows, to sweep away the sawdust. Without the stoves alight it was damn cold, but at least fresh compared with the nights; then he worked carrying crates up from the cellar and serving wine—although he was never allowed to take orders. Harry stood for a moment behind the bar, spread his hands and leaned toward imaginary customers. Beyond, where the restaurant was laid out, in the corner, he saw the four chairs on the best table. The papers still headlined the men who had used that table and tipped him better than any before or since. The papers said that they'd planned the whole thing right here in the restaurant. Harry shook his head; the papers said a lot of things. They talked only in thousands, and he'd known only forty dollars a month top.
Harry McCann stared at the table across the room. Five hundred each, the papers said. "That's"—he paused to work it out, slowly—"one thousand years of my life." He stopped himself and swore, then burst into laughter.
He remembered their faces, each one. Since he was fourteen he'd worked here; he'd known 'em then and wouldn't forget—kindness in the rough—sticks. They'd befriended him: that was what counted. Harry took the long handle of the mop, dunked it in the bucket of water and suds and began to swab beneath the tables. Mac had taught him to write his own name—an accomplishment of which he was mighty proud. George had advised him to think lucky, and Austin had given him his first glass of champagne. Mr. Noyes hadn't been around much after the first year.
Harry dunked the mop again. He shook his head and swabbed under the corner table: "their" table he called it still—privately.
He stood upright and then leaned on the mop's handle staring at the inverted chairs. How could it have been so long? Why, it seemed like only yesterday . . . But if it meant traveling to get what the papers said George, Austin, Mac and Noyes had pulled off—then at nineteen years of age, Harry McCann was going places! Five hundred—each ... !
New Yorkers on the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street stopped momentarily to look above the restaurant signs as the contagious laughter of a young man issued forth from open second-floor windows of what was obviously upstairs at Delmonico's....
Table of Contents
to be