by R. T. Ray
All Aboard for Murder
R. T. Ray
All Aboard for Murder
Copyright © 2011, by Raymond T. Ray.
Cover Copyright © 2011 Sunbury Press.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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SECOND SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
January 2012
ISBN 978-1-934597-39-2
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Camp Hill, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA
Dedication
To my wife, Hannelore, who endured my constant absences while doing research, and for the hours spent pounding away on the computer keyboard without complaint.
To Donna Bolk for her unique editing skills, and especially to Linda Shertzer, Trish Davies and Kevin Bolk for their unwavering confidence in me.
And lastly to fellow writers Barbara and Mildred. Thanks!
Prologue
Small Village Train Station
Aberdeen, Maryland
December 5, 1941
At first glance everything appeared normal.
Even the drunken figure sleeping on the station's lone bench seemed a benign fixture. He sat hunched forward, feet on the bench with his arms draped around his raised knees. His head, barely distinguishable in the alcove's shadows, bobbed in the steady rhythm of an intoxicated sleep.
His immediate fears satisfied, Jonathan Lambert abandoned the safety of the shadows and stepped into the platform's stark light. His destination, the station's ticket window, lay midway down the nearly deserted platform. The young clerk looked up from his ledger at Lambert's approach.
“Evening, Mr. Lambert,” the clerk said, pushing his work aside. “Never expected to see you out and about, least not at this time of night.”
Jonathan Lambert gave a shallow laugh. “Just some last minute contract changes to tend to. You know how fussy the government can be at times.”
The clerk smiled in acknowledgment. “Then it'll be your usual, a single, one-way to Baltimore.”
“No, make it a round trip this time, Henry.” Lambert, withdrew several notes from his wallet. “If all goes well, I’ll catch the early return train in the morning.”
The clerk pushed the tickets under the grill. Not eager to return to the tedium of his work, he remarked, “Frightful night for traveling. Radio says a nor'easter's heading this way.”
Lambert peered at the gathering mass of storm clouds scuttling across the moonlit sky. “Could be,” he said. He slipped the tickets into his coat pocket. “The ten-forty on time?”
“Yes sir, left Ollea Station right on schedule. Due most anytime now.”
“Thanks. Say hello to the misses for me.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Lambert.”
The tickets procured, Jonathan Lambert surveyed the platform's open expanse. His eyes came to rest on the lone bench. Tucked away in a shallow recess of the station, it offered him his only reprieve from the wind and its bone-chilling cold. He placed the briefcase on the bench, careful not to disturb the sleeping drunk and sat down.
The drunk stirred, raised his head. His eyes, two horizontal slits cut into a florid, alcohol-bloated face, stared unseeingly in Lambert's direction. Annoyed by the intrusion, he mumbled a curt, garbled curse, tugged at his coat collar before settling back into his alcohol-induced slumber.
Lambert recoiled as his nostrils filled with the sweet, pungent odor of cheap wine. He edged closer toward the end of the bench, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and the thick, sickly smell. There were problems enough waiting for him in Baltimore; he didn't need some foul smelling wino to add to them.
* * *
The stationmaster rose from his chair, yawned and reached for his coat hanging on the nearby peg. Closing the station door, he stepped out onto the platform and headed for the huge slate board that served as the station's timetable.
“Now arriving track number one, The Royal Blue,” he called in a strong, lyrical voice as he erased the chalked “On Time” notation from the board's last column. “Next stop Baltimore, Silver Springs and points west. Allllll aboard.”
His duties complete, the stationmaster turned and retreated into the warmth of his office. Despite the night’s apprehensions, Jonathan Lambert smiled, amused at the mechanical, almost cuckoo clock-like movements of the station master’s ritual.
Engine #5320, the President Cleveland, glistening like a hard-run thoroughbred under a fresh coat of burnished black paint, eased into the station releasing billowing jets of steam along the entire length of its running gear. The absence of gilded pin stripping, and the lack of engine numbers on both the cab and headlamp panels, bore silent witness to its recent refit and the B&O’s rush to return the massive, 569,500 pound machine to service. In contrast, the remaining cars seemed a drab lot. The first, a combination U.S. Railway Post Office and baggage car, had a soft yellow glow spilling from its soot-coated windows. Next came two heavyweight coaches. Of an older vintage, their aging bodies wore the traditional B&O blue and gray.
* * *
The train's engineer descended from his perch in the engine's cab and stepped onto the platform's cobbles. Removing the heavy work gloves he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, savoring the tobacco's rich smoke. It was habit that took him forward, through the misty curtain of steam, toward the front of the engine. Along the way he inspected each of the engine's giant, eighty-inch drive wheels, and more than once paused to run his hand along the smooth, polished surface of its running gear.
Aberdeen was but a brief stopover, and there was no need for a detailed inspection of the running gear. But old habits, like an old love, die a slow, painful death. Besides, he was bone tired, and the inspection offered a brief respite from the cramped confines of the engine cab.
The last leg, the fifty-two mile run to Baltimore, was a straight shot. With a full head of steam and a clear track, the powerful “Pacific” class engine could easily run before the approaching storm. Shouldn't take much more than an hour he reasoned checking his watch against the station's pedestal clock. He’d be home before one. Grinding the half-finished cigarette into the platform’s cobbles, he grabbed the handrail and hoisted himself back into the cab.
* * *
Jonathan Lambert joined the small group of passengers as they boarded the train. The old conductor peered over his half-glasses at his watch. He gave a final glance down the platform for any late-arriving passengers. Seeing none, he snapped the watch cover closed and returned it to its resting place inside his vest pocket.
“All aboard,” he called, waving the all-clear signal.
With a powerful release of steam and a slight lurch the engine, its three cars in tow, slipped out of the station and into the darkness.
* * *
Inside the station, the stationmaster glanced up from his nightly crossword puzzle. He took another sip of coffee. Massaging the tired muscles
in the back of his neck he watched the train fade into the night. It was ten-fifty five, a little over an hour before his relief was due. He yawned, reached up and switched off the platform's main lighting.
Outside, the station lapsed into semidarkness. The drunken figure stirred. Slowly, pulling his cold, unyielding frame together he rose abandoning the half-empty bottle of muscatel. Stiff from his cramped sleep he took the first of several awkward steps toward the platform's exit. Not until he had passed the station master’s window did he feel the first warm, reassuring surge of blood returning to his protesting muscles.
Away from the station master’s view, the drunk quickly shed the intoxicated gait and made his way toward the telephone booth. Careful not to fully close the door and activate its interior light, he fumbled in the darkness, searching for a coin.
“Operator. Number please.”
“Baltimore,” the drunk replied. “Belmont 5-1212, and make it collect.”
After a short series of rings, a rough, rasping voice on the other end of the line growled, “Yeah?”
“He's on the way,” the drunk said.
* * *
The warmth of the coach offered a welcome reprieve from the platform's cold. Jonathan Lambert made his way to the far end of the car, selecting a window seat well away from the other passengers. He removed his heavy topcoat, placing it and the briefcase on the opposing seat. As he settled into the seat a flash of white caught his eye. He reached down, retrieved the fallen ticket, and returned it to the safety of his jacket pocket.
Mustn't lose that, he told himself giving the pocket a reassuring pat.
There was no need for the round trip ticket. The train carrying Jonathan Lambert never arrived in Baltimore. Somewhere, in the next fifty-two miles, it simply disappeared.
* * *
Saint Michael's Parish
Westport, Maryland
December 9, 1941
Eddie Martin uttered a low, grunting sound as he stretched his unyielding frame over the high, arch-shaped fender of the old pickup. Age and too many losing bouts with the bottle, were slowly exacting their toll on Eddie’s paunchy, overweight body.
Eddie peered into the darkened recess of the engine compartment, hesitating only slightly before making his selection. He reached in, removed the wires from two spark plugs and reversing their order, returned them to the engine. The alteration completed Eddie slid behind the wheel, flipped the ignition switch and jammed his foot down on the starter button.
The old flathead sputtered and coughed several times then caught, roaring to life amid a series of stark, thunder-like explosions. The sharpness of the backfires brought a smile to Eddie's puffy face.
Eddie checked his watch. Four-fifty. Ten minutes to go, still plenty of time. There was no hurry, everything was in place. The positioning of the truck, on the shoulder of the narrow country lane, hadn't been a haphazard one. From here, Eddie had an unobstructed view of the tiny church and the rows of gravestones in the adjoining cemetery.
Satisfied, Eddie turned his attention back to the engine compartment and busied himself, pretending to work on the ailing motor. Periodically, against a volley of backfires, he peered over the truck's hood. Luck stayed with him. The line of black clad mourners filing through the cemetery's iron gates took no notice of him, or the occasional backfire.
Just five minutes to go.
From his time in the military, Eddie's fanatical obsession with detail had earned him the nickname of “The Mechanic.” For his part Eddie relished the title and wore it proudly, as one would a badge of honor. For Eddie planning and organization were paramount. Every detail, no matter how trifle, had to have its proper time, its proper place and its proper sequence. Nothing was to be omitted or left to chance.
Perhaps the crusty old sergeant had seen something special buried in Eddie's listless eyes. His selection had sent Eddie deep into the backwoods of rural Georgia. There, among the sand fleas and scrub pines, Eddie quickly mastered the intricate art of murder. His dedication to his craft earned Eddie a legendary reputation in the mud-filled trenches of war-torn France. His forty confirmed sniper kills struck fear in the hearts of the opposing German troops. Even top enemy commanders were not immune from Eddie’s notoriety. Many it was rumored refused to leave the safety of their bunkers, merely on the suspicion that Eddie Martin might be operating in their sector.
It was nearing five o'clock.
Eddie glanced in both directions as he rose from under the hood. The approaching storm had done its job well. The country lane void of traffic lay deserted. Eddie smiled. The last thing he needed was a prowling lawman, or some nosy, do-gooder to stop and offer help.
Five o'clock. The time had come.
The lone church bell began to toll. Eddie walked to the pickup’s opened passenger's door, reached into the narrow confines behind the seat, and removed the rifle from under a blanket. Then, stretching his body across the seat, he gave three quick pumps on the gas pedal with his free hand. The engine protested, filling the chilled air with several loud reports.
One final look around, then Eddie brought the rifle to his shoulder. The bell had reached its fifth strike, when Eddie found the black patch in the scope's eyepiece. He exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to ease, slow, and then cease. Gently, with a steady, even pressure, Eddie squeezed the trigger. A sharp report shattered the icy silence and the black patch disappeared. The incident, well oiled and practiced, had taken only seconds, but for the likes of Eddie Martin it was a routine act.
* * *
In the cemetery, the chilling dampness rode on the back of a rising north wind. Sweeping in across barren fields it paused to perform an icy dance among the silent rows of gravestones. Then, taking a swirling bow, it departed through the wrought iron gateway. High in the chapel's steeple, a lone bell tolled its sad, metallic song. Five p.m., closing time for the tiny church.
The cemetery lay deserted, except for the solitary figure kneeling by the freshly dug grave. Old, in her seventy-fifth year, the figure wore the traditional black garb of mourning, typical of her eastern European heritage. A heavy, coarsely knit shawl, gathered tightly about her tired, time-etched face, obscured all but a few stands of silvery gray hair.
“Pax Vobiscum. Peace be with you,” she whispered, tugging at the tattered, woolen sweater in a feeble attempt to ward off the coldness of old age.
The prayer complete, she gave the sign of the cross and placed a frail, bony hand on the headstone. Painfully, she began the slow, arduous task of rising. The chapel bell had just reached its fifth strike as she straightened. Clutching the ends of the black shawl, she drew it tightly about her face.
“I will do it,” she said, looking down at the fresh mound of clay. “For you, dear husband, I will do it. I will speak with these policemen in the morning. Perhaps then I will find peace.”
Her skull exploded. Her body, violently pitched forward, came to rest at the base of the headstone. Slowly, a thick, crimson stream oozed from the jagged hole in the rear of her skull. It crept down the barren, clay soil and onto the small bouquet of carnations. Finding its path blocked, the stream slowed, pooled, and began to congeal in the frigid December air. The frail body gave one last involuntary jerk then lay still. The sad, lifeless eyes remained open, staring unseeingly at the stone's inscription.
* * *
Perfect placement!
Eddie smiled as he lowered the rifle. His hand instinctively worked the bolt mechanism, placing a fresh round into the weapon's chamber. His keen eyes swept the remainder of the cemetery, then out to the surrounding fields, searching for any telltale sign of a chance observer. Finding none Eddie relaxed. He replaced the rifle and picked up the spent casing. Eddie was in no hurry. The next few moments were spent in a systematic search of the surrounding area, looking for any carelessly dropped item. Eddie Martin would leave no clue for some hick sheriff to stumble upon.
For the last time Eddie worked the gas pedal. He waited, allowing the last of the
backfires to subside, before switching off the engine. Reversing the plug wiring he closed the truck's hood. Correctly wired, the engine sprang easily to life. Its deep throaty roar resounded in the cold before settling back into a steady purr. One final look around, then Eddie eased the truck onto the roadway.
The three hundred dollars resting in his shirt pocket had been easy money. Easier than most, Eddie judged. But, why whack an old woman? For the briefest moment a hint of remorse crept into Eddie’s soul. Christ sakes! Why her? She was just a harmless old woman.
Why in the hell do you care? the voice inside him demanded. You’re growing soft, Eddie Martin. Too soft. You never cared about any of the others. You did your job. Forget the old bitch!
Dismissing the sudden rush of compassion, Eddie turned his thoughts to tonight and to the happy times that lay ahead. A smirk spread across his puffy face. Tonight the wine would flow and the women would be easy.
Not bad, Eddie thought, for ten minutes’ work.
* * *
Father Timothy cupped his long, bone-thin fingers around the candle flame and gave a gentle puff. The altar of Saint Michael's slipped into semidarkness. Only the ruby-red glow of the offering candles remained to illuminate the chapel's interior. Shadows, cast by the candles flickering flames, could be seen performing a fiery dance on the chapel's stonework. Five o'clock had come and passed. It was time to abandon the tiny chapel and retreat to the warmth of the rectory. His customary dinner, a large helping of thick soup and a chunk of crusty, dark bread waited him in the rectory's kitchen.
Just the thing to drive this winter chill from my bones, Father Timothy thought.
Removing a small number of copper coins from the poor box, Father Timothy closed the chapel's doors and made his way across the courtyard. From there he followed the winding, graveled pathway as it snaked its way among the gravestones towards the rectory. The chill of the wind and failing light urged the old priest along as he scurried among the stone markers. He could just make out the rectory's outline silhouetted against the darkening winter sky. The light spilling from its ice-frosted windows served as a welcoming beacon, guiding him through the graveyard's stony maze.