“Thanks for your advice, young man. I shall take up a post back there and await his appearance.” Sweeney shuffled away in his stoop shouldered posture, tightly gripping the satchel. Damn, that was easy, he thought.
Thirty feet away he glimpsed over his shoulder and saw the policeman engaged in conversation with another citizen. Sweeney veered to the left and slipped through an unlocked door into the adjacent room. It was empty. Dropping the stooped pose, he moved to the back wall and cracked open the door there. Another empty office, but one with two exits. He stepped in and shut the door with a gentle click.
Sweeney slowly edged the west door ajar and peered through the crack. Empty. They must have cleared out all these offices as a safety precaution, he thought. He quickly entered and dead bolted the door behind him.
The customs officer’s office was the next room west of where he stood. Setting his satchel on the floor at the base of the adjoining door, Sweeney snapped the clasp open and withdrew six sticks of dynamite wrapped tightly together along with a length of fuse. He wedged the dynamite against the foot of the door and then used his knife to perforate the end of one of the red tubes. Reaming the thin blade back and forth in the powder created a channel into which he threaded the fuse. Then he ran the fuse along the base of the wall to the rear door and cut the fuse at that point.
He checked the room behind him and found it empty too. A rear door led to an alleyway that ran in front of a long, low warehouse. The west end of the station was about 60 feet away and the footbridge another 200 feet from there. He bolted the door and returned to the room where he had laid the dynamite. Now he would have to wait.
A half hour later Sweeney became aware of a murmur running through the crowd on the quay outside. Within minutes, he heard cheering and applause, as a low roar went up from the crowd.
Roosevelt did not tarry outside, because the next thing Sweeney heard was the president being greeted in the room next door. Some North Star line official was going on and on about what an honor it was to have the president on board his ship. Sweeney shut out the sounds from next door and dug into his satchel for a match. It flared as he struck it, but he had been too strong and it went out. Sweeney held out his hand, fingers splayed and saw them trembling. Settle down, Boyo, he thought. You’ll be out of here in a minute.
He withdrew another match and snapped its tip with his fingernail. Sweeney smiled as the match burst into flame and he inhaled the sulfurous fumes deeply. Then he touched the match to the end of the fuse, which sputtered brightly to life.
Bradnum moved into the next empty office at the rear of the station. He had made a methodical search of the rooms adjacent to the president’s location and come up empty. Perhaps Sweeney had decided that one more try at the president was pushing his luck. One more room to check, he thought, pushing the south door open. As he did, the door struck Sweeney in the back and sent him sprawling onto the floor.
Bradnum took in the scene of the rabbi, the black leather satchel and the quick fuse burning along the base of the wall. As he turned toward the wall to snatch at the burning fuse, Sweeney punched him flush on the side of the chin, bringing tears to his eyes and sending him crashing through the doorway and into the back office. Sweeney was on him instantly, pulling him up by the torso and smashing him in the face. Then he tightened his meaty hands on Bradnum’s neck and the world went black.
Bradnum awakened to a burning sensation and clapped his hand to the back of his neck. His hand quickly burned too and he sat bolt upright, bringing on a wave of nausea. The south wall between the two offices was in shambles and a fire burned brightly in the location where the bomb had exploded. The bomb room had been turned into rubble, blowing down the walls and opening a huge, jagged hole in the roof of the station. Looking up, Bradnum could see patches of blue sky through the smoke from the fire.
He pushed pieces of the wall planking off his legs and felt his face for wounds. There was a lump the size of an egg on his forehead and blood had covered his right eye so that he looked through a thin veil of red.
As Bradnum tried to stand, Glew pushed through the damaged rear door and caught him under the arms.
“Inspector, let’s get you out of here.”
“The president. Is he safe?”
“Yes. When the officers with him heard the commotion next door, they hustled him out of the building and onto the ship. That’s when the bomb exploded. Gawd, what a fireball. You’re lucky to still have your skin.”
“The rabbi. What happened to the rabbi? It was Sweeney.”
“The only rabbi I saw today was purchasing a ticket. You mean that was Sweeney?”
“It must have been. What a wonderful disguise. It’s no wonder we all were taken in.” Bradnum coughed up a wad of phlegm and spit it onto the charred floor. “Get me out of here and then get the men organized and searching for the rabbi. And remember, he’s dangerous.”
Sweeney melted into the crowd pouring over the footbridge toward the quay roadway, moving faster than he had previously when he adopted the stooped walk. No need for much secrecy now, he thought. Best to get far away from the quay.
Carriages and cabs were lined up along the end of the roadway, taking on full loads of passengers who were trying to get away from the scene of the explosion. Spotting a small shed at the side of a warehouse, Sweeney swiftly got inside, dropped his hat and stripped off his long black coat. Underneath he wore a pair of workman’s coveralls. He pulled the false eyebrows off and then stripped off the beard, rubbing his face vigorously with the coat to remove the gum arabic.
Back outside, Sweeney walked farther along the row of carriages until he found one with an open seat. Motor cabs and horse drawn carriages were pulling out of line and jockeying for position before moving quickly west along road. As he pulled himself up into the open carriage, Sweeney looked back at the quay. He could just make out a uniformed man half-carrying another man from the back of the station. Sweeney took his seat just as the carriage driver snapped the reins and the cab lurched forward along the quay road toward town. He pulled a deep breath and tipped his hat to the driver. "God bless, all here," he said, smiling.
Alan M. Petrillo is a Tucson, Arizona-based journalist; the author of several books on historical military firearms; and the author of historical mysteries: Full Moon, and the first novel in the Victorian Carriage mystery series, Asylum Lane.
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A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 20