The next day, Matt accompanied John and Drew in John’s personal carriage, a new one to replace the one that had been destroyed, to a building on Mission Street. A sign on the front of the building read:
Jefferson Emerson
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES
“Mr. Gillespie,” Emerson said, when the three men entered his office. He looked at the other two. “Is everything all right?”
“We need some more of your services,” John said.
“Oh?”
John told Emerson of the shooting that had taken place at Drew’s house last night. “It’s not just me, now. Whoever it is, is after Drew, too,” he added when the story was told.
“What happened to the shooter?” Emerson asked.
“I killed him,” Matt replied. It was the first time he had spoken since the three men entered the office.
Emerson nodded, then turned back to Drew. “Mr. Jessup, are you sure you are the one he was shooting at?” he asked. “We already know that Mr. Gillespie has been a target. Could they have been shooting at him?”
“That’s a good question,” Drew answered. “Now that I think of it, they may have been shooting at John.”
“Nonsense,” John replied. “How could they have been shooting at me? This happened at your house, remember? Who would have even known I was there?”
“I guess that’s right,” Drew said. “I don’t think there is any way anyone could have known that you would be there. That makes it fairly obvious that I was the target.”
“Any reason why you would be the target?” Emerson asked.
“Well, sir, John and I have discussed that, and we’re sure it is business related.”
“But you don’t have any idea who it might be?”
“No,” Drew replied. “But believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to find out.”
“In the meantime, Jeff, I would like for you to arrange for someone to protect Drew. I’m not so worried about Mary Beth and me, not as long as Matt is with us. But I do worry about Drew.”
Emerson nodded. “Yes, I think you have every right to worry. All right, I’ll find someone to watch over him.”
“Good,” John said, standing and extending his hand. “That makes me feel a lot better.”
With the money from last night’s murder and robbery in his pocket, Jonas Butrum decided to have his lunch in a restaurant that was considerably nicer than the places he normally frequented.
By the expression on the face of the man who met him, the maître d’ also realized that Butrum was out of place here.
“Sir,” the maître d’ said, in his most cultured voice. “You do realize, don’t you, that there are no low-priced items on the carte de menu of this establishment? Perhaps you would be more comfortable somewhere else.”
Butrum took a dollar bill from his pocket. “You just find me a good table, sonny,” he said, handing the bill to the haughty gentlemen.
The maître d’ smiled and took the bill. “Yes, sir, right this way, sir.”
Butrum was halfway through a good cut of steak when someone approached his table.
“Hello, Butrum.”
Butrum was startled by the greeting. “Well, if it ain’t Merlin Bates. How come you ain’t in jail?”
“I’m too smart to ever get put in jail.”
Butrum laughed. “I’ve heard you called lots of things, Bates, but smart ain’t never been one of ’em.”
“I’m smart enough to have found you.”
“Yeah, how did you find me, anyway?” Butrum looked around the dining room, then smiled. “This ain’t exactly like the kind of place I normally come to.”
“I seen you outside, ’n I followed you in here.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a way for you to make some money.”
“I’ve got money,” Butrum said.
“How much?”
“What do you need to know how much for?”
“I don’t need to know. Could be that you’ve got enough money so’s that you aren’t interested in where a thousand dollars can be had. Actually, five hunnert apiece, but like I say, if you’ve got money, maybe you ain’t interested.”
“Wait a minute. Five hunnert dollars? Just where would that five hunnert dollars be?”
“I’ll tell you, soon as we finish eatin’,” Bates said.
“What do you mean, we? I don’t see you eatin’.”
“I will, soon as you buy it.”
“Why should I buy your dinner?”
“You don’t have to. I can find someone else who wants to make five hunnert dollars.”
“All right, but eat quick. I want to see what this is all about.”
Bates called the waiter over. “I’ll have what he’s havin’,” he said, pointing to Butrum’s steak.
“Now, tell me what this is all about.”
“You ever heard of a man by the name of Michael Beebe?”
“No, can’t say as I have. Who is he?”
“He’s the one who come to tell me ’bout the job.”
“The one that’s goin’ to pay us a thousand dollars?”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t him who’s goin’ to pay the money. It’s the feller he works for.”
“Who does he work for?”
“He works for a man named Lucas Conroy. You ever heard of him?”
“No. You know this Conroy feller, do you?”
“I’ve never met him, but I have heard of him. From what I’ve heard, he . . . arranges things . . . for rich folks. ’N that’s made him rich, too. Right now, according to Beebe, this feller Conrad is wantin’ us to do a special job for him.”
“A special job? What kind of special job?”
Bates grinned across the table. “The kind of job that only people like you ’n me can do.”
“Do you know how to get ahold of this feller?”
“Yeah, Beebe told me where he lives,” Bates said, just as the waiter arrived with his steak.
After they finished their meal, Bates, as promised, took Butrum to see the man who would be the source of their money.
“I thought you said this here Conroy was rich,” Butrum said.
“He is rich.”
“Then if he’s rich, how come he lives in a hotel like this? Seems to me like he’d live in a house somewhere.”
Bates laughed. “This is a house.”
“Are you a-tellin’ me that this ain’t no hotel? This is a house?”
“That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you,” Bates replied.
“I’ll be damned.”
The two men climbed the steps to the porch, then Bates pulled on the bell cord. From inside, they could hear the resonant sound of a ringing bell.
A moment later an elegantly dressed man answered the door. He turned his nose up at the sight of the two raggedly dressed and very dirty men.
“I don’t know what you want, but you have come to the wrong place,” the man said.
“Ain’t this where Conroy lives?” Bates asked.
“It is.”
“Go get ’im. We want to talk to ’im.”
“I most certainly will not,” the butler replied haughtily. He started to close the door, but Bates stuck his foot in the doorjamb. Then, with his left hand, he grabbed the butler’s shirt collar. With his right, he drew his pistol and pushed it up under the butler’s chin.
“Never mind. I’ll just kill you, ’n then me ’n my friend will go find him our ownselves,” Butrum said.
The butler’s eyes grew wide in terror. “No, sir, please!” he said.
“It’s all right, Mr. Watts, I know these gentlemen,” Beebe said, then stepping out into the foyer. “Put your gun away,” he said to Butrum.
“What if I don’t?” Butrum asked.
“Oh, I think you will,” Beebe replied with a small smile. He looked to the right and left of the foyer. “All right, gentlemen, you can come in now. I believe the danger has passed.”
Four men stepped out into
the foyer, two from each side. All four men were carrying pistols.
“I know your name,” Beebe said to Bates. “But who is this with you?”
“My name is Butrum. Is what Bates said true? Does this here Conroy feller have a job for us?”
“I do indeed,” Conroy said, coming into the foyer then. “Let’s step outside, shall we? Some business deals are best discussed with the minimum number of participants.”
“Mister, I don’t have no idea in hell what you just said,” Butrum said.
“Let’s go outside,” Conroy repeated. “Mr. Beebe, you won’t be needed for this discussion.”
“Yes, sir,” Beebe said.
The three went outside. “Shall we discuss our business in the gazebo?” Conroy asked.
“In the what?”
Conroy pointed to a small, lattice-worked structure. “There,” he said.
The three men walked over to the gazebo, then, at Conroy’s invitation, they all took a seat.
“Now, Mr. Bates, what exactly did Mr. Beebe tell you?” Conroy asked.
“He told me that there was some folks that was goin’ to Chicago on a train... ’n you didn’t want ’em to get there,” Bates replied.
“You do understand, don’t you, that there is more to it than that; I don’t just don’t want them to not get there. I don’t want them to get anywhere.”
“You mean, you want ’em dead.”
Conroy smiled. “You are a most astute man, Mr. Bates. That is exactly what I want.”
“We’re the ones that can do it for you. How much will you pay?”
“I am willing to be . . . quite generous,” Conroy said. “Five hundred dollars, after the job is done.”
“Five hundred each?” Butrum asked.
Conroy shook his head. “No, five hundred for the two of you.”
“I thought Beebe said that it was s’posed to be five hunnert dollars apiece,” Bates said.
“Five hundred dollars would be two hundred and fifty dollars for each of you. When is the last time either of you ever had that much money, all at the same time?”
“Hell, I ain’t never had that much money,” Butrum said.
“If you don’t think that is enough money, you don’t have to take the job.”
“All right, but we want the money now,” Bates said.
“After the job is done. You aren’t the only ones working on this project.”
“Why would you hire other people to do the job, if you’ve got us?”
“Because I want the job done.”
“You don’t need nobody but us,” Butrum said.
Conroy studied the two men before him for a long moment.
“All right, I will give you one hundred dollars now, and I will also give you the first opportunity. As soon as you are successful, I will give you the rest of the money.”
“All right, it’s a deal. Give us the hunnert dollars,” Bates said.
“Not here. Meet me at the depot tomorrow afternoon. I’ll give you the money there.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next afternoon, Lucas Conroy was at the depot with Merlin Bates and Jonas Butrum. If everything worked out right, he could have his special job completed before Gillespie even got underway. It was to his advantage to accomplish his goal earlier, because the sooner the successful conclusion, the less money he would be out. And, by arrangement with the consortium, the fifty thousand dollars was his to work with, and the less money he would actually have to spend, the more he would be able to keep.
“The people that I need you to deal with are a man named John Gillespie and his daughter, Mary Beth,” Conroy said.
“Gillespie? I’ve heard of him,” Bates said. “He’s some real rich man, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to kill him?”
“What difference does that make to you?”
“I guess you’re right. As long as you pay for it, it don’t matter none why you want it done. But you want his daughter kilt, too?”
Conroy sighed. “Perhaps I should get someone else for the job,” he said. “Someone who won’t ask so many questions.”
“No, no, you don’t need nobody else. We’ll do it.”
“Then either do it, or don’t do it so I can hire someone else. But quit asking all your foolish questions.”
“All right, I won’t ask no more.”
“Good.”
The two men were walking through the track yard, and Conroy held out his hand to stop them. “There it is,” he said. “That’s Gillespie’s private car. They’ll be making the trip in that car.”
“They won’t be goin’ very far,” Bates promised. “Me ’n Butrum will take care of it.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for,” Conroy said.
“How do you want us to do it?” Bates asked.
“How? I don’t care how you do it. I just want it done, and the sooner you do it, the better.”
“What about the money?”
“I told you, I’ll pay you as soon as you complete the job.”
“No, I’m talkin’ about the hunnert dollars that you said we’d get right away.”
“Yes,” Conroy said. “All right, here’s the one hundred dollars.”
“You wouldn’t try ’n pull no fast one on us now, would you, Conroy? I mean, you will give us the rest of the money after we do this.”
“Mr. Bates, I have worked with a great many people over the last few years. My very livelihood depends upon me treating both my clients and my employees honestly. If I had been in the habit of not keeping my end of the bargain, word would get out, and I assure you, I would be out of business.” Conroy smiled. “And believe me, considering some of the people I have worked with in the past, when I say I would be out of business . . . I mean permanently. I’m no fool. If you accomplish the job I have assigned you . . . you will be paid.”
On the day they were to leave, Drew Jessup came down to the depot with John, Mary Beth, and Matt to see them off.
“Drew is absolutely my right arm,” John explained. “I don’t know if I could get along without him.”
Drew laughed. “You’re going to give me a big head here, John. But everyone knows that you are the one who had the intelligence and the wherewithal to put this company together. I’m a very rich man, and I owe it all to you. You’ve made me the number two man in your organization, and I wouldn’t trade it for any other job in the entire United States.”
“Well, you have certainly earned your position. Now, Drew, I believe you wanted to show off a little bit?”
“Yes,” Drew said. “I’ll have you know that you aren’t just going to be taking a train ride to Chicago. The Union Pacific has agreed to put on a very special engine for you, and I would like you to see it.”
The four of them walked up the track until they were standing alongside a beautiful engine, painted green with gold filigree. The number 502 was painted under the cab window and on the tender. The name Conqueror was under the numbers on both the engine and the tender.
“Mr. Kirkpatrick, I believe you will be the engineer for the first leg of the trip to Chicago, won’t you?” Drew asked a man who was standing alongside the engine. Kirkpatrick was a big, round-faced, red-nosed man, wearing striped, bibbed overalls.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Tell us about this engine,” Drew invited.
“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Kirkpatrick asked.
“Oh, yes,” Mary Beth said. “Why, I believe it is the most beautiful engine I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, she’s a lot more ’n just bein’ pretty. This is a special engine, a new type from the Rogers Locomotive Works. It is a four-six-four and it burns coal, not wood,” Kirkpatrick explained, pointing out the details of the engine. “Coal provides for a much more efficient combustion than wood, and it will give you more range. The boiler is capable of handling superheated steam, which allows for a significant increase in pounds per square inch at the cylind
er head. The twenty- by twenty-four-inch cylinders and the sixty-nine-inch drivers will give this engine more speed than anything else on the tracks today. Why, flat out, and on a smooth track, she could do seventy miles to the hour. Of course, there aren’t that many places where you could run that fast, and we won’t ever be going anywhere near that speed. But that’s just to show you what this engine is capable of doing.”
“Do you mind if we step up into the engine cab to have a look around?” Drew asked.
“Sure, I don’t see why not. Watch your step going up.”
The four followed the engineer up into the cabin, and he had begun pointing out the various features when Drew held up his hand.
“Hold it, wait a minute, what’s this?” Drew asked. He pointed to the coal tender.
Matt moved to the object Drew had pointed to, then pulled it from the coal. It was a stick of dynamite.
“What the hell?” the engineer asked. Then seeing Mary Beth, he covered his mouth. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“That’s all right,” Mary Beth replied quietly. “But, I don’t understand. That’s a stick of dynamite, isn’t it?”
“Yes, darlin’, it certainly is,” Drew said. “The question is, what is it doing in the coal tender?”
“It would appear that someone was trying to sabotage the train,” Matt said. “Mr. Kirkpatrick, what would have happened if that stick of dynamite had been introduced into the furnace? Is the steel strong enough to withstand the blast?”
Kirkpatrick shook his head. “If it was just the dynamite, it might. But the blast would more than likely compromise the boiler, and with the steam under pressure, the engine would have been blown to pieces,” Mr. Kirkpatrick said. “Cooper and I would have both been killed.”
“But wouldn’t the fireman have seen it when he was shoveling the coal?” John asked.
Kirkpatrick shook his head. “Not necessarily. When Cooper is shoveling the coal into the furnace, he does it in a rhythm. Even if he had seen it, it probably wouldn’t have been until just before he tossed it into the flames, and by then it would have been too late.”
The Great Train Massacre Page 9