The Great Train Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Matt laughed as well.

  Matt, John, and Mary Beth stepped into the low building that sat in the middle of the yard, and once inside they heard a sound that had become familiar to Matt since he started on this trip. It was the sound of ticker tape, with the latest update on the cattle market being sent from Chicago. And like John’s teleprinter, the returns were printed on a long, narrow strip of tape. There was, however, someone reading the ticker tape, then writing the returns on a large blackboard that was on the wall at the back of the room.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you?” someone asked.

  “Is Mr. Mitchell in?”

  “He is. May I tell him who is asking?”

  “Morgan, that’s John Gillespie,” another man said. “He owns this place.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Gillespie, I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right. Hello, Mr. Carter, how are you doing?” John asked, speaking to the man who had identified him.

  “I’m doing fine, sir. If you’ll wait for just a moment, I’ll get Don for you.”

  It was only a few seconds later when Mitchell himself came from his office. A large smile spread across his face, and he extended his hand as he approached them.

  “Mr. Gillespie! What an unexpected, but very pleasant surprise! What brings you to Omaha?”

  “I’m on my way to Chicago, and the train is going to be delayed for a couple of hours, so I thought I might pay you a visit.”

  “Well, I’m certainly glad you chose to do so. Will you be here over lunch? Could I buy lunch for you and your friends?”

  “Is it somewhere away from the smell?” Mary Beth asked.

  “Smell? What smell?” Mitchell replied.

  “What smell?” Mary Beth replied in a shocked voice.

  Mitchell laughed. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I’m here ten to twelve hours per day, every day. The truth is, I’m so used to the smell now, that I don’t even notice it. But yes, we can have lunch at the Stockman’s Club, and it is far enough away that I think you won’t notice it.”

  “Mr. Mitchell, this is my daughter Mary Beth. You’ll have to excuse her sensitive nose.”

  “That’s all right. Young ladies should have a sensitive nose,” Mitchell replied.

  “And this is my friend, Matt Jensen.” John didn’t mention that Matt was also his bodyguard, and Matt thought it was wise that he didn’t.

  “It’s good to meet both of you,” Mitchell said, shaking their hands.

  “I appreciate the invitation to the Stockman’s Club, but if you don’t mind, I would rather have lunch in the depot.” John said. “That way we will be close enough so that if they call the train, we won’t miss it.”

  “All right, sure, that’ll be fine by me,” Mitchell said. “Terry, look after things while we’re gone, would you?”

  “Yes, sir, Don, I’d be glad to,” Carter said.

  As they left the stockyard office, Matt saw three mounted men riding behind a dozen or more cows, herding them into a pen with whistles and shouts, and it reminded him of the few times he had been a cowboy.

  “Oh,” Mary Beth said. “That looks like so much fun!”

  “I thought you didn’t like the smell,” John said.

  “It’s like you said, Papa. It’s the smell of money.”

  The others laughed.

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Gillespie,” Mitchell said over lunch. “Selling the stockyard to you was the best business move I ever made. It has been a huge success, and I’m making money hand over fist, more money than I’ve ever made in my life.”

  “You don’t wish you still owned it?”

  “Oh, I admit, from time to time I sort of wish I did. But almost as soon as I have that thought, I think better of it. The truth is, I would never have been able to afford the investments necessary to make it the success it is today. If I still owned it,” he stopped and laughed, then continued, “If I still owned it, I wouldn’t own it. I would have already lost it by now.”

  The conversation continued in a congenial tone until the end of the meal. Then, Mitchell stood.

  “I hate to run off and leave such good company,” Mitchell said. “But I have a stockyard to run, and if I don’t do a good job, you won’t be making any money from it, and if you don’t make money, then there’s no way I can make money.”

  John laughed. “You know, Mr. Mitchell, I like the way you look at that.”

  Mitchell laughed as well. “It’s the only way a sane man can look at it.”

  “He has nothing to do with all these attempts on my life,” John said after Mitchell left.

  “I get the same feeling,” Matt said.

  “With Keaton tied up by the police, and Mitchell in the clear, that leaves only Morris.”

  “The coal mine owner?”

  “Yes. I think, when we get to Davenport, Iowa, I’ll have the car detached from this train and attached to an engine I will hire. We’ll go down to Assumption. I would very much like to meet Mr. Raymond Morris face-to-face.”

  “But, are you sure you want to leave the train in Davenport?” Kelly asked, surprised when John told him of his plans. “I thought you were going to Chicago.”

  “I am going to Chicago,” John said. “But I’m going to Assumption, Illinois, first.”

  “I’m not sure about the train schedules from Assumption. You may have a difficult time finding one to take you there, then get you to Chicago on time.”

  “I’m not worried about catching a train,” John said. “I’ve got my private car, I’ll just lease an engine. I’ll get there in plenty of time.”

  “But you will be going on to Davenport with us, will you not?”

  John chuckled. “Yes, I’m afraid we aren’t out of your hair yet. We’ll be a bother for a little while longer.”

  Before they left Omaha, Kelly sent a telegram.

  GILLESPIE LEAVING TRAIN IN DAVENPORT STOP WILL BE GOING TO ASSUMPTION ILLINOIS BY PRIVATE CAR AND LEASED ENGINE

  When he heard the key clacking, he looked over at the telegrapher.

  “I expect this is the one you’ve been waiting for,” the telegrapher said, as he began recording the message.

  THE TIME HAS COME TO GIVE THE JOB TO JC STOP ONE HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLARS WILL BE WIRED TO YOU TO CLOSE THE DEAL

  “Thanks,” Kelly said, after he read the message.

  The telegraph key began clicking once more, and again the telegrapher took the message.

  “Here is your money transfer,” he said.

  Kelly found Julius Calhoun folding sheets in one of the three Pullman cars that were a part of the Chicago Limited.

  “Is the car empty?” Kelly said.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” the porter answered.

  Kelly looked into every seat, and even checked the restrooms, one at either end of the train, before speaking.

  “It’s your turn,” Kelly said.

  Julius looked around at him, flashing a satisfied smile.

  “When do I get my money?”

  “You’ll get your money the same time I get my money,” Kelly said. “As soon as the job is done.”

  “We’ll reach Davenport by ten o’clock tonight. They will be dead before we get there,” the powerfully built black man promised.

  “You do understand that you’ll have to kill all three of them, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Calhoun said. “One of ’em, three of ’em, it makes no difference to me.”

  At about seven o’clock that evening Matt was in the private car with John and Mary Beth. The car was brightly illuminated with gas lamps, and though Matt and John were engaged in casual conversation, Mary Beth was reading the latest issue of Harper’s Weekly.

  “Oh, my, listen to this, Papa!” Mary Beth said, reading from the periodical. “It has been suggested that some clever person will, no doubt, discover a means of connecting Mr. Alexander Bell’s telephone to Mr. Thomas Edison’s talking machine. Should such a union become possible, one could then make a telephone call, and
if the party isn’t available to receive the call, a message could be recorded on the talking machine. Then, when the party returns home, he would need only to play the recording and thereby retrieve any message left.”

  Mary Beth put the issue down and looked at her father with her eyes glowing in excitement.

  “Oh, we do live in such a marvelous age, Papa,” she said.

  “Indeed we do, darlin’, indeed we do,” John replied. “We have covered in less than five complete days a distance that, before the railroad, would have taken from four to five months.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a light knock on the door, and Matt got up from his chair to answer it. When he opened the door, he saw the porter standing in the vestibule with a small, wheeled cart. The cart had several silver dome-covered serving dishes.

  “The dinner for you gentlemen and the lady,” Calhoun said.

  Matt stepped aside to allow Calhoun to push the cart on into the car. When he reached the table, he began removing the silver domes from each dish, doing so with relish.

  “Oh, that looks so good!” Mary Beth said, enthusiastically. “Thank you, Mr. Calhoun.”

  “You are mighty welcome, Miss,” Calhoun said.

  “Apple pie,” Matt said with a smile, as he picked up a slice and held it under his nose. “There is nothing in the world that smells better than apple . . .” he stopped in midsentence, frowned, and took another sniff.

  John had just cut off a piece of the pie with his fork and was about to take a bite.

  “Hold it, John!” Matt said sharply. “Don’t eat that!”

  “What?”

  Matt forced a grin and held his pie out toward Calhoun.

  “Mr. Calhoun was so good as to bring the pie to us, I think he should have my piece. And he should take the first bite.”

  “Mr. Jensen, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Calhoun said.

  “I’m just offering you a piece of pie, that’s all. And you can have the first bite.”

  “I wouldn’t want to eat your pie, sir.”

  “Take a bite!” Matt said more forcefully.

  Calhoun slapped the pie from Matt’s hand, then he grabbed Mary Beth and pulled her to him.

  “Take your pistol out of the holster and hand it to me,” he said. “’Cause if you don’t do what I say, I’ll break this girl’s neck.”

  Suddenly and unexpectedly, Mary Beth brought her heel down sharply on the top of Calhoun’s foot. He let out a howl of pain and loosened his grip on her. When he did, she ducked under his arm and stepped away from him.

  Calhoun was a big and powerful man, and Matt knew that it would be difficult to handle him in a face-to-face fight, so he drew his pistol, and using it as a club, swung at Calhoun’s neck, catching him in the Adam’s apple.

  Calhoun made a choking noise and put both hands to his neck. When he did that, Matt brought the butt of his pistol down sharply on Calhoun’s head.

  The big man went down like a sack of flour.

  “What was that all about? Why did you try and make him eat the pie?” Mary Beth asked.

  “I was testing to see if he was responsible for it, and his reaction told me that he was.”

  “Responsible for what?’

  “The pie is laced with cyanide.”

  “What? How did you know that?”

  “When you smell a pie, what do you normally smell?”

  “Cinnamon and apples,” Mary Beth said.

  “Smell this,” Matt said, holding the pie up to her nose.

  Mary Beth took a whiff, then made a face.

  “Does that smell like any apple pie you’ve ever smelled before?”

  “No. There’s sort of a bitter smell to it.”

  “That’s the cyanide.”

  “What made you suspicious enough to smell it?” John asked.

  Matt grinned sheepishly. “I wish I could say that I’m a good enough detective to be suspicious. But I just happened to smell it, because I like the smell of apple pie. That’s when I smelled the cyanide.”

  “What do we do with him now?” John asked.

  “I’ll tie him up and leave him in the baggage car. They’ll discover him after we’re gone.”

  “You don’t think we should turn him over to the law in Davenport?”

  “Nothing happened, we can’t prove he is the one who put the poison in the pie, and we would get so tied up in the court that you would miss your appointment in Chicago,” Matt said.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Just leave him in the baggage car.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Davenport, Iowa

  “Mr. Kelly,” John said. “I would like for you to make arrangements for my car to be disconnected.”

  “I know, you told me that back in Omaha. But are you sure you want to do this? I thought it was important for you to go to Chicago.”

  “It is. But with an engine dedicated just to my need, I’m sure I will be able to make it in time.”

  “You do understand, don’t you, that in order to disconnect your car from the rest of the train, I will need permission from the railroad?”

  “Yes, I understand. But if you will come with me, I will secure the permission before your eyes, so that you will be satisfied that you have done no wrong.”

  “All right,” Kelly said. “Of course I will come with you. I do hope you aren’t doing so because you have been displeased with your service. I have gone out of my way to be accommodating to you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you have,” John said.

  Kelly accompanied John to the stationmaster’s office, where arrangements were made to separate the private car from the Chicago Limited. There, too, John made arrangements to lease a locomotive and crew, as well as to secure track usage between Davenport and Assumption, Illinois. He was told that it would be at least noon of the next day before an engine and crew could be located and the tracks cleared.

  “Thank you,” John said.

  “Mr. Kelly, sir, as soon Mr. Gillespie’s private car is disconnected, you will need to get the Chicago Limited underway in order for all the schedules to be maintained,” the stationmaster said.

  “Yes, all right, I’ll do that.”

  “Oh, by the way, Mr. Kelly,” Matt said as Kelly started to leave. “If you are looking for your porter, I left him tied up in the baggage car.”

  “You did what?” Kelly gasped. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “The meal he brought us was unsatisfactory.”

  At the Western Union desk in Davenport, Kelly sent a telegram to Lucas Conroy.

  JC FAILED IN HIS TASK STOP JG GOING TO ASSUMPTION ILLINOIS BY PRIVATE TRAIN STOP SITUATION IS NO LONGER IN MY HANDS

  DK

  San Francisco

  Lucas Conroy stood on the end of the pier looking out over the dark water of San Francisco Bay. A lighthouse beam swept across the bay, illuminating in stark black and white the empty masts of the sailing ships at anchor.

  He heard footsteps behind him, then turned. He was a little nervous until the person spoke.

  “Mr. Conroy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I represent the consortium.”

  “You aren’t the one I met with before.”

  “No. But they asked that I represent them for this meeting.”

  “Why couldn’t we have conducted this meeting in my office? Why did you want to meet here and at this time of the night?”

  “We thought it might be best if we kept as much distance between you and us as possible.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is so.”

  “We . . . that is the consortium . . . thought you would have this situation resolved by now. Why is it that John Gillespie is still a problem?”

  “You have to understand that the operation has proven to be much more difficult than I was led to believe.”

  “What is difficult about it? You were given one task to do. You were to kill one old man and a young woman.”

  “But it isn
’t just Gillespie and his daughter. He has hired someone to protect him, and the man he has hired has proven to be rather formidable. In fact, he has become quite an obstacle.”

  “You were hired, Mr. Conroy, because we were led to believe that you were adept at overcoming obstacles.”

  “Yes, and I am, because I plan for every contingency. And to that end I put men in place at key stops all along the route to Chicago, because I was told he would be going directly to that location. However, I now learn that Gillespie and his daughter have left the main line and are going to someplace called Assumption, Illinois. I have no one in place in Assumption, Illinois. In fact, I don’t even know where Assumption is.”

  “No, you don’t, but fortunately we do know where it is, and we do have someone in place there.”

  “Good, tell me who they are and how to get in touch with them, and I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  “I’m afraid your services are no longer needed.”

  “Are you telling me I have been fired?

  “Yes, that is exactly what I’m telling you. You are being terminated.”

  “All right, if you don’t intend to use me anymore, that’s fine. But don’t expect a refund. I’ve already spent almost as much as you gave me to do the job.”

  “We won’t be asking for anything back.”

  “Good, good, then I can assume that our business here is concluded.”

  “You may assume that.”

  Conroy nodded, then turned and started back up the long, dark pier. In the next instant the night was illuminated by the muzzle flash of a pistol shot, but Conroy wasn’t aware of it, because he was dead before it could register in his brain.

  The shooter had made arrangements to have Gillespie killed in Assumption, but if past experience meant anything, the attempt in Assumption would be as unsuccessful as all previous attempts had been. There was only one way to handle this, and that was to take personal charge. He would leave by express train tonight and would be in Chicago within three days. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but this was a job he was going to have to handle himself.