It was dawn when Tom quit his search of the office and started on the meeting room behind. The desk had yielded nothing but a few pencils and an ink bottle, half empty. He’d even take the prints from their frames, hoping for some hidden information. He’d been disappointed. The meeting room showed even less promise. Its only contents were a table, maybe six feet long, and eight mismatched chairs. The sun slanted through the dirty windows, throwing a bright slash of color across the dim, gray room. Tom went about moving chairs and checking under everything. A look under the table revealed that there was a drawer on both ends. Tom’s hopes rose for an instant, but there was nothing in one drawer and only a blank pad in the other. He flipped through the empty pages. They seemed to laugh at him as they fluttered in his hand. He tossed it on the table in disgust, raising a golden dust storm in the yellow slanting light. Tom watched, momentarily fascinated, as the dust drifted and swirled on invisible currents of air. Interesting, he thought … how a thing sometimes doesn’t have to be seen to know it’s there.
Tom looked at the pad, shining with the reflected light of dawn. Perhaps it was the angle of the sun, perhaps he was just ready to see what had always been there, but he saw the writing now, or at least its ghost. He picked the pad up again, turning it this way and that, angling it to the light to highlight the faint impressions on the paper. There seemed to be multiple impressions, one overlaying the other. He thought he could make out a word or two but wasn’t certain. Tom went back to the front office and looked for one of the pencils he’d pulled from the desk. Softly he lay the pencil on edge and drew it back and forth across the page, highlighting the words. There was a lot he couldn’t make out but some that he could. Most of it was disjointed: a word here and there and a jumble in between. But the words that stood out were like gold to him nonetheless. One word seemed to shine brighter than the rest: “dynamos.”
Within twenty minutes, Braddock was bounding up the front steps of police headquarters. He noticed the large yellow envelope on his desk from across the room. It must have been dropped there late yesterday.
“Hmm, could be your Uncle Sam finally came through with those service records, Tommy boy,” he said softly to himself. He’d guessed right. They were copied in a fine hand, in neat columns, with headings for date of enlistment, deaths, missing in action, capture, wounds, release from service, and date of parole. There were a number of pages. The writing was small and tight. It looked like it might be a long read.
The first name to catch his eye was Thaddeus Sangree, which was no particular surprise.
“The goddamn captain of the whole bunch!” he exclaimed, realizing for the first time just how far in the past these men had been bound together. A minute later he burst out “Fuck! That little clerk too!” A couple of the men looked over as he pounded his fist on the desk. “Son of a bitch! Been with ’em since the beginning,” he said to the papers. One thing was sure: He’d have to check these names against the list of bridge employees. There was no telling how many others there might be. He knew of six now, but there could easily be twice that.
By seven-thirty he’d rounded up Pat Dolan and Charlie Heidelberg, after telling Byrnes what he’d found. After his close call at capturing the two with the explosives, one of which was certainly Patrick Sullivan, Byrnes was taking the case more seriously. Tom told Byrnes too about the attempts on Mike Bucklin’s life and the pad he’d found in Sangree & Co.
“Chief, what I’m afraid of is that maybe they’ve moved up their timetable.”
Byrnes nodded, stroking his mustache.
“We’ve got them on the move, sir. They’ve had to pack up and clear out. They’re in hiding. They wouldn’t be acting that way if they were confident.”
“Agree with you there,” the chief muttered.
“Remember,” Tom went on, “symbolism is extremely important to them. Why else choose the bridge?” He paused to let that sink in. “Chief, I think they’re going to try and blow the bridge soon, regardless of what that clipping seems to indicate.” Byrnes didn’t say anything at first. Tom sat silent while the cigar smoke swirled from Byrnes’s first of the day. The chief got up from his desk and paced by the windows, his hands behind his back.
He turned to Tom after a minute.
“Take Pat and Charlie. I’ll send word to the bridge police to render whatever assistance you need. And take Jaffey with you too.” Eli was chatting with Pat and Charlie when Tom came out of Byrnes’ office. They could see right away that something was up.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” Tom said. “Pat … Charlie, you’re assigned to me again today. Any of you know anything about electricity?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Ben Franklin discovered it.”
“Great,” Tom said over his shoulder as they followed him out. “Ever consider vaudeville?”
The four set about skimming the employee list for matches with the service records of Company B, Fifth Texas. The lists of employees went on for pages. The clerk who’d let them in said he guessed over two thousand or more had worked on the bridge over the years.
“Christ,” Jaffey grumbled, “we’re going to go blind looking through all this.”
“Don’t have to really, Eli. We know that Matt and Earl were on the job until recently. Maybe there were others in the group that we never even guessed at. They could have just left, like Jacobs, for all we know. Any way to narrow this list down to the most recent employees?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact,” the clerk said, “Maybe the best place to start would be the list of men who were paid off and let go earlier this week.”
“Think we ought to take a peek at that, eh, Eli?”
Within two minutes the policeman had confirmed Patrick Sullivan and Justice Lincoln. Tom dispatched Pat and Charlie to check out their addresses. telling them to rendezvous later, out on the bridge. He had little hope of their finding anything, but it had to be done.
Tom was on edge. He needed to be out on the bridge, not cooped up in an office, looking over lists. They agreed to meet in a couple of hours. First Tom and Eli checked with the cop on duty in the New York terminal. He had only come on duty at six and said everything had been normal this morning. Looking at the night log, he said “Nothing much last night. Some drunk puked on Bob Brenner, but that’s it.” Tom made sure the cop had the sketches of Earl, Matt, the captain, and Jacobs. He knew the chance of him spotting any of them was slim, but it was worth a shot. They headed back toward Brooklyn then. The cop had said they’d find his sergeant in the terminal there, and he had the keys to the power plant, generator, and dynamo room.
It was well after nine by the time they found the sergeant and convinced him that he needed to give them the keys to the engine room and the power plant. Even though he’d seen the telegram from Byrnes, he hadn’t been easy to convince.
“Listen ’ere,” he said at one point. “Me men been patrolin’ night an’ day. We stepped up the schedule. Mr. Martin, ’e insisted on it. Nothin’s goin’ on ’ere me or me men’ aven’t seen nor won’t see. Don’ see why you boys snoopin’ about is goin’ to do any more’n we been doin’ all along.” Eventually the Sergeant gave them the keys but sent a patrolman along to keep an eye on things. The cop, Dan Monzet, was as new as all the rest of the bridge force, but he’d at least had some experience. He’d been a cop before, working way out on Coney Island, but it was too dull for him in the winter, he said.
“When I heard they were looking for men here on the bridge, I figured it would be a little more interesting than Coney Island in January. Well, here we are,” he announced. They stood before one of the huge arches, under the Brooklyn approach, near Prospect Street. “This building here’s the power plant. The boilers are in there.” He pointed to the building beside the approach. “The engine room’s through there.” He motioned to a heavy door in the brick wall under one arch. “That’s where the steam engines are.” Monzet opened the door. “Nobody’s here this time of day. They come in around four and get up ste
am in the boilers,” he said over his shoulder.
Tom looked around the big, vaulted room. Ten-foot-tall cast-iron wheels, with yard-wide belts running round them, dominated one side. Wires, levers, and a dozen different contraptions gave the place the look of a mad scientist’s lab. He could imagine Dr. Frankenstein feeling right at home. He suppressed a shiver; the feeling of menace seemed stronger here.
Tom didn’t have a clue what he was looking at, let alone what exactly he was looking for. He turned to Jaffey. “Any guesses where we should start?”
“Not me, Tom. Electricity gives me the willies. I don’t understand it, to tell the truth.”
“Well, let’s look around anyway. Obviously there’s no goddamn anarchists in here, but let’s see what we can see.” Even if they had thought to look in the junction box on the wall, they never would have spotted the extra wires or known their real purpose. They checked through the engine room too. The two massive steam engines sat silent, their pistons seemingly caught in midstroke. Each was attached to a cast-iron wheel that Tom guessed had to be about twelve feet in diameter, with spokes as thick as his leg. They drove the cable that would pull the trains.
“Tom, this is all very interesting, but there’s nobody here.” Eli stated the obvious with a shrug.
“We don’t know what the hell we’re looking at anyway.” Tom sighed his agreement. “There’s one thing we can do though.” He turned to the cop. When Tom and Eli trooped off, Officer Dan Monzet stood guard at the engine room door.
With Officer Monzet on guard, Tom felt a bit more secure. He didn’t know how much use he’d be against the likes of these men, but at least he was a deterrent. They set out to go back over the bridge once again. Tom figured the more they were out on it, the better. They had walked slowly over to the New York side, where they carefully watched the strollers and sightseers parade by. There were thousands, and after a while the faces started to blur as their concentration slipped.
“Sure would be a good day for sabotage,” Eli observed. “As if there was ever a good day for such.”
“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “Memorial Day’s a big enough holiday as it is, but this bridge is like a magnet. Looks like half the damn city’s here.” He wondered if he’d see Mary. He half hoped he would, half hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t have a good feeling about this and preferred that she kept away. But he couldn’t keep her from it on a hunch, not even a nightmare. He didn’t tell her about that; he’d have felt silly for using that as a reason.
“How many died in the war, Tom?” Eli asked.
“What?” Tom replied, confused at the change of topic.
“That’s what Memorial Day’s all about, right, remembering the dead, I mean? So, I was just asking how many died.”
“I’ve heard some numbers around maybe six hundred thousand, that’s North and South, you under …—Oh, Christ!” Tom looked puzzled, then panic-stricken.
Jaffey watched, unable to understand what had come over Braddock. “What? What is it?”
Tom didn’t answer. He fumbled in his pocket, his hand shaking in his haste to remove the clipping.
“Shit!” Tom cursed as the paper tore. “I hope to hell I’m wrong about this, Eli.” He laid the pieces out on the railing to the promenade, the corners blowing in the wind.
“We’ve been thinking all along it was the trains they were after, but look!” Tom pointed to the page. It was the opposite side of the clipping, the side that had the article about Memorial Day festivities. “What if this was what Bucklin was trying to tell us?”
A strong chill went through Jaffey. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Finally he exclaimed, “The explosives!”
Tom’s first thought was of Mary. She had to be stopped. He didn’t want her anywhere near the bridge today. He thought to send a telegram, but on a holiday it might take hours to reach her. He couldn’t go himself.
“Eli,” he said, turning a worried countenance to Jaffey, “I need you to do me a favor.”
Dolan and Heidelberg found Tom about an hour later. They’d come up empty, as Tom had expected. If they had ever lived at either of the listed addresses, they were long gone. Tom told Pat and Charlie what he suspected about Memorial Day. He had just finished when Jaffey came trotting up.
“She wasn’t there,” he said breathlessly. “The Bucklins said she’d left maybe an hour before. Chelsea’s with her.”
“Great! They’ve got to be out here somewhere,” Tom said, looking around at the constantly changing crowd. “God, I hope I’m wrong about this!” Images of his nightmare flickered in Tom’s head, sending jolts of fear through him in sickening waves.
The four of them started back across the bridge, Tom asking Pat and Charlie to check work assignments. There might be a clue in the kind of work Sangree’s men were doing, especially Sullivan and Lincoln, about whom they knew very little. Grumbling about paper trails and going blind, Charlie and Pat set sail for the bridge offices.
“Me and Eli’ll be on the span, fellas,” Tom said, more worried about finding Mary than he was about the bridge. He kept his hands in his pockets, lest he show the others how they shook. “Let’s try the downstream roadway this time, eh, Eli?”
The four parted ways, arranging to meet around three-thirty near the Brooklyn terminal. Tom and Eli sliced through the crowds like sharks, their senses on full alert. They came across two bridge cops and made sure they had descriptions of the conspirators and of Mary as well.
“Keep a sharp eye,” Tom said. It was as much a plea as an order. At just about that time Mary was up on the promenade, enjoying the sunshine with Chelsea, and wishing it was Tom who was by her side.
The men were ready to go. This part of the operation was easy compared to last night. They would get into position, check to see that they were positioned where they could signal one another, while waiting for the assigned hour. The captain planned on 4:00 P.M. He estimated that late afternoon would be most crowded, and he hoped there might be as many as ten or fifteen thousand out enjoying the Eighth Wonder. Since it had opened the week before, it had already become quite an attraction. Just last Sunday there had been 163,500 strollers during the day. Ten or fifteen thousand at any one time was conservative by those standards.
It was two-thirty when they got to the New York side. It was a good thing they had been so careful with the wiring and explosives. From the roadway they’d be easier to spot, even though the inner cable was blocked partially from view by the train tracks and its trusses. Still, it appeared as if most people were on the promenade. As they approached the bridge, Pat said, “I think we ought to have a quick change of plans, Captain.”
Thaddeus looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why, what’s wrong?” he said in a panicky voice.
Sullivan shrugged. “Look at those crowds,” he said, pointing. “We need to allow more time for Jus and me to get off. Five minutes after the signal ain’t gonna do it.”
Thaddeus nodded thoughtfully. “What do you think? Ten?”
“That’s safer. I don’t know about Justice here, but I don’t fancy being caught out there when it goes up.” Pat prayed he’d be able to do today what he hadn’t been able to accomplish last night, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Done. Ten minutes then. You men get moving. Earl and Justice on the promenade, Pat on the roadway, just as we practiced. We’ll coordinate signals at precisely three-thirty. Let’s synchronize watches. I have exactly two-forty-seven … mark!” They all set their watches together. “Get moving and good luck, gentlemen.” Thaddeus shook hands all around. “I’ll see you in Richmond.” There was an unreality to their parting as if there should be something more. Instead there was an awkward silence, as they blinked at each other in the Memorial Day sun. Sullivan, Sangree, and Jacobs set off up the roadway on the upriver side. Braddock and Jaffey, patrolling the downriver side, never saw them.
Officer Dan Monzet was about as bored as he’d ever been. At least when he’d patrolled on Coney Island, there had
been summers filled with beautiful women to ogle. After guarding the doors for hours he was thinking that even in January, Coney Island weather was not so bad. He didn’t think much of anything as the two men approached him. The short weaselly-looking fella was probably a clerk, he figured, though he wondered at his bruises and limping walk. Maybe they were from the U.S. Illuminating Company, here to run some inspection or other.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Monzet said, friendlylike.
“Good afternoon, Officer,” the bigger one said. He seemed surprised to see him, Monzet thought. If he’d been more alert, that might have put him on guard but he simply asked, “How can I help you?”
“We’re from the U.S. Illuminating Company, Officer,” Thaddeus said with a worried look. “Why are you guarding these doors? No guard has been placed on them before.”
“Oh, some nonsense about saboteurs. Haven’t seen one all day,” Dan said, smiling.
Jacobs and the captain smiled with him.
Jacobs went on in his best official manner. “So, could you let us in then? We’ve got instruments to check.” Monzet turned toward the door, fumbling with the keys in his pocket. “I’ll need to see some identification, gentlemen,” he said as he put the key in the lock.
“Of course, Officer,” Jacobs said. “I have it right here.”
Dan Monzet threw open the heavy door and turned to check their credentials. As he faced them, though, a curious thing happened. The little man before him struck him in the throat. At first he thought it had to be some mistake, some accident. Monzet looked quizzically at the little man, confused more than hurt. Then, quick as a snake, the little bastard did it again. It wasn’t till the second time that Monzet saw the blade in his hand, red with his own blood. He tried to cry out, but his voice just gurgled and whistled through the holes in his throat. There seemed to be a great deal of blood too, and it was making a hell of a mess of his new tunic. To Monzet’s credit, he managed to get his pistol out of its holster. Brooklyn was starting to spin by then, though, and all he managed to do was shoot himself in the knee.
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