“A detective? Sounds exciting. Did you catch his name?”
“Isaac Bell.”
“Bell … Hmm. I don’t suppose he is sleuthing ‘undercover’ if he told you his name.”
“I recognized him. He travels often.”
“Is he on a case?”
“I don’t know about that. But he’s riding on a pass signed by President Hennessy himself. And the orders came down that we are supposed to give Van Dorn agents anything they ask for.”
The Wrecker’s smile hardened as a wintery light filled his eyes. “What has Isaac Bell asked of you?”
“Nothing yet, sir. I presume he is investigating all those Southern Pacific wrecks. ”
“Perhaps we can make things expensive for Mr. Bell in our friendly game of draw.” The conductor looked surprised. “Would a detective have the blood in him for your gentlemen’s game?”
“I suspect that Mr. Bell can afford it,” said the Wrecker. “If he’s the same Isaac Bell who I’ve heard rumored is a wealthy man. I’ve never played poker with a detective. It could be interesting. Why don’t you ask him if he would care to join us?” It was not a question but an order, and the conductor promised to invite the detective to join the high-stakes poker game after dinner in Judge Congdon’s stateroom.
The way a man played poker revealed all there was to know of him. The Wrecker would use the opportunity to size Bell up and decide how to kill him.
ISAAC BELL’S STATEROOM WAS in a Pullman car that had a gentleman’s washroom at the front end with beveled mirrors, nickel fixtures, and massive marble sinks. There was room for two easy chairs. A potted palm in the room swayed in rhythm with the train, which was speeding along the Weber River, drawn by its powerful locomotive, up the one percent grade into the Wasatch Range.
Bell shaved there before dressing for dinner. While he could afford a lavish suite with its own facilities, he preferred shared facilities when he traveled. In such lounges, just as in the changing rooms of gymnasiums and private clubs, something about the combination of marble, tile, running water, and comfortable chairs in the absence of women made men boastful. Boastful men talked openly to strangers, and there was always some tidbit of information to glean from overheard conversations. And indeed, as he slid his Wootz steel straight razor across his face, a rotund and cheerful slaughterhouse owner from Chicago put down his cigar to remark, “Porter told me that Senator Charles Kincaid boarded the train in Ogden.”
“The ‘Hero Engineer’?” replied a well-dressed drummer stretched out comfortably in the other leather armchair. “I’d like to shake his hand.”
“All you gotta do is corral him in the dining car.”
“You can never tell with those senators,” said the salesman. “Con gressmen and governors will shake any hand that still has blood flowing in it, but United States senators can be a stuck-up lot.”
“That’s what comes from being appointed instead of elected.”
“Was he the tall fellow who jumped aboard at the last second?” Bell asked from the shaving mirror.
The Chicago meatpacker said he’d been reading the newspaper as the train pulled out and hadn’t noticed.
The drummer had. “Hopped on quick as a hobo.”
“A mighty well-dressed hobo,” said Bell, and the meatpacker and the drummer laughed.
“That’s a good one,” the meatpacker chortled. “Well-dressed hobo. What line are you in, son?”
“Insurance,” said Bell. He caught the drummer’s eye in the mirror. “Was the fellow you saw jump on last minute Senator Kincaid?”
“Could have been,” said the drummer. “I didn’t look close. I was talking to a gent at the front of the car and the conductor was blocking my view. But wouldn’t they hold the train for a senator?”
“Reckon so,” said the meatpacker. He heaved his heavy body out of the chair, stubbed out his cigar and said, “So long, boys. I’m heading for the observation car. Anyone use a drink, I’m buying.”
Bell went back to his stateroom.
Whoever had jumped on at the last minute had disappeared by the time Bell reached the observation car at the rear of the train, which was not surprising since this Overland Limited was an all-stateroom train, the only public spaces being the dining car and the observation car. The dining car had been empty except for the stewards setting tables for the evening meal, and none of the smokers in the observation car resembled the well-dressed man Bell had seen at a distance. Nor did any of them resemble the lumberjack’s sketch of the Wrecker.
Bell rang for the porter. The black man was in late middle age, old enough to have not only been born into slavery but to have endured it as an adult. “What is your name?” Bell asked. He could not abide the custom of calling Pullman porters “George” after their employer George Pullman.
“Jonathan, sir.”
Bell pressed a ten-dollar gold piece into his soft palm. “Jonathan, would you look at this picture? Have you see this man on the train?”
Jonathan studied the drawing.
Suddenly, a westbound express flashed by the windows with a roar of wind and steam as the two trains passed each other at a combined speed of one hundred twenty miles an hour. Osgood Hennessy had double-tracked much of the route to Omaha, which meant that limit eds wasted little time on sidings waiting for trains to pass.
“No, sir,” said the porter, shaking his head. “I’ve not seen no gentleman who looks like this.”
“How about this one?” Bell showed the porter the sketch with the beard, but the answer was the same. He was disappointed but not surprised. The eastbound Overland Limited was only one of a hundred fifty trains that had left Ogden since the outlaw in the stable had been stabbed. Though fewer, of course, would connect to New York City, where the Wrecker’s baiting note had virtually promised he was going.
“Thank you, Jonathan.” He gave the porter his card. “Please ask the conductor to call on me at his earliest convenience.”
Less than five minutes later, the conductor knocked. Bell let him in, established that his name was Bill Kux, and showed him the two sketches, one with beard, one without.
“Did anyone board your train at Ogden who looked like either of these men?”
The conductor studied them carefully, holding the first one in his hand, then the other, turning then to the light cast by the lamp since night had blackened the window. Bell watched Kux’s stern face for a reaction. Charged with the safety of the train and responsible for making every passenger pay his fare, conductors were sharp observers with good memories. “No, sir. I don’t think so … Though this one looks familiar.”
“Have you seen this man?”
“Well, I don’t know … But I know this face.” He stroked his chin and suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s how I know that face. I just saw him at the picture show.”
Bell took back the sketches. “But no one who looks at all like either of these got on at Ogden?”
“No, sir.” He chuckled. “You had me on the go there, for a minute, ‘til I remembered the moving picture. You know who that looks like? Actor fella. Broncho Bill Anderson. Doesn’t it?”
“Who was the man who boarded the train at the last minute?”
The conductor smiled. “Now, there’s a coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was already heading to your stateroom when the porter gave me your card. That gentleman you’re inquiring after asked me to invite you to a game of draw after dinner in Judge Congdon’s stateroom.”
“Who is he?”
“Why, that’s Senator Charles Kincaid!”
16
“THAT WAS KINCAID?”
Bell knew it had been a long shot. But there was something purposeful about the way the last man had come aboard, as if he had made a special effort to leave the Ogden depot undetected. A very long shot, he had to admit. Aside from the number of trains the Wrecker could have taken, men routinely ran to catch trains. He himself did it often. Sometimes d
eliberately, either to dupe someone already on the train or give the slip to someone following him in the station.
“The last I heard,” Bell mused, “the Senator was in New York.”
“Oh, he gets around, sir. You know those officeholders, always on the go. Can I tell him you will play draw?”
Bell fixed Bill Kux with a cold stare. “How is it that Senator Kincaid happened to know my name and that I am on this train?”
It was unusual to see a conductor of a limited flustered by anything less than jumping the tracks. Kux began to stammer. “Well, he, I … Well, you know, sir, the way it is.”
“The way it is, the wise traveler befriends his conductor,” Bell said, softening his expression to take the man into his trust. “The wise conductor endeavors to make everyone on his train happy. But especially those passengers most deserving of happiness. Do I have to remind you, Mr. Kux, that you have orders straight from the president of the line that Van Dorn detectives are your first friends?”
“No, sir.”
“Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bell. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.”
“Don’t worry yourself.” Bell smiled. “It’s not as if you betrayed a confidence to a train robber.”
“Very big of you, sir, thank you … May I inform Senator Kincaid that you’ll join his game?”
“Who else will be gaming?”
“Well, Judge Congdon, of course, and Colonel Bloom.”
“Kenneth Bloom?”
“Yes, sir, the coal magnate.”
“Last time I saw Kenny Bloom, he was behind the elephants with a shovel.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t understand.”
“We were in the circus together briefly as boys. Until our fathers caught up with us. Who else?”
“Mr. Thomas, the banker, and Mr. Payne, the attorney, and Mr. Moser of Providence. His son sits with Mr. Kincaid in the Senate.”
Two more slavish champions of the corporations would be harder to imagine, thought Bell, but all he said was, “Tell the Senator that I will be honored to play.”
Conductor Kux reached for the door. “I should warn you, Mr. Bell …”
“The stakes are high?”
“That, too. But if a Van Dorn agent is my first friend, it is my duty to advise you that one of the gentlemen playing tonight has been known to make his own luck.”
Isaac Bell showed his teeth in a smile. “Don’t tell me which one cheats. It will more interesting to find out for myself.”
JUDGE JAMES CoNGDON, the host of the evening’s game of draw poker, was a lean and craggy old man with an aristocratic bearing and a manner as hard and unbending as the purified metal on which he had made his fortune. “The ten-hour workday,” he proclaimed in a voice like a coal chute, “will be the ruination of the steel industry.”
The warning elicited solemn nods from the plutocrats gathered around the green-felt-topped card table, and a hearty “Hear! Hear!” from Senator Charles Kincaid. The Senator had opened the subject with an ingratiating promise to vote for stricter laws in Washington to make it easier for the judiciary to issue injunctions against strikers.
If anyone on an Overland Limited steaming through the Wyoming night doubted the gravity of the conflict between labor unions and factory owners, Ken Bloom, who had inherited half of the anthracite coal in Pennsylvania, set them straight. “The rights and interests of the laboring men will be looked after and cared for not by agitators but by Christian men to whom God in His infinite wisdom has given control of the property interests of the country.”
“How many cards, Judge?” said Isaac Bell, whose turn it was to deal. They were in the middle of a hand, and it was the dealer’s responsibility to keep the game moving. Which was not always easy, since, despite the enormous stakes, it was a friendly game. Most of the men knew one another and played together often. Table talk ranged from gossip to good-natured ribbing, sometimes intended to smoke out a rival’s intention and the strength or weakness of his hand.
Senator Kincaid, Bell had already noticed, seemed intimidated by Judge Congdon, who occasionally called him Charlie even though the Senator was the sort who would demand to be called Charles if not “Senator, sir.”
“Cards?” Bell asked again.
Suddenly, the railroad car shook hard.
The wheels were pounding over a rough patch of track. The car lurched. Brandy and whiskey sloshed from glasses onto green felt. Everyone in the luxurious stateroom fell quiet, reminded that they, along with the crystal, the card table, the brass lamps affixed to the walls, the playing cards, and the gold coins, were hurtling through the night at seventy miles an hour.
“Are we are on the ties?” someone asked. The question met nervous laughter from all but the cold Judge Congdon, who snatched up his glass before it could spill any more and remarked, as the car shook even harder, “This reminds me, Senator Kincaid, what is your opinion about the flood of accidents plaguing the Southern Pacific Railroad?”
Kincaid, who had apparently had too much to drink at dinner, answered loudly, “Speaking as an engineer, the rumors of Southern Pacific mismanagement are scandalous lies. Railroading is dangerous business. Always has been. Always will be.”
As suddenly as the shuddering had begun, it stopped, and the ride smoothed out. The train sped on, safe on its rails. Its passengers exhaled sighs of relief that the morning newspapers would not be listing their names among the dead in a train wreck.
“How many cards, Judge?”
But Judge Congdon was not done talking. “I made no reference to mismanagement, Charlie. If you could speak as a close associate of Osgood Hennessy rather than as an engineer, sir, how are things going with Hennessy’s Cascades Cutoff where these accidents seem to be concentrated?”
Kincaid delivered an impassioned speech more suited to a joint session of Congress than a high-stakes game of poker. “I assure you gentlemen that gossip about reckless expansion of the Cascades Line is poppycock. Our great nation was built by bold men like Southern Pacific president Hennessy who took enormous risks in the face of adversity and pressed on even when cooler heads pleaded to go easy, even when braving bankruptcy and financial ruin.”
Bell noticed that Jack Thomas, the banker, looked less than assured. Kincaid was certainly doing Hennessy’s reputation no favors tonight.
“How many cards would you like, Judge Congdon?” he asked again.
Congdon’s reply was more alarming than the Overland Limited’s sudden rough ride. “No cards, thank you. I don’t need any. I’ll stand pat.”
The other players stared. Bruce Payne, the oil attorney, said out loud what they were all thinking. “Standing pat in five-card draw is like galloping into town at the head of marauding cavalry.”
The hand was in its second round. Isaac Bell had already dealt each player five cards facedown. Congdon, “under the gun” to Bell’s immediate left in a position that ordinarily passes, had opened the first round of betting. All of the men playing in the palatial stateroom except for Payne had called the steel baron’s first-round bet. Charles Kincaid, seated to Bell’s immediate right, had impetuously raised that bet, forcing the players who had stayed in to throw more money in the pot. Gold coins had rung mutedly on the felt tabletop as all the players, including Bell, had called the raise, largely because Kincaid had been playing with a noticeable lack of good sense.
With the first round of betting complete, the players were permitted to discard one, two, or three cards and draw replacements to improve their hands. Judge Congdon’s announcement that he already had all the cards he needed, thank you, and would stand pat, made no one happy. By claiming that he needed no improvement, he was suggesting that he held a winning hand already, a hand that utilized all five of his cards and would beat hands as strong as two pairs or three of a kind. That meant he held at least a straight (five cards in numerical sequence) or a straight-beating flush (five cards in the same suit) or even a full house (three of a kind pl
us two of a kind), a potent combination that beat a straight or a flush.
“If Mr. Bell would please deal the other gentlemen the number of cards they ask for,” gloated Congdon, who had suddenly lost interest in the subjects of labor strife and train wrecks, “I am anxious to open the next round of betting.”
Bell asked, “Cards, Kenny?” And Bloom, who was nowhere near as rich in coal as Congdon was in steel, asked for three cards with little hope.
Jack Thomas took two cards, hinting that he might already hold three of a kind. But it was more likely, Bell decided, that he held a moderate pair and had kept an ace kicker in the desperate hope of drawing two more aces. If he really had trips, he would have raised on the first round.
The next man, Douglas Moser, the patrician New England textile-mill owner, said he would draw one card, which might be two pair but was a probably a hopeful straight or flush. Bell had seen enough of his play to judge him as too wealthy to care enough to play to win. That left Senator Kincaid, to Bell’s immediate right.
Kincaid said, “I’ll stand pat, too.”
Judge Congdon’s eyebrows, which were rough as strands of wire rope, rose a full inch. And several men exclaimed out loud. Two pat hands in the same round of draw poker was unheard of.
Bell was as surprised as the rest of the men. He had established already that Senator Kincaid cheated when he could by skillfully dealing from the bottom of the deck. But Kincaid hadn’t dealt this hand, Bell had. As unusual as a pat hand was, if Kincaid had one it was due to genuine luck, not double-dealing.
“The last time I saw two pat hands,” said Jack Thomas, “it ended in gunfire.”
“Fortunately,” said Moser, “no one at this table is armed.”
Which was not true, Bell had noticed. The double-dealing Senator had a derringer tugging the cloth of his side pocket. A sensible precaution, Bell supposed, for men in public life since McKinley was shot.
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