“He says he stole 106.”
“I don’t care if he stole a whole damned train. He ain’t the dago Eye-talian wop guinea what sliced me.”
The white-haired detective walked the big man out. He returned in twenty minutes. He sat with Bell and introduced himself as Detective Eddie Edwards. Then he took out a memo book and wrote in a neat hand as he listened to Bell’s story. Three times, he asked Bell to repeat it. Finally, he asked, “Did you happen to see the wop who slashed that yard bull’s face?”
“Not at New Haven, but there was someone at the Farmington yards.” Bell told him about encountering the hobo with the wing-footed gait. “He could have ridden under the tender.”
“I’ll pass it on to the railroad dicks. But he’ll have worked his way to Boston by now.” Edwards made another note and closed his book.
Bell said, “I hate to think I helped a criminal escape.”
“Any man who could whip that yard bull didn’t need your help escaping. Come on, kid. I’ll walk you back to school.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“By a miracle, your harebrained stunt did not lead to death, injury, or destruction of property. Therefore, it is not in the interest of the New Haven Railroad to prosecute the son of a Boston banker from whom they one day might want to borrow money.”
“How did you know my father is a banker?”
“Wired a fellow in Boston.”
They walked up Chapel Street, with Bell answering Detective Eddie Edwards’ questions about landmarks they passed. At the Green, Edwards said, “Say, just between us, how many pals did you need to pull it off?”
“I did it alone,” said Bell.
Eddie Edwards looked the young student over speculatively.
Bell returned the speculative look. Edwards fascinated him. The detective was a snappy dresser compared to the poor railroad detective who’d had his face slashed. And he was a chameleon, with an easygoing manner that disguised a sharp gaze and a sharper mind. He was considerably younger than his shock of white hair made him look. Bell wondered where he carried his gun. A shoulder holster, he guessed. But nothing showed.
“Tall order, all by yourself,” Edwards mused. “Frankly, I admire a man who stands up for his friends.”
“Frankly,” said Bell, “even if friends had come along, it would still have been entirely my idea.” He showed the detective his maps, Waltham, and timetable. “Are you familiar with Grimshaw’s Locomotive Catechism?”
“Good answer, kid. Backed by evidence. While changing the subject with a question. You have the makings of a savvy crook.”
“Or a savvy detective?”
A smile tugged Edwards’ mouth even as he said, firmly, “Detectives help people, they don’t steal their property.”
“Mr. Edwards, did you imply, earlier, that you don’t work for the railroad?”
“The roads bring us in when a job calls for finessing.”
“Who do you work for?”
Edwards squared his shoulders and stood a little taller.
“I’m a Van Dorn detective.”
ELEVEN YEARS LATER
1906
BOOK I
Captain Coligney’s Pink Tea
1