n Agency had moved swiftly, conspiring with the newspapers to paint the railroad president as a hero.
A bloody accident would turn things around.
The railroads maintained their own telegraph systems to keep the trains moving swiftly and safely. Single-tracked lines, which were still in the majority, were divided into blocks maintained by strict rules of entry. A train given permission to be in a block possessed the right-of-way. Only after it passed through the block, or was sidetracked onto a siding, was another train permitted in the block. Observations that a train had left a block were communicated by telegraph. Orders to pull off onto a siding were sent by telegraph. Acknowledgment of those orders was made by telegraph. That a train was stopped safely on the siding had to be confirmed by telegraph.
But the Wrecker’s telegraphers could intercept orders, stop them, and change them. He had already caused a collision by this method, a rear ender on the Cascades Cutoff that had telescoped a materials train into a work train’s caboose, killing two crewmen.
A bloodier accident would erase Isaac Bell’s “victory.”
And what could be bloodier than two locomotives hauling work trains packed with laborers colliding head-on? When his train to San Francisco stopped in Sacramento, he checked a satchel in the luggage room containing orders and a generous envelope of cash and mailed the ticket to an embittered former union official named Ross Parker.
“GOOD NIGHT, MISS MORGAN.”
“Good night, Mr. Bell. That was a delicious dinner, thank you.”
“Need help with your door?”
“I have it.”
Five hours after her passengers walked the famous red carpet to board at Grand Central Terminal, the 20th Century Limited was racing across the flatlands of western New York State at eighty miles an hour. A Pullman porter, gaze discreetly averted, shuffled along the narrow corridor outside the staterooms, gathering shoes that the sleeping passengers had left out to be shined.
“Well, good night, then.”
Bell waited for Marion to step into her stateroom and lock the door. Then he opened the door to his stateroom, changed into a silk robe, removed his throwing knife from his boots and put them outside in the corridor. The speed of the train caused ice to tremble musically in a silver bucket. In it was chilling a bottle of Mumm. Bell wrapped the dripping bottle in a linen napkin and held it behind his back.
He heard a soft knock on the interior door and threw it open.
“Yes, Miss Morgan?”
Marion was standing there in a dressing gown, her lustrous hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes mischievous, her smile radiant.
“Could I possibly borrow a cup of champagne?”
LATER, WHISPERING SIDE BY SIDE as the 20th Century rocketed through the night, Marion asked, “Did you really win a million dollars at poker?”
“Almost. But half of it was my money. ”
“That’s still a half million. What are you going to do with it?”
“I was thinking of buying the Cromwell Mansion.”
“Whatever for?”
“For you.”
Marion stared at him, puzzled and intrigued and wanting to know more.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Isaac. “And you may be right. It might be filled with ghosts. But an old coot I played cards with told me that he always gave his new wife a stick of dynamite to redecorate the house.”
“Dynamite?” She smiled. “Something to consider. I loved the house from the outside. It was the inside I couldn’t stand. It was so cold, like him … Isaac, I felt you flinch before. Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“What’s this?”
She touched a wide yellow bruise on his torso, and Bell recoiled despite himself.
“Just a couple of ribs.”