The Wrecker (Isaac Bell 2)

“That rabble-rouser will stop at nothing to sell newspapers. Don’t forget, win or lose, Kincaid for President still makes for a story right up to the last night of the convention.”

Bell named several of the California businessmen in Whiteway’s group. “Do they really believe they could bull Kincaid past the party regulars?”

Osgood Hennessy chuckled cynically. “Successful businessmen believe they succeed because they’re intelligent. Fact is, most businessmen are birdbrains except for that one small thing each was clever at in order to make money. But I don’t understand why they wouldn’t be perfectly happy with William Howard Taft. Surely they know that if they split the party, they would hand the election to the Democrats and William Jennings Bryan, that populist fiend. Hell, maybe they’re just soaking up a free holiday at Whiteway’s expense.”

“Maybe,” said Bell.

“Why do you ask?” said Hennessy, probing him with shrewd eyes.

Bell probed back. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance be undermining your friend’s rival for my daughter’s hand?”

Bell stood up. “I’m not sly. Nor furtive. I’ll tell you here and now, to your face, that your daughter deserves better than Charles Kincaid. Good night, sir.”

“Wait,” said Hennessy. “Wait . . . Wait… I apologize. That was uncalled for and obviously not true. You’re a straight shooter. I do apologize. Sit down. Keep an old man company for a moment. Emma will be back from her walk any minute.”

CHARLES KINCAID SAW EMMA COMDEN to the door of the double stateroom she shared with Osgood Hennessy. They heard Bell and Hennessy still talking in the parlor at the front of the car.

“Thank you for walking me to see the stars, Senator.”

“A pleasure as always. Good night, Mrs. Comden.”

They shook hands chastely. Then Kincaid headed to his own stateroom several cars back in the special. His knees were shaking, the usual effect Emma Comden had on him, his head still reeling, and he had unlocked his door and closed it behind him before he realized that someone was sitting in the easy chair. Dow? Escaping pursuit? Never. By the killer’s strict code, he would shoot himself in the head before he would risk betraying a friend. Kincaid pulled his derringer from his pocket and turned up the light.

Eric Soares said, “Surprise, Senator.”

“How did you get in here?” Kincaid asked the engineer.

“Jimmied the lock,” he answered nonchalantly.

“What the dickens for?”

Soares removed his wire-rimmed glasses and made a show of polishing them with his handkerchief. Finally, he put them back on, smoothed the tips of his handlebar mustache, and answered, “Blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” Kincaid echoed, thinking furiously.

As Senator Kincaid, he knew that Eric Soares was engineer Franklin Mowery’s assistant. Only as the Wrecker did he know that Soares falsified inspection reports to Mowery about the state of the stone piers supporting the Cascade Canyon Bridge.

He pressed the derringer to the young engineer’s head. Soares didn’t flinch.

“You can’t shoot me in your own stateroom. Which is mighty fancy compared to my miserable little upper Pullman berth. It’s even posher than Mr. Mowery’s.”

“I can shoot you and will,” Kincaid said coldly. “It was dark. I didn’t realize it was poor Mr. Soares startling me. I thought it was a radical assassin and defended myself.”

“That might satisfy the law. But shooting an orphan who is practically the adopted son of the most famous bridge builder on the continent will not exactly boost your presidential hopes.”

Kincaid pocketed his gun, poured himself a brandy from the crystal decanter provided by the Southern Pacific Railroad, and sipped it while leaning on the paneled wall and staring down at the intruder. He was greatly relieved. Soares, like everyone else, believed his Kincaid for President sham. That probably meant Soares did not know that he was the Wrecker. But what did he know that he thought was worth blackmail?

“I’d like a drink, too.”

Kincaid ignored the request. While it might be helpful to get him intoxicated, it would be more helpful to remind the little weasel of his place.

“You’re absolutely right about my political aspirations,” he said. “So let’s stop playing games. You’ve broken in here for a purpose. What is it? What do you want?”

“I told you. Money.”

“Why would I give you money? For what?”