“You keep referring to Europe.”
“You’ve described a criminal who needs to raise extraordinary amounts of capital in strictest secrecy. Where could he turn to but Europe for his money? And it’s where he will hide in the end. I recommend you use Van Dorn’s European connections to run down his bankers. In the meantime, I’ll try to help by beating what bushes I can.”
“Thank you, Father.” Isaac clasped his hand. “You’ve brought this case to life.”
“Where are you going?”
Isaac was striding toward the hall. “Back to the cutoff as fast as I can. He’ll keep attacking until Hennessy topples.”
“But there’ll be no fast trains this late.”
“I’ll charter a special to Albany and join a Chicago flyer.”
His father hurried with him to the door, helped him into his coat, and stood in the foyer as his son dashed into the night.
“When I can return,” Isaac called over his shoulder, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”
“I’m looking forward to making Miss Morgan’s acquaintance.”
Bell stopped short. Was that the flicker of the gas lamps or a twinkle in his father’s eye?
“You know? You’ve heard?”
“My sources are unanimous: ‘Your son,’ they tell me, ‘is a lucky man.’”
ANOTHER LATE-AUTUMN PACIFIC STORM was blowing hard while James Dashwood attended his twelfth temperance meeting. This one took place in a chilly Santa Barbara hall rented from the Elks. Rain lashed the windows, wind whipped the trees and spattered wet leaves on the glass. But the speaker was inspired and the audience enthusiastic, expecting salty passion from the gnarly, red-faced “Captain” Willy Abrams, Cape Horn clippermaster, shipwreck survivor, and reformed drunkard.
“That alcohol is not nutritious …” Captain Willy thundered. “That it awakens a general and unhealthy physical excitement… That it hardens the tissues of the brain . . . is proven by every scientific analysis. Ask any ship’s officer what makes mutineers. His answer? Alcohol. Ask a police officer what makes criminals. His answer? Alcohol. Ask the prison warden. Alcohol. And think of the expense! How many loaves of bread could grace the kitchen table with the money spent upon intoxicating liquors? How many snug homes could that money build? Why, that money could even pay off the entire National Debt!”
Dashwood paused, momentarily distracted from scanning the men in the audience. Of the many temperance orators he had heard on his search for blacksmith Jim Higgins, Captain Willy Abrams was the first to promise relief of the National Debt.
When it was over and Dashwood saw no one in the dwindling crowd who resembled the blacksmith, he approached the dais.
“One more?” asked Captain Willy, who was packing up his notes. “Always time for one more pledge.”
“I’ve already pledged,” said Dashwood, flourishing a Total Abstinence Declaration registered four days earlier by the Ventura chapter of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. He had ten more in his suitcase, along with the train-wrecking hook fashioned from an anchor and a stack of the lumberjack’s sketches.
“I’m looking for a friend, whom I hope has taken the pledge but might have stumbled. He’s disappeared, and I fear the worst. A tall, strapping fellow, a blacksmith named Jim Higgins.”
“Blacksmith? Big man. Sloped shoulders. Dark hair? Sad and weary eyes.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Seen him? You bet I’ve seen him. Thanks to me, the poor devil’s mended his ways. In the extreme.”
“How do you mean?”
“Instead of taking the pledge never to drink alcohol again, he’s pledged to give up everything a man could ever want.”
“I don’t follow you, Captain Willy.”
The speaker looked around, confirmed there were no women within earshot, and dropped a wrinkled lid over a bloodshot eye. “Gave up drink, gave up worldly possessions, even gave up girls. Now, I truly believe, brother, that drinking and drunkenness are inseparable evils. Our Savior Jesus Himself could not keep His customers sober if He ran a saloon. But never let it be said that Captain Willy advocates abandoning all earthly pleasures.”
“What did Jim Higgins do?”
“Last I heard, he became a monk.”
“A monk?”