The Gray Ghost (Fargo Adventures 10)

“Just before dawn.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Here. Tomorrow. Before dawn.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “If Mr. Royce didn’t inform you, you’re not to tell anyone that we’re working together.”

* * *

—

“WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR?” I asked at dawn the next morning. We were standing at the tracks where the robbery had taken place.

“Wondering who’s out at this hour. Besides us, of course.”

No one that I could see. The brick-fronted factories were dark. We turned right, the streets empty, no sound but our own footsteps.

Suddenly Isaac stopped. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“A tinkling bell,” he said. “This way.”

We crossed the street, turned the corner, and discovered a bakery open for business. A bell rang as he opened the door, the scent of fresh bread greeting us as we entered.

A gray-haired shopkeeper was handing change to a young woman, who had several loaves in the basket on her arm. Isaac held the door for her as she left, then introduced himself to the baker, asking if any of his customers had mentioned seeing anything out of the ordinary the morning of the train robbery.

“Naught but servants out that early,” the shopkeeper said. “None mentioned anything to me.” We thanked him, and started to leave, when he added, “Of course, there’s the boy.”

“What boy?” Isaac asked.

“Caught him digging through the rubbish one morning a few weeks back, so I started leaving the burnt loaves by the door. Make it easier for him, poor lad. A few loaves were missing the day of the robbery. None the next few days. Hasn’t been back since.”

“Any idea where he lives?” Isaac asked.

“I’d guess, the streets. Skin and bones, that one. Sometimes a younger lad comes with him.”

The baker showed us the back door that was cracked open wide enough to let out his tabby cat and, next to the door, a wooden crate filled with the burnt bread.

I stared at the unappetizing rolls with their blackened bottoms, at once saddened and horrified to think anyone could be so hungry as to dig through rubbish or steal into a shop to take the cast-offs. What I wasn’t prepared for was Isaac’s suggestion that we come out each morning to wait for the lad.

“How will that help?” I asked.

“The fact he stopped coming after the robbery is telling,” Isaac said. “Perhaps he saw something.”

We returned the next morning, watching as the baker let out his cat, then he disappeared to the front of the shop as the little bell rang, announcing the first of an early string of customers. At least we were able to sit in the kitchen near the warmth of the ovens instead of the cold alley out back. On the third morning, after the baker opened the door for his cat, Isaac and I again waited. Just as I’d convinced myself this was a waste of time, a soft scrape outside the door caught our attention. In the shop, behind us, the little bell tinkled over the front door, making me wonder if the sound might scare off whoever was out there. I started to move toward the back to peer out, but Isaac lifted his finger, urging me to remain where I was. After several seconds, certain that the arriving customer had scared off our would-be burglar, I saw a small hand reach in, grasping one of the rolls, noting the child’s fingernails curiously clean for so young a thief.

22

Oliver cleared his throat as he looked up from the journal. “Perhaps this one starts a little too early. In case you haven’t guessed, Reginald Oren had it in for his uncle and was skimming from the orphanage and sabotaging Rolls-Royce by stealing the Gray Ghost. The next journal goes into more detail on how the Ghost came into my family’s possession. Given to us in thanks.”

“That’s quite a thank-you gift,” Remi said.

“Small, when you think about who Reginald was planning to sell the Ghost to. A competing motorcar company wanted the forty-fifty plans. They were trying to put Rolls-Royce out of business.”

“So the Gray Ghost never made the show?” Sam said.

“No. They put the Silver Ghost in instead, even though the coachwork hadn’t been completed. And the rest, as they say, is history.”