There was singing. Across the street, four Long’s Legionnaires stumbled along, laughing, drunk. They were spread across the sidewalk, bumping people—hell, neighbors who paid his salary—out of the way as if they were worth nothing. Any other night, he’d chase after those clowns, pull them up short, and show them what the law was all about, what they couldn’t do in Sam’s hometown. Make them go back and apologize to everyone they had bumped and jostled.
Any other night.
He looked down at his lapel.
But on this night, he was one of them.
He got into his Packard, started the engine. Waited. Before coming to the station, he had plans.
So what now?
Go home and be a good boy?
Or…
He reached up, gently undid the lapel pin, and dropped it in his pocket. He shifted the Packard into reverse, then into first gear, and went back to being a cop.
Just a goddamn cop.
It took a few minutes of driving in an upscale section of town before he found what he was looking for, a turn-of-the-century Victorian house with light yellow paint. He parked in front and went up to the front porch, turned the doorbell, and waited.
A man opened the lace-curtain-covered door. Pat Lowengard, manager of the Portsmouth office of the Boston & Maine railroad.
“Oh,” Lowengard said, crestfallen, as though he’d been expecting anybody but Sam. “Inspector Miller.”
“Pat, you don’t look like you’re happy to see me.”
“We’re about to have supper, and my mother is visiting, and—”
Sam stepped in, forcing Lowengard back. Sam said, “I need a few minutes of your time. Then you can go back to supper and your happy family.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“It certainly can’t. Now, we can talk here, or I can drag you down to the station. Your choice.”
A woman’s voice called out. Sam couldn’t make out the question, but Lowengard yelled, “It’ll only be a minute, Martha! Just a bit of business to take care of.” Lowengard closed the door. “This way. My office.”
The station manager led Sam down a carpeted hallway. Sam looked at the nice furniture, the framed photos on the wall, and a thought came to him—that old phrase about how the other half lived. During these tough times, it was more like how the fortunate few lived.
At the end of the hallway was an open polished wooden door, and inside the small room were bookshelves, a desk, a typewriter, and two leather chairs. On the bookshelves were a collection of model trains and some leather-bound volumes, and on the floor was a small leather suitcase. After Sam entered the room, Lowengard closed the door and sat down and said, “Inspector, please, make it quick. What do you need?”
“You know trains, Pat, am I right?”
“Yes, I know trains. Is that why you came here? To ask me a stupid question like that?”
“Special trains.”
“What?
Sam put his hands on top of Lowengard’s desk. “Special trains. And don’t bullshit me, Pat. I’m talking about trains that don’t officially exist, trains that have no outside markings, save some yellow stripes. Trains that move at night—trains full of people. What are they?”
Lowengard’s face seemed to pale, as though the blood had suddenly stopped flowing to the skin. He licked his lips and said, “Sam, please… I could end up in a camp. Or someplace worse.”
“The other camps, right? The ones that are worse than the labor camps. Where are they? You must have an idea. The trains, where do they come from?”
“I… I can’t say anything, Sam. Please. I’m begging you…”
This close, Sam couldn’t help himself. He struck Pat across the face, the sound of the blow sounding sharp and loud in the small room. Pat gasped and brought his hand up to his cheek, and Sam said, “I’m investigating a homicide. And you’re impeding my investigation, which is a crime. Now. You may or may not get into trouble by telling me what you know, but I can guarantee you a shit-load of trouble right now unless you talk to me. It’ll make me very happy to drag your fat ass out of this nice, comfortable house and toss it in a county jail, or a state jail, or, if I get enough dirt on you, a labor camp. Think a guy in your shape will like cutting down trees at sunrise every morning?”
“Sam, please—”
Sam reached into his pocket, took out the flag pin, stuck it on his lapel. “Check it out, Pat. Know what this means? It means I’m part of something that’s not a goddamn club like the Elks or the Kiwanis. Something powerful. Something that can put you in a world of hurt if I just say the word. So. Should I say the word?”
Pat slowly rubbed his cheek, looking like a chubby child who could not believe what Daddy had done to him. “I… I’ll talk. Just for a few minutes. And you never tell anyone you talked to me, and we’re done. All right?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. We’re done.”
Pat blinked, and Sam saw tears in his eyes. “The trains… they started a few years ago. Top priority, we had to clear tracks and sidings for them, no delays, no questions. They departed from navy installations up and down the East Coast. You hear things, you know? In this business, you hear things.”
“Was the shipyard one of the departure points?”
“Yes, but not often. Maybe two, three times.”
“Who are in the trains?”
Pat shook his head. “People. That’s all.”
“Where do they come from? And where do they go?”
“Transport ships, that’s all I know.” Pat rubbed his cheek. “From there, they mostly go to small towns down south. A few out west. And just a while ago, a place in upstate Vermont. That’s it. The trains go to these towns, and poof, they disappear. As if Mandrake the Magician made them go away.”
“What’s the name of the town in Vermont?”
“Burdick. Up near the Canadian border. I know a couple of the special trains went there in the past year. And that’s it, Sam. I swear to God, that’s it.”
Sam looked at the plump station manager, could smell the dread coming off of him. Something inside felt sour as he remembered how thrilled he’d been to be named an inspector, to better fight crime. And here he was, slapping a scared railroad manager, a man who had done nothing save what he could to keep his job and support his family.
Sam said, “I’m leaving. But only if you can get me a round-trip ticket out to Burdick as fast as you can.”
The man was almost pathetic in his eagerness as he picked up a pen and scribbled something on a slip of paper. “Of course, Sam, of course. Give me a call, seven A.M. tomorrow, and you’ll be all set.”
Pat put the pen down and then burst into tears. He swiped at his eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry… it’s just that… when I was a kid, I loved trains. My uncle worked at B and M in Boston, managed to get me a job as a luggage clerk, and I worked my way up. God, I loved trains, and look where I am… and what I have to do.” He fumbled under the desk, came out with a handkerchief, honked his nose. “Look at me. A job I should love… and I hate it, Sam, hate it so much. Nobody loves trains anymore. They’re crowded, dirty, and share tracks with trains full of prisoners. See that?” He pointed to the suitcase by the door. “It’s gotten so bad, I’ve got a suitcase packed, just in case. Like every other station manager I know, one foul-up, one bad decision on my part, and I’m riding one of the trains I’m supposed to love to a labor camp.”
He wiped his eyes and his nose with the handkerchief. Sam heard the voice of Pat’s wife calling. Ashamed at what he had done to the woman’s husband, he left as quickly as he could.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam stood in front of a three-story tenement building surrounded by others, all with
