the railroads, we will hunt him mercilessly from one end of the continent to the other.”
“On the contrary,” said Ebenezer Bell, “he will enjoy his victory in private splendor.”
“How?”
“He has shielded himself from being identified, much less investigated. Who do you hunt? In what country? A criminal as resourceful as you’ve described would model his ‘retirement,’ shall we say, on the European munitions dealers. Or the opium cartels. I know of speculators and profiteers and stock frauds who have plied their illegal trade unmolested for thirty years.”
“How?” Isaac demanded, though he was beginning to get the picture.
“If I were the Wrecker,” Ebenezer answered, “I would go abroad. I would establish a maze of foreign holding companies shielded by corrupt governments. My shell corporations would bribe the authorities to turn a blind eye. A war minister, a treasury secretary. The European chancellories are infamous.”
“And in America,” Isaac said quietly, “a member of the United States Senate.”
“The corporations bribe senators. Why wouldn’t a criminal? Do you have a senator in mind?”
“Charles Kincaid.”
“Hennessy’s man. Although I must say that I’ve always thought of Kincaid as even more of a buffoon than most who sit in that august chamber.”
“So he seems. But I have had a terrible suspicion about him for quite a while now. What you suggest would explain why. He could be the Wrecker’s agent.”
“With unfettered access to government officials anxious to please. And not only the Wrecker’s agent in the United States but also the Wrecker’s spy inside Hennessy’s inner circle. That would be diabolical, wouldn’t it, son?”
“Effective!” said Isaac. “If the Wrecker has shown himself to be anything more than cold-bloodedly ruthless, it is effective… But there is one problem with this theory: Charles Kincaid appears to be angling to be nominated for the presidency.”
“You don’t say!”
“Preston Whiteway is backing a run. It’s hard to imagine a politician who wants to be president risking getting caught taking bribes from a murderer.”
Ebenezer Bell said quietly, “He would not be the first politician sufficiently arrogant to convince himself no one can catch him.”
Padraic Riley interrupted to say that he had laid out brandy and coffee in the library and would be going to bed if nothing else was required. He turned on his heel and disappeared before anything was.
He had also left a coal fire glowing in the grate. While Ebenezer Bell splashed generous dollops of brandy in two coffee cups, Isaac Bell stared into the flames, thinking hard. It could have been Kincaid who hired the prizefighters to kill him in Rawlins.
“I bumped into Kenny Bloom on the Overland Limited,” he said.
“How is the scamp?”
“About sixty pounds plumper than your average scamp and richer than ever. Father, how would the Wrecker raise the capital to buy the Southern Pacific?”
Ebenezer answered without hesitation. “From the richest bankers in the world.”
“Morgan?”
“No. As I understand it, Morgan is stretched tight. He couldn’t touch Hennessy’s roads. Nor could Vanderbilt or Harriman or Hill, even if they combined. Does Van Dorn have offices overseas?”
“We have reciprocal arrangements with foreign investigators.”
“Look to Europe. The only bankers rich enough are in London and Berlin.”
“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?
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
“What did Jim Higgins do?”
