The locomotive and the string of cars thundered into the river with a splash that deluged the banks. Stream and smoke billowed. Even submerged, the fire continued to glow cherry red in the gondolas. But the cars were heaped in a tight string across the riverbed like the closely bunched islands of a barrier beach that protected the mainland from the power of the ocean. Floodwater tumbled over and around them, its force dissipated, its impact diminished.
The Cascade Canyon Bridge stopped shaking. The fallen train had diverted the flood. And as Isaac Bell passed in and out of consciousness, he saw the electric work lights blaze to life again as bargeloads of railroad men swarmed back into the caissons to buttress the piers.
59
BRAVING A BLIZZARD, CROWDS GATHERED BEFORE A GRAYSTONE mansion at Thirty-seventh Street and Park Avenue to watch the guests arrive at the wedding of 1908’s winter season: the union of a son of Old New York and the daughter of a shirtsleeve railroad titan. Those observing a handsome couple crossing the snowy sidewalk to mount the steps of the mansion assumed that the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman with the golden mustache was gripping the arm of the beautiful woman at his side so she would not slip on the ice. The opposite was true, but no one heard Isaac Bell say to Marion Morgan, “Who needs a walking stick when he has a strong woman to lean on?”
“A detective recovering from a punctured lung ...”
“Only slightly. Never would have made it, otherwise.”
“... nearly bleeding to death, infection, and pneumonia, is who.”
“If that cameraman takes my picture, I’ll shoot him.”
“Don’t worry. I told him that Picture World would fire him and throw his family in the street if he points it anywhere near you. Do you have the ring?”
“In my vest pocket.”
“Hold tight, darling, here come the steps.”
They made it, Bell pale with effort. Butlers and footmen ushered them inside. Marion gasped at the flowers arrayed through the foyer and up the grand staircase. “Sweet peas, roses, and cherry blossoms! Where did they get them?”
“Anywhere it’s spring beside the father of the bride’s railroad tracks.”
The father of the bride hurried up to greet them. Osgood Hennessy was dressed in a pearl-gray morning coat with a rose boutonniere. Bell thought he looked a little lost without Mrs. Comden at his side and grateful for a friendly face. “Marion, I’m so glad you came all the way from San Francisco. And you, Isaac, up already and full of go.”
“A wedding without the best man would be like a hanging without the rope.”
Marion asked if the bride-to-be was nervous.
“Lillian nervous? She’s got seventeen bridesmaids from all those fancy schools she got kicked out of and ice water in her veins.” Hennessy beamed proudly. “Besides, there has never been a more beautiful bride in New York. Wait ‘til you see her.” He turned his head to favor J. P. Morgan with a chilly nod.
Bell whispered to Marion, “That record will fall if we decide to marry in New York.”
“What was that?” said Hennessy, sending Morgan off with a per functory slap on the shoulder.
“I was just saying, I should check in with the groom. May I leave Marion in your care, Mr. Hennessy?”
“A pleasure,” said Hennessy. “Come along, my dear. The butler told me we’re supposed to wait till after the vows to drink champagne, but I know where it’s kept.”
“Could I see Lillian first?”
Hennessy pointed the way upstairs. A knock at her door elicited squeals and giggles inside. Three girls escorted her to Lillian’s dressing table, where more girls hovered. Marion had to smile at how her extra years seemed to awe them.
Lillian jumped up and hugged her. “Is this too much rouge?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re heading toward a bridal suite, not a bordello.”
Lillian’s school friends convulsed with laughter, and she told them, “Go away.”
They sat alone a moment. Marion said, “You look so happy.”
“I am. But I’m a little nervous about ... you know, tonight ... after.”
Marion took her hand. “Archie is one of those rare men who truly love women. He will be everything you could desire.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know the type.”
BELL FOUND ARCHIE ABBOTT in a gilded reception room with his mother, a handsome woman with an erect carriage and a noble bearing whom Bell had known since college. She kissed his cheek and inquired after his father. When she glided off, stately as an ocean liner, to greet a relative, Bell remarked that she seemed pleased with his choice of bride.
“I thank the Old Man for that. Hennessy charmed the dickens out of her. She thinks this mansion is extravagant, of course, but she said to me, ‘Mr. Hennessy is so marvelously rough-hewn. Like an old chestnut beam.’ And that was before he announced he’s building us a house on Sixty-fourth Street with a private apartment for Mother.”
“In that case, may I offer double congratulations.”
“Triple, while you’re at it. Every banker in New York sent a wedding gift ... Good Lord, look who came in from the great outdoors.”
Texas Walt Hatfield, longhorn lean and windburned as cactus, swaggered across the room, flicking city men from his path like cigarette ash. He took in the gilded ceiling, the oil paintings on the walls, and the carpet beneath his boots. “Congratulations, Archie. You struck pay dirt. Howdy, Isaac. You’re still looking mighty peaked.”
“Best-man nerves.”
Hatfield glanced around at the elite of New York society. “I swear, Hennessy’s butler looked at me like a rattlesnake at a picnic.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Said I’d scalp him if he didn’t head me toward you. We gotta talk, Isaac.”
Bell stepped close and lowered his voice. “Did you find the body?”
Texas Walt shook his head. “Searched high and low.
