“Are any of your boys up to pulling it off?”
Dow’s “boys” were a bunch of hard-bitten lumberjacks he had whipped into a powerful gang. Many were on the run from the law, hence the appeal of East Oregon Lumber’s remote site. Most would rather commit murder for money than break their backs cutting timber. Charles Kincaid never dealt with them directly—none knew his connection—but, under Dow’s command, they extended the Wrecker’s reach, whether to set up an attack on the railroad or terrorize his paid but at times tentative accomplices. He had dispatched a pair to kill the Santa Monica blacksmith who had seen his face. But the blacksmith had disappeared and the lumberjacks fled. Thinly treed, sun-drenched southern California was not safe for brawny, handlebar-mustachioed, wool-clad woodsmen with prices on their heads.
“I’ll do it myself,” Dow said.
“His woman is coming,” the Wrecker told him. “In theory, he’ll be distracted. That should make it easier for them to catch Bell off balance.”
“I’ll still do it myself, Senator. It’s the least I can do you.”
“I appreciate your kindness, Philip,” said Kincaid, aware that Dow’s code required a certain archaic formality of expression.
“What does Bell look like? I’ve heard about him but never set eyes on him.”
“Isaac Bell is about my height ... Actually, a hair taller. A build like mine, though perhaps a little leaner. Stern face, like you’ve seen on lawmen. Yellow hair and mustache. And, of course, he’ll be wearing fancy clothes for the banquet. Here, I’ll show you the scheme. The woman is staying on Hennessy’s train. The time to do it is late, after they come back from the banquet. Hennessy has trouble sleeping. He always invites his guests for a nightcap ...”
They went into the cabin, which Dow kept spotless. On the oilcloth-covered table, the Wrecker spread a chart that depicted the layout of Hennessy’s special.
“Working back from the locomotive and tender, N1 is Hennessy’s own car, as is N2. Next is the baggage car, with a passage through it. The stateroom cars, Car 3 and Car 4, are behind it, then the diner, Pullman sleepers, lounge. The baggage car is the divider. No one goes forward of it without an invitation. Bell’s fiancee will be in Car 4, Stateroom 4, the rearmost. Bell is in Car 4, Stateroom 1. She will go to bed first. He will linger for appearances.”
“Why?”
“They’re not married yet.”
Philip Dow looked baffled.
“Am I missing something here?”
“Same as a weekend in the country except it’s a train,” Kincaid explained. “An agreeable host arranges bedrooms to serve the guests’ liaisons so no one has to tiptoe too far down the hall. Everyone knows, of course, but it’s not ‘public knowledge,’ if you understand my meaning.”
Dow shrugged as if to say it was more important to kill aristocrats than understand them.
“Bell will enter Car 4 from the head end, walking back from Hennessy’s parlor. He will pass to the rear and knock on her door. As she opens it to let him enter, you will emerge from this alcove—the porter’s station. I recommend your sap since it is quiet, but, of course, I leave such details to you.”
Philip Dow traced the route with a manicured finger, thinking it through. To the extent that he could feel affection for anyone, he liked the Senator. He would never forget that the man had gone to bat for him when anybody else would have turned him in for the reward. Plus, Kincaid knew how things worked. It was a pretty good scheme, clean and simple. Although the woman could be trouble. With the hangman waiting for him in Idaho, he could not afford to get caught. He would have to kill her too before she screamed.
The sap made sense. Guns, of course, were noisy, while the slightest mistake with a knife could set off loud howling. Besides, from what he could remember of his bloody lifelong rampage, he had killed more enemies with a sap than guns, knives, and explosives combined. The concentrated weight of loosely bagged lead shot shaped itself to a man’s temple so tightly that it usually shattered bone and always blew out brains.
“Let me ask you something, Senator.”
“What?”
“You’re out to destroy Osgood Hennessy, aren’t you?”
Kincaid looked away so that Dow could not see in Kincaid’s eyes that Dow was only an instant from having his skull smashed in with the poker on the hearth.
“Why do you ask?” Kincaid asked.
“I could kill him for you.”
“Oh.” Kincaid smiled. Dow was only trying to help. “Thank you, Philip. But I prefer to keep him alive.”
“Revenge,” Dow nodded. “You want him to know what you’re doing to him.”
“Correct,” the Wrecker lied. Revenge was for fools. Even for a thousand insults, revenge was not worth the trouble. Osgood Hennessy’s untimely death would throw all his plans into a cocked hat. Lillian, heir to his fortune, was only twenty. Hennessy’s bankers would bribe a probate judge to appoint a guardian to protect their interests. J. P. Morgan himself would seize that opportunity to control the Southern Pacific by making Lillian Hennessy his ward. None of this would serve Charles Kincaid’s scheme to be first among the “favored few.”
Philip Dow had turned his attention back to the chart. He foresaw another problem. “What if the porter is in his station?”
“He’s not likely to be at that hour. If he is, how you deal with him is up to you.”
Philip Dow shook his head. “I don’t kill workingmen. Unless I have no choice.”
The Wrecker looked at him, inquiringly. “He’s only a porter. It’s not like he’s white.”
Dow stood back, expression darkening, eyes hard as anthracite. “The worst job on the train is the best job their people can get. Everyone is the Pullman porter’s boss. That makes him workingman enough for me.”
The Wrecker had never met a unionist who welcomed blacks to the labor movement. He hurried to assuage the angry assassin. “Here, take this.”
He gave Dow a
