The Great Train Massacre Page 7

John held out the tongue pin.

  Matt took it, then ran his thumb over the smooth edge. He handed it back to John.

  “This convinced me that it was no accident,” John said.

  “I think your analysis is correct. Do you have any idea who might have done something like this?” Matt asked.

  “No, I don’t. The truth is, Mr. Jensen, I have business operations all over the country, and it could be just about anyone. It has been my practice, when I buy out a business, to keep the original owner on as manager whenever I can and whenever they agree to accept my offer. It is entirely possible that there might be some residual resentment among some of them.”

  “Am I to understand that this attempt also included Miss Gillespie?” Matt asked.

  “Yes, as I said, we both managed to leap from the coach just in the nick of time.”

  “Well, may I ask, and please don’t take offense to this question, but is there any reason to suspect that your daughter might have been the target?” He looked at Mary Beth. “Let me explain what I mean. Would there be any men in your life, say from a broken relationship, who might be upset enough to try something like that?”

  To Matt’s surprise, Mary Beth laughed out loud. “Why, I take no offense at all, Mr. Jensen. I’m flattered that you would think I could affect someone to that degree. But the answer is no, I’ve had no relationships that were that intense.”

  They talked for about another half hour, and Matt enjoyed the conversation. John was a very engaging man, full of wit and humor, and Mary Beth was an exceptionally attractive woman, and she, like her father, was a most entertaining conversationalist.

  “Well, Mr. Jensen, it’s time to make a decision. Would you be willing to accompany us to Chicago?”

  “Yes. I would be glad to. When do we leave?”

  “We leave in five more days. At that time, my private car will be attached to the Western Flyer.”

  The moment Lucas Conroy learned that Matt Jensen had accepted the job and would be acting as bodyguard for Gillespie and his daughter, he began researching him. He learned that Matt Jensen was a sometimes railroad detective who had also been a deputy U.S. Marshal, and on more than one occasion had been a deputy sheriff. He had tamed outlaw towns and faced down fast guns. The consortium that wanted Gillespie killed, was right to be concerned about Matt Jensen. His presence would make killing the Gillespies difficult, so the obvious thing to do would be to get him out of the way first.

  Conroy had taken the consortium’s suggestion of printing up wanted posters and spreading them throughout Colorado and Nevada, hoping that someone would kill Jensen before he reached California, but from the moment this tactic was first suggested to him, he had no confidence that it would work. And as it turned out, he was right. Jensen was now in San Francisco, and Conroy was going to have to try another tactic, one that was more direct.

  Conroy had no full-time employees, but he did have men that he called on from time to time. Normally, he didn’t expose these men to actual jobs, because they were too valuable to him. By keeping them from being directly involved, he protected them, not only from the law, but from any repercussions from the job itself.

  One such man was Michael Beebe, and while Matt was meeting with John and Mary Beth, Beebe was in Conroy’s office getting directions.

  “I need you to find a couple of men to do a job for me,” Conroy said.

  “What kind of job?” Beebe asked. “The reason I ask is, I need to know what kind of men you want me to go looking for.”

  “I want someone killed,” Conroy replied frankly. He was in his own office, and he was speaking with someone who had done similar recruitment jobs for him in the past. There was no need for him to be circumspect about what he wanted.

  “But, don’t tell them what I want. I’ll tell them who I want killed and where they can find him.”

  “All right,” Beebe agreed.

  Because John had some business to complete, he asked Mary Beth to take Matt to the depot to show him the private car.

  “Thank you, Miss Gillespie,” Matt said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, if we are going to spend the next two weeks together, it’s going to get rather tiresome saying Miss Gillespie and Mr. Jensen, isn’t it, Matt?”

  Matt smiled. “It may, at that. Very well, Mary Beth it is.”

  “Would you like to have a drink with me, Matt? I know a very nice place that caters to ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Why, I would be honored to have a drink with you, Miss Gil . . . I mean, Mary Beth.”

  Mary Beth asked a lot of questions over their drink, some of them a little more personal than Matt liked to share with people he had just met. He didn’t refuse to answer any of them, though; he understood that she had every right to know as much about him as she could. After all, she was about to put her life in his hands.”

  “Oh, my, we’ve spent some time here,” Mary Beth said. “Papa wanted me to show you the private car we’ll be riding in.”

  For the past few days those people who, in their daily commerce, happened to pass the Union Pacific Depot had their curiosity aroused. What caught their attention was the private railcar sitting on a sidetrack. When they had passed by one evening, the track was bare. When they passed by the next morning the sidetrack was engaged, the private car having mysteriously appeared during the middle of the night.

  “There it is,” Mary Beth said when they arrived.

  The outside of the car was unremarkable, except for the fact that it was longer, by a third, than the average car and had a bright sheen from the thick coat of varnish.

  “Shall we have a look inside?”

  If the outside of the car was relatively unremarkable, the inside was anything but. The first thing Matt noticed when he stepped aboard was the car’s opulence . . . the rich wood paneling, the leather trim, the carpeting, and the furnishings. It was as if the car was a cross between an elegant men’s lounge and the finest hotel suite.

  “Why don’t I turn up the light so you can get a better look?” Mary Beth suggested.

  She twisted a valve to bring instant illumination from the gaslight fixtures. Looking around the car, Matt saw a long, narrow strip of paper curling down from a bell jar that covered some sort of mechanical contrivance.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “That is a teleprinter,” Mary Beth replied.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing. How does it work?”

  “It’s like a telegraph, but you don’t have to know the Morse code in order to operate it. Papa has a lease arrangement with Western Union. That allows him to tap directly into their wires, no matter where he is. This way he can send and receive messages without having to rely upon a third party. And, because the machine works by sending electric pulses to the proper letter-key, the message will be automatically imprinted upon the paper as soon as it begins coming in.”

  Matt heard a clacking sound, and a long, narrow strip of paper began curling down from the bell jar that covered the teleprinter machine.

  Mary Beth went over to it, waited until the machine grew quiet, then clipped off the paper. She smiled as she read it.

  “Papa wants us to meet him at the Royal Hotel dining room for supper.”

  “What did you think of the car?” John asked over their meal that evening.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Matt said.

  “It has three sleeping compartments, so of course you will occupy one of them.”

  “Will there be Pullman cars on the train?”

  “Yes, of course, there will be.”

  “I might be able to do a better job if I take a berth on the train and sort of not let everyone know what I’m doing.”

  “All right. I’ll make certain that you have a berth at the end of the car that is closest to my car.”

  “I’m really beginning to get excited about the trip to Chicago,” Mary Beth said. “I’m glad you are going with us, Matt, but I don’t really expect anything to
happen.”

  “Matt, is it?” John asked, lifting his eyebrows.

  Mary Beth laughed. “Papa, you’re old and don’t understand. Young people don’t like to call each other mister and miss. And if Matt is going to be with us all this time, we may as well be friends, don’t you think?”

  “And that’s all right with you, Mr. Jensen?”

  “I feel no need to be called mister.”

  John smiled. “Well, if that is the way it’s going to be, you may as well call me John. Tell me, Matt, is your room at the hotel satisfactory? Because if it isn’t, we can go see the clerk and find one that is to your liking.”

  “The room is perfect,” Matt replied.

  “Ahh, here is our dinner,” John said as two waiters approached, carrying the plates.

  The Four Aces Saloon

  Shorty McNair and Will Shardeen had broken out of prison in Salem, Oregon, three months ago, doing so by killing a guard who was escorting them to the dispensary. They had come to California to get away from the manhunt in Oregon, and in that time had supported themselves by petty theft and by doing jobs for various people. Most of the jobs they did were the kind that the average person wouldn’t undertake, and in many cases, what they were paid to do would have been illegal.

  At the moment Michael Beebe was sitting across the table from them in the Four Aces. Beebe knew that McNair and Shardeen were just the kind of men he was looking for to do the job that Conroy wanted. He knew that they had been in prison for murder, which meant they wouldn’t balk at doing it again. He also knew that they were escaped prisoners and wanted men and that gave him an advantage when he approached them with the offer.

  “How much?” McNair asked.

  “I’m not authorized to negotiate the amount,” Beebe said. “You’ll have to discuss that with the gentleman who is hiring you.”

  “Gentleman? Ha!” Shardeen said. “I can’t actually see no gentleman hirin’ us for anything.”

  “I can tell you this,” Beebe said. “I will give each of you twenty dollars apiece just to meet with him. And whether you decide to accept his offer or not, the twenty dollars is yours to keep.”

  McNair and Shardeen looked at each other and shared a broad smile.

  “You’ll give us twenty dollars just to meet with him?” McNair asked.

  “Yes.”

  McNair stuck his hand across the table. “All right, give us the money. We’ll meet with this fella.”

  Chapter Ten

  Much later that evening, McNair and Shardeen waited on the docks for a meeting. They had no idea who they were to meet, because Beebe hadn’t told them. The only reason they had agreed to the meeting at all was because of the twenty dollars and the implied promise of much more money. And because the meeting was in the middle of the night, and in a very remote location, the two men were certain that the job, whatever it was, would be to their liking. It was cool and damp, and as neither of the men was wearing a coat, they wrapped their arms around themselves in an unsuccessful attempt to keep warm.

  “Why the hell did the son of a bitch want to meet us in the middle of the night?” Shardeen asked.

  “Probably ’cause he don’t want to be seen with us,” McNair replied.

  “Hell, we that ugly that somebody don’t want to be seen with us?”

  McNair laughed. “I’m not, but you are,” he said.

  Out in the harbor a bell buoy clanged, its syncopated ringing notes measuring the passage of night. On a ship close by, a signalman striker marked the time as six bells, or eleven o’clock of the first watch.

  From the dark water of the bay, gossamer strands of fog lifted up to wrap around the pilings and piers as long, gray fingers of vapor blanketed San Francisco.

  The night was still, and the gaslights of the streetlamps were dimmed by the heavy blanket. There was an eerie, unworldly quality to the scene that made it hard to distinguish fantasy from reality.

  “Damn, why don’t he come on?” Shardeen asked.

  Shardeen had just asked the question when a private coach suddenly appeared, almost as an apparition materializing before them. A fog-dimmed aurora shrouded the running lamps as the coach stopped near the two men. The door to the vehicle opened, and in the spill of its inside lamplight, McNair and Shardeen could see the rich, red, velour upholstery of the interior. A well-dressed man leaned forward into the light.

  “Mr. McNair? Mr. Shardeen?”

  “Yeah, that’s us,” McNair said.

  “Please join me.”

  The two men glanced at each other, as if asking should they do this, then they climbed into the coach. “Who are you?” Shardeen asked.

  “I’m the man who asked the two of you to meet with me.”

  “Yeah, but, what’s your name?”’

  “I see no need for you to know my name. Is that a problem for you?”

  “Not if you pay for it, it ain’t.”

  “Oh, you may rest assured that I will pay you.”

  McNair ran his hand lightly across the upholstery. “Damn, I ain’t never seen no wagon like this before. I’ll bet somethin’ like this costs a whole lot of money.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  McNair continued to examine the coach.

  “Would you gentlemen like a drink?”

  “Yeah. You mean you got whiskey in here?” Shardeen asked.

  The well-dressed man opened an upholstered box attached to the door and removed a cut glass decanter of whiskey. He then took out two crystal tumblers, poured them half full, and handed one to each of the two men. He watched as each of them took a preliminary sip.

  “I’ll just bet that you have never tasted anything like this before, have you?” he asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” McNair replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually tasted any whiskey. That don’t mean I ain’t drunk whiskey, but I ain’t never drunk it for the taste of it. Only reason I ever drink it is to get drunk.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Shardeen said.

  “This is brewed from the mist that rises off the Scottish moors,” the well-dressed man said.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Shardeen said.

  “It just means that it is very good whiskey,” their host said.

  McNair drank it, and while he didn’t have a palate sophisticated enough to determine the taste of quality whiskey, he could tell that it was better than the stomach-turning, throat-burning bile he was used to drinking.

  “Let’s talk about money again,” Shardeen said. “Beebe said me ’n McNair could make a lot of money, if we was to do this job for you.”

  “Yes, and I like a man who gets right to the point.”

  “What do we have to do?”

  “I want you to kill someone.”

  “Yeah, we kinda figured that. You need to know, though, that that is goin’ to cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “A hunnert dollars,” McNair said.

  “Each,” Shardeen added. “In addition to the twenty dollars Beebe give us to wait out here in the dark tonight so’s we could meet you.”

  “Very well, I will give each of you twenty-five dollars now, and another seventy-five tomorrow after the job is done.”

  “What’s the name of the feller you want us to kill?”

  “You don’t need to know his name.”

  “You’re big on not givin’ names, ain’t you? And what do you mean we don’t need to know? How are we goin’ to find ’im, iffen we don’t even know his name?”

  “It is best that you not know his name. That way, there won’t be any way to connect the two of you to the killing. I’m just looking out for you two.”

  “And for you,” McNair said.

  “Yes, and for me. And as for finding him, he is in room 202 at the Royal Hotel. Here is the key.”

  McNair took the key.

  “Wait until after midnight.”

  “When do we get our money? ’N how will we find you again?”

  “If you are suc
cessful, meet me here at this same time tomorrow night, and I’ll have the rest of your money.”

  “But you want this feller kilt tonight, right?” McNair asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, we’ll do it for you,” Shardeen said. “Will you take us to the hotel where he’s a-stayin’?”

  “No, I don’t want you to be seen getting out of my coach. The hotel is only a few blocks away. That’s why I arranged to meet you here. I’ll see you here tomorrow night at the same time.”

  “You had better be here,” McNair warned.

  “I’ll be here.”

  After the two men left, Conroy leaned out of the window and called up to his driver.

  “Mr. Ho! Take me home!”

  Conroy leaned back in the comfortable seat, listening to the staccato clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the paving stones. He would never use such men as the two he had just met for a job that would require thought and initiative. For example, he wouldn’t think of using these men to actually be the ones to carry out a contract on John Gillespie and his daughter. But what he was asking them to do tonight couldn’t be simpler. All they had to do was sneak into the room and kill the sleeping occupant. And he had even given them the room key.

  He wasn’t as convinced as the consortium was that this man, Matt Jensen, would have to be killed in order for the job to be successful. He didn’t need anyone else to tell him how to do his job. He had once arranged for the assassination of a Russian nobleman who was visiting the United States, and that had gotten the American, Californian, and Russian governments involved. The case was still unsolved.

  Matt Jensen was just a diversion, and whether McNair and Shardeen killed him or not, Conroy was sure he would be able to take care of John Gillespie and his daughter.

  Royal Hotel

  The hotel clerk was dozing behind the front desk when McNair and Shardeen stepped into the lobby. The two men walked quietly across the carpeted floor, then took the stairs to the second floor. Told that the room would be at the end of the hall closest to the street, they turned in that direction.