The Illusion of Murder (42 page)

She almost shakes her head off her shoulders. “No no no, you must not ask, you must stay completely out of the matter.”

“I have to know. Especially about Amelia—”

“Out!”
She jumps up and slides open the door.

“Sarah—”

“Out.” She gives me a little push. As I start to step out she gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Some day I will make it up to you, but right now you are persona non grata to me.”

“Sarah, I think you’re in danger.”

“That’s so sweet; you are such an innocent little thing. Sometimes I feel like the whole world is in danger.”

“Armies marching on darkling plains…”

“Exactly.” She gives me another peck on the check. “Now run along, dear, and”—she leans close and whispers—“don’t come back unless I call for you.”

She slips back into her compartment and closes the door.

For a moment I stare at the door, tempted to slide it back open; then I hear the lock engage. Well, for now that takes care of that, and I start to enter my compartment but change my mind.

“George, what car is Mr. Selous in?”

“The next car up. But I saw Mr. Selous in the smoking car a moment ago. That’s three cars up.”

“Thank you.”

Smoking cars are my least favorite part of a train. I’d rather ride in the train’s coal tender with the fireman and the smoke from the furnace blowing back at us than be forced to breathe thick clouds of evil-smelling cigar smoke, a fact that I have shared more than once with men on a train. To no avail.

Lord and Lady Warton are there when I enter, with her ladyship’s charming personality fortunately hidden behind her veil, along with whatever she thinks about the fact we have been reunited as travelling companions. They’re in a group that includes Frederick, who is engrossed in conversation with another man and doesn’t realize I entered.

The Bluenoses both completely ignore me despite the fact I hear my name buzzed around the room and several people give a friendly smile of recognition. I feel like asking her if she’s faked any more heart attacks, but leave well enough alone.

“What do you gentlemen think of the Westley 303?” a man asks Frederick.

“A what?” Lord Warton asks.

“It’s a tiger gun, isn’t that so, Frederick?” Lady Warton says.

She demonstrates her knowledge of the weapon to put herself ahead of a simple little peasant girl like myself. That word my mother always dislikes me using, “bitch,” comes to mind whenever I am around Lady Bluenose.

“Yes, it can bring down a tiger,” Frederick says, giving me a big smile as he spots me, “but you better hit at a kill point or you’ll end up with six hundred pounds of charging beast in your face with the force of a locomotive.”

I move along, waiting for Frederick to disengage himself from men who want to ask questions of the renowned hunter, when I spot more familiar faces.

The widow Murdock and Cenza—her assistant, lover, whatever—and the gregarious Von Reich, are sitting together at the back of the car. The Viennese explosives expert is leaning back in a chair with glass in hand and appears to have enjoyed quite a few drops of the nectar of the grape. The widow is smoking a cigarillo, a small, thin cigar. She has a glass of brandy and judging from the flush on her cheeks it isn’t her first.

Cenza gives me a smirk that implies she knows something I don’t, and it’s about to drop on my head.

Smirking, perhaps, is a permanent deformity of her lips, if not of her mind.

It’s difficult for me to imagine Cenza with the Murdock woman. They are just not a match, whatever their personal sexual preferences. There has to be something else that glues them together and the only thing I can imagine is the pot of gold the widow acquired after her husband’s bizarre demise.

I reverse direction to stay away from them and find Frederick breaking away, calling out, “Nellie! I’m so delighted you’re here.”

Lord Warton gives me his back again, takes his charming wife by the arm, and exits. I catch something about “the bad penny is back” as they leave.

“I apologize for Warton,” Frederick says, taking me out of hearing range of others. “He’s a rude bastard. Under different circumstances, I would take him to task for his boorish behavior toward you.”

“What exactly are the circumstances that make the mere sight of me so offensive to him and prevent a gentleman from coming to my rescue?”

He chuckles. “Nellie, you have a wonderful sense of inquisitiveness. But you must learn to control it.”

“Does Amelia control it?” A shot in the dark.

His eyebrows go up. “Amelia? Isn’t that the name you thought you heard—”

“Yes,
thought
I heard, but I realize now that I was wrong. The truth is I never heard anything. I was never in Port Said. I don’t even know who you are. Or who I am.”

“Nellie, I think—”

“Please do. In the meantime, I’ll take some headache powders or something stronger for my weak feminine disposition or maybe I’ll just have some of Sarah’s damn coca wine.”

If I wasn’t a lady, I’d … instead, I spin on my heel and am out of there without looking back, retracing my steps to my compartment. I enter and slam the door shut behind me. And lock it.

Why did I do that? I went to talk to him in a civilized manner. I was happy to see him and could tell he wanted to see me. And what do I do? Blow up at him.

My only excuse is that I’m angry, frustrated, befuddled, and bewildered because what I’m certain is a murderous conspiracy seems to be unimportant to others.

“What is going on?”
I demand from the wall separating me and Sarah.

Maybe I am just a fool. I must be. I have risked winning my race to save Sarah and she doesn’t want to be saved. Doesn’t even want me around.

I’m beginning to wonder if they are right, that
I’m
the one with the problem.

Why else would I jeopardize the race my life depends upon to come back and travel with people who appear surprised—and some definitely annoyed—that I am still on the planet?

Sarah adores me, but slams her door in my face and tells me to stay out of anything involving her. Frederick is laughing at me or, at the very least, has developed a patronizing amused tolerance of my antics. Lord and Lady Bluenose treat me like a leper. Von Reich ignores me. And Cenza, who radiates malice with her smug grins, gives me the willies.

I know I am supposed to hide my head in the sand and pretend nothing is wrong, but despite the doubts that roll in my mind, my gut keeps telling me another shoe is about to drop.

What do these people know that I don’t?

63

Instead of having an entire deluxe Pullman car at my disposal, I have but a stateroom, and my space is so limited that all my floral and fruit offerings had to be left behind, which I so do miss. I also miss the speed of travel my first train had. This train creeps along like a snail, and I fear I will not make this last leg of my journey on time.

Before I reach my compartment, George hands me a telegram that was meant to be delivered in San Francisco, but has just caught up with me.

The message gives me great pleasure and changes my mood:

MR
.
VERNE WISHES THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE TO BE HANDED TO NELLIE BLY THE MOMENT SHE TOUCHES AMERICAN SOIL
:
M
.
JULES VERNE ADDRESSES HIS SINCERE FELICITATIONS TO THE INTREPID MISS NELLIE BLY
.

Oh, how I could use Jules’ help right now.

*   *   *

T
HE TRAIN IS RATHER POORLY APPOINTED
and it’s necessary for everyone to get off for meals. Our first stop is Logansport for dinner.

When I reach the platform, a young man whom I’ve never seen before or since, springs up on another platform and waves his hat shouting,
“Hurrah for Nellie Bly! Hurrah for Nellie Bly!”

A delegation of railroad men wait upon me and present me with beautiful flowers and candy, as does a number of private people. The crowd claps and cheers, and after making way for me to pass to the dining room, they press forward and their cheers go up again. They even crowd the windows to watch me eat.

After I sit down, several dishes are put before me bearing the inscription,
SUCCESS
,
NELLIE BLY
.

Despite all the attention I’ve gotten since I left the
Oceanic
, I’m not comfortable with the public displays of admiration. It makes me sad and angry—here are people who do admire me and are counting on me to finish and in a way I may have betrayed them because I could be hours ahead. How stupid I’ve been.

I spoon my soup very carefully so at least these wonderful people won’t have the memory of soup running down my chin or dropping on my blouse.

An ancient old dowager at another table has a note delivered to me. I open it, reading between sips of soup:

I don’t even get this type of treatment when I’m in a hit play. Next time I need attention I shall travel around the world at great speed
.

Glancing over at the old woman, I get a subtle nod in return and give back a wry grin.

What an actress she is.

On my way back to the train I’m informed there will be a delay because a switching locomotive is adding another car behind the one my compartment is in. It provides a golden opportunity for me to walk along the tracks in the cool night air and to enjoy a moment alone to myself. Not much privacy has been available to me during the more than two months I’ve spent on ships, trains, and in hotels.

Even though there are other people about, every now and then I can’t help taking a look behind me. It’s dark and I still have the key someone has killed for.

A short distance down the tracks they are connecting a Pullman car behind mine. It’s a beautiful car, polished forest green with a substantial gold trim that obviously shows it belongs to someone with an abundance of wealth.

I stop and stare at the nameplate on the side of the car, the name engraved in gold on a silver plaque.

Amelia
.

My heart beats a little faster and I get a flash of a man speaking her name as his lifeblood poured out onto the ground.

A porter steps down from the
Amelia
and lights a cigarette, and I saunter over to him.

“Good evening.”

“Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Isn’t this Mr. Westcot’s car?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

“I met him once. Would you mind taking my card to him?”

“Can’t do that, he’s not aboard.”

“Really? Who’s using the car?”

A grunt comes from above us. A man is standing on the top of the Pullman’s steps looking down at us.

The porter mutters, “’Scuse me,” and goes up the steps, the man moving aside for him without ever turning his eyes from me.

Another man, a chip off the old block of the one that’s staring down, appears from behind me.

Feeling boxed in, I quickly move away.

Obviously they are plainclothes policemen; they have the thick necks, beefy frames, and Irish whiskey noses of New York City’s Finest, with the roomy cheap suits that all seem to be cut from the same cloth.

They also could be Pinks, a nickname crooks have given Pinkerton’s private detectives. Many Pinks are former policemen and to find them protecting a millionaire’s rail car would not be unusual. The men employed by the agency founded by Allan Pinkerton, an immigrant from Scotland who was Chicago’s first police detective, are much favored by businessmen as investigators, guards, and strike breakers ever since the Pinks foiled a plot to assassinate President-Elect Lincoln when he traveled by train to the inauguration in Washington.

Why are two coppers guarding the
Amelia
? Or, more likely, whoever is in it. It certainly isn’t its owner, Westcot; he’s on his way to count his money out west.

Turning around, I smile politely and give them a “Good evening.”

Not particularly friendly greetings are returned, along with tips of their hats.

Very interesting … coppers, for sure. But I did get a surprise—their accents are British.

So why are two British dicks protecting the train car of Sarah’s lover?

Who
is important enough that one of the richest men in America gives up his luxurious Pullman so his guest can have a romantic tryst with an actress?

It’s a very short list, for sure … but who?

An answer comes to mind as to the possible identity of the lover, but it’s so incredible, so far-fetched that not even my vivid imagination will accept it as gospel. It’s simply not within the realm of reason that one of the most important men on the planet is in that train car. Not even what Frederick thinks is my overworked imagination can make me believe that he is in that car. If that were the case, it would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country.