Giving Up the Ghost (8 page)

I drank another cup of coffee and had a slice of toast and pondered Calder's history with the vigilance committee. The events he described were just four and one-half years distant, but things change fast on the frontier, and Dodge had transformed itself from a burgeoning hamlet with a few wooden buildings and many tents to an established, if not yet entirely civilized, municipality on the hundredth meridian, where the West begins. In my sixteen months here, I had come to think of it not as the edge of the world, but as the edge of the world with a few amenities.

At half-past ten, Eddie—who was sitting atop Lincoln's head and watching the business of the agency with his characteristic calm—announced the arrival of strangers at our door by stretching his wings and emitting an evil-sounding chuckle. I looked, and a shadowy cluster of men had appeared on the board sidewalk outside the agency door. This was followed by a curt knock.

“It's open,” I called.

That dandy Delaney held the door for General Manager Strong, who strode into the agency with all the gravity of a captain walking onto the deck of a ship. That rubbed me the wrong way, because the agency was
my
ship. Behind him were Salisbury and Lawson, the telegraph men, and another man whom I had not seen before.

Eddie beat his wings and, I imagine, swore in raven language.

“What in heaven's name is that thing?” Strong asked.

“That is not a thing,” I said. “His name is Eddie, and he is a free raven and a valued member of the agency. Eddie, say hello to the general manager.”

“‘
Bells, bells, bells!
'”

“He is quite fond of quoting Poe,” I said.

“A talking raven,” Strong said. “Have we entered Barnum's?”

“No humbug here, I assure you.”

There followed a round of introductions, so that Calder could know the names of our visitors. The new man—who looked to be perhaps forty-five years old, with a bulge beneath his coat that was obviously a firearm—was introduced as J.H. Grunvand. He clasped a book under one arm. Calder dragged a chair from the back for Strong. The rest could stand, the general manager said.

Then I asked: “Where's Engineer Skeen?”

“At the engine, as his contract requires,” Strong said.

I whistled.

“Let's see, that means he's been on duty for twelve or fourteen hours?” I asked. “I'm sure that's not in his contract.”

“Exigent circumstances, miss,” Strong said. “Exigent circumstances.”

“So, the trouble on the wire hasn't cleared up?”

“Afraid not,” Salisbury said. “If anything, it's worse.”

“Still all Bible verses and antique messages?”

Neither Salisbury nor Lawson dared answer.

“Ah,” I said. “Still think this has a natural explanation?”

“I don't know,” Salisbury stammered.

“I'm glad you gentlemen are here,” Calder said. “We had a mystery of our own last night that you might be able to help us clear up. A man was shot while attempting to murder Ophelia.”

“I am so very dearly sorry to hear that,” Strong said, with no sadness in his eyes. “Did you shoot your assailant in self-defense, Miss Wylde?”

“No,” I said. “I am religious in my abhorrence of guns.”

“I shot him,” Calder said. “Helped by one of our town marshals. The only identification was found in this hat.”

Grunvand stepped forward.

“Frank Blackmar.”

Calder said that it was, and asked him how he knew.

“I recognize the hat,” Grunvand said. “We were partners. I am sad to think he is dead.”

“My condolences,” I said. “Does that mean you're a Pinkerton as well?”

Grunvand smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “I am a Pinkerton man. As a matter of fact, I have brought something as a kind of calling card.”

He held out the book to Calder.

“Don't assume I'm in charge around here,” Calder said. “This is an equal partnership. But when it comes to books, she's the boss.”

A little flustered, Grunvand offered me the book.

“Just published last year,” he said.

It was a handsome book, bound in green cloth and having the Pinkerton never-sleeping eye on the cover.

“
The Spiritualists and the Detectives
,” I said, reading the cover. “By Allan Pinkerton.”

“Part of a series of wonderful and true detective stories by our chief,” Grunvand said. “This year's title is
Strikers, Communists, Tramps, and Detectives
.”

I was familiar with the books. They were something short of wonderful and not even in the same state as true. Pinkerton—if, in fact, he did write them himself—had the annoying habit of changing names and locations to protect the identities of his clients. But it wasn't that that ultimately made me throw the book across the room, aiming for the stove but hitting the bookcase behind instead, rocking the bust of Lincoln and making Eddie screech his displeasure; no, it was a combination of a dreadful writing style, a preaching and patronizing tone, and the many untruths woven throughout. Organized labor, unconventional lives, progressive political philosophies, and open-minded religious attitudes, according to Pinkerton, all posed the gravest threats yet encountered by hard-working Americans. Particular hate was reserved for the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers.

I returned the book to Grunvand.

“I've already read this one, thank you.”

Calder picked up the bowler and brushed the felt.

“Tell me,” he said, “why your Blackmar would want my partner dead.”

“That is especially troubling,” Grunvand said. “I know of no reason.”

“How long had you both worked for the Santa Fe?”

“I'm afraid we can't divulge—”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Strong exclaimed. “We're burning through seventy-five thousand dollars a day with the line tied up. Tell the man what he wants to know.”

“Three weeks,” Grunvand said.

“Why were you hired?”

Grunvand looked at Strong.

Strong waved his hand impatiently.

“There had been some irregular business that we were called to investigate,” Grunvand said. “It seemed silly to me, at first. Crews from the Argentine yards to Newton were complaining of a ghost train.”

“A black train.”

“Yes, a short funeral train with no markings,” he said. “Always at night. Some swore they saw it crewed by ghouls, with skeletons trotting alongside with coffins on their backs.”

“Sounds like the stories told about the phantom funeral train of President Lincoln,” I said.

“Yes, but Lincoln's train was never east of the Mississippi,” Grunvand said. “And, of course, there's the scientific fact that phantoms and ghosts simply do not exist.”

Calder laughed.

“I saw something similar,” I said. “Last night, from aboard the
Ginery Twitchell
. I had the impression that it was very real.”

“Impossible,” Grunvand said. “There is simply no way an unscheduled train could traverse the line, without orders, and not collide with other locomotives or rolling stock, or be derailed by a switch turned the wrong way.”

“So, what is this train?” Calder asked.

“I don't know.”

“You're a mite short on answers, aren't you?” Calder asked. “Why don't you tell us why you're here, because I haven't heard a reason yet.”

“We've come to engage your services,” Strong said.

“You want to hire us,” Calder said.

“More than that,” I said. “They need our help.”

“Well, yes,” Strong said.

“To solve the mystery,” I said.

“To help us correct our negative cash flow condition,” Strong said.

“And that would require us to solve the mystery,” I said.

“I don't care how you do it,” he said. “Frankly, I don't believe in all this hoodoo about ghosts and spirits, and I still think there is a rational explanation for what seem to be undelivered messages on the wire.”

“Undelivered?” I asked.

“Yes,” Lawson said. “We took turns listening and copying messages all night, and most seem to have this in common: they appear to be undelivered messages, or lost messages, or communications that for one reason or another did not reach their intended recipient. Many of the messages include requests for forwarding, or replies that the recipient had died, or were dispatches for trains that had, well, had already met with some catastrophe. Ashtabula River was among them.”

The worst disaster in American railway history had occurred a couple of years before near Ashtabula, Ohio, when a bridge collapsed and a train plunged a thousand feet into the icy river below. Ninety-two people had died. I knew something of the accident because, in my past life as a confidence woman, I pretended to have made contact with one of the victims—and was found out.

“That is curious,” I said. “In my line of work, I find that revenants—”

The word did not register with Grunvand.

“Revenants,” I said. “Those who return from the dead. Revenants always have unfinished business, so it makes sense to me that ghostly telegraph messages would be somehow incomplete or otherwise unfinished.”

Strong grew impatient.

“Haste, woman,” he said. “Haste. Spare me your lectures on the springtime country or whatever else it is you call the other life. Deal with the here and now. We have been plunged back to the days of the Pony Express, cut off as we are from convenient communication with our headquarters in Topeka, or with the chief detective Allan Pinkerton in Chicago. We are a wagon that has thrown a wheel, and you are unfortunately the only blacksmith available.”

“Yes, how unfortunate for you,” I said. “Let's discuss terms.”

“Terms?” Strong asked. “Where's your patriotism, Miss Wylde? The Santa Fe is America, and America needs you. Let us not sully the task at hand with a crass discussion of profit.”

“Strange,” I said. “I don't ever remember capitalists being afraid to discuss profit before. But let me put your mind at ease, because this agency is positively communal in its approach to profits.”

“What is she talking about?” Strong asked Calder.

“We don't make a profit from our clients,” Calder said. “We only charge actual expenses.”

“Then how do you stay in business?”

“Through readers,” I said. “In exchange for our services, clients must agree to allow me to write a public account of their case—no matter where it leads. Our living comes from the sales, royalties, and subscriptions of the resulting books. Our daily bread is bought with the pleasure that our readers derive from sharing our adventures.”

“Out of the question,” Strong said. “We will deal on a confidential and cash basis. A thousand dollars should be sufficient, I think. Mr. Delaney, please write out a check in that amount, and I will sign it.”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” Strong asked.

“Yes,” Calder said. “Pardon?”

“We've explained the rules,” I said. “You may either agree to them, or not. But the rules are not subject to negotiation. We cannot be bought.”

“Ophelia,” Calder said. “Would it hurt to—”

“No, Jack. Stand with me on this one.”

There was a deadly pause.

“Yes,” Calder said. “Ophelia is correct. We stand by our rules.”

“Lunatics,” Strong said.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But remember, we're the only blacksmith you have.”

Strong looked at Grunvand, who shrugged.

“Oh, all right,” he said. “Show me the contract.”

“We operate on a handshake here,” Calder said.

Strong shook hands with both of us.

“What are your expense requirements?” he asked.

“Transportation,” I said.

“Mr. Delaney,” Strong said. “Please provide Miss Wylde with a pass that is good for our line and all connections and reciprocal agreements. That reaches from coast to coast, if need be. It is also good for overland coach operations, if they connect to our track as well.”

“This is a rush job,” I said. “I require the assistance of my partner, Jack Calder, and Dr. Thomas McCarty.”

“The pass will prove good for yourself and up to two companions.”

“And the expiration date?”

Travel was always a major obstacle. Some of our clients simply could not afford the cost of the transportation that was often necessary.

Strong sighed.

“One year,” he said.

“Make it a lifetime pass and we will waive all other expenses.”

Calder shot me a look of disbelief.

“For a refugee from the commune,” Strong said, “you are quite a tough negotiator. Oh, all right. But for
your
lifetime only.”

He directed young Delaney to make it so.

“Is there anything else?”

“No,” I said. “My companions should leave within the hour for your station at Florence. Will that be possible, given the condition of the rails?”

“Not only is it possible, but it will be an express, with no stops,” Strong said. “Nothing else is running. You and your associates will be there in time for supper. Mr. Delaney will accompany you, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Ah, Miss Wylde,” Grunvand said. “I have been to the charming restaurant at the hotel—such a surprise for the weary traveler. You will enjoy the food. I can personally recommend the vinegar pie.”