Time of Fog and Fire: A Molly Murphy Mystery (Molly Murphy Mysteries) (9 page)

Then we set off again. Roberts appeared and suggested we might like to adjourn to the lounge car while he made up the beds. I hadn’t known such a thing as a lounge car existed and followed Mr. Paxton through the train to a comfortable carriage with big windows and easy chairs. I was even able to put Liam down and let him play with his blocks on the carpeted floor. Coffee was served. It was all very civilized just as the country became even wilder. No sign of human habitation for miles except for a lone horseman. And then, to my delight, several Indian braves on horseback appeared on the crest of a hill. It wasn’t until we had passed them that I wondered whether Indians still attacked white settlers but concluded we were safe on a train thundering through the landscape at many miles an hour. But their presence reinforced the feeling of being in an untamed part of the country, and far from home. I kept a lookout for buffalo but spotted none. We were climbing steadily. When we opened a window the air felt fresh and bracing. Wyoming slipped past us with yellow bluffs and snow-covered mountains in the distance and at the end of the day we pulled into Ogden, Utah. It was bitterly cold against a backdrop of snow-clad mountains. The wind whipped off a great lake to the west of us. I put on my overcoat and bundled Liam up before taking him to the station restaurant, where I fed us both a thick bean and barley soup. I followed mine with a piece of apple pie and returned to my seat quite satisfied.

When we set out again I turned my chair toward the window and watched as we skirted the edge of that lake. The water glowed pink in the setting sun. A flight of seagulls wheeled overhead, strange to see so far from an ocean. It was beautiful, dramatic, and so very remote. Mr. Paxton returned from the dining car as night fell and we started chatting with the forced familiarity that travel brings. He showed me snapshots of his wife and daughter. And before I knew it I was telling him about going to meet Daniel. He was a good listener and I found myself saying more than I meant to, sharing my misgivings about undertaking the journey and whether I was doing the right thing. Eventually I opened my purse and showed him the letter. He read it, then looked up at me, puzzled.

“It’s hard to know,” he said. “So your husband was not the sort to write long, flowery letters?”

I had to laugh at this. “I was lucky if I got three lines from him when we were apart. He is a very matter-of-fact sort of person, Mr. Paxton. And he has never called me his ‘little wife’ in his life.”

“So he wrote the letter for a reason—either to amuse you, or to alert you.”

I nodded. “I don’t think he would believe that such words would amuse me. More likely to anger me. He knows I hate being patronized.”

“So he was alerting you,” he said. “To what?”

“My friends suggested that since everything he said was the opposite of the truth, when he wrote that he was sorry I was too frail to travel, he meant that I should travel. That I should go to him. And see—he has underlined four words whose first letters spell ‘come.’”

He looked even more puzzled then. “But you have no knowledge of what sort of mission took your husband to the West Coast? Whether he was likely to be in danger and what sort of danger that could be?”

“My husband had often faced danger as a policeman,” I said. “But this was a different sort of assignment, a secret assignment that he couldn’t share with me. I don’t know whether it was chasing criminals, rounding up anarchists, catching spies. All I have as a clue is in that letter. That he was being well looked after by Mrs. Rodriguez, a rich society matron. But then that too might prove to be the opposite of the truth.”

“But you’ll know everything as soon as you arrive and find him at Mrs. Rodriguez’s house, won’t you?” he asked.

“That’s the trouble,” I said. “I really can’t make up my mind what to do when I get there. If Daniel wrote such a letter because his every move is being watched, or worse still, he’s being kept a prisoner, then would I be walking into the same trap if I showed up on Mrs. Rodriguez’s doorstep? I feel that I should tread cautiously. Find a simple hotel for the first night and then ask questions of the right people. See who might know about my husband and whom he might have met.”

Mr. Paxton nodded again but he looked troubled. “Mrs. Sullivan, is it possible you are making too much of this? What if your husband wrote you a tongue-in-cheek letter and is looking forward to your arrival?”

“Then I’ll find him and all will be well. I’d like nothing better. But I know my husband, Mr. Paxton. He never does anything lightly or without weighing it carefully. I have to believe that he’s in some kind of danger. So to whom should I go? If he were on police business, then protocol would demand that he presented himself first to the local chief of police. But this isn’t exactly police business. It’s some kind of hush-hush operation. He may not even have given his real name. Tell me, is San Francisco small enough that word of a stranger in their midst would have spread around?”

He had to laugh at this. “My dear Mrs. Sullivan. I’m afraid you are in for a rude shock. It is a city of half a million people and almost all of them are strangers. It is the place to which people come to make a fortune, and when they have made it, to spend it. It is the main port of commerce with the Orient, for one thing. I’m told the harbor is at all times full of ships bringing exotic goods to our shores. The railroad barons live on Nob Hill. And it’s said to be a city rife with crime and intrigue. There are parts of the town where sensible people don’t go. The Barbary Coast waterfront with its saloons and houses of ill repute. Chinatown with its tongs and opium dens. I’m afraid it is the kind of place likely to shock those from the more sober and orderly East Coast.”

“I’ve lived in New York for some time now, Mr. Paxton,” I said. “Such things don’t unduly alarm me.” I didn’t add that I’d been a detective and that one of my cases had actually taken me into the heart of New York’s Chinatown.

Mr. Paxton was frowning now. “Mrs. Sullivan,” he said in a low voice, “if your husband suspected he was in some kind of danger, why on earth would he ever want to bring you into such an environment? If I were in trouble, I’d want my wife to be far away and safe.”

This was indeed a good question. In normal circumstance that was exactly what Daniel would have thought. So he wanted me there because there were things I could do but he couldn’t. Or, as I had thought many times before, I had made a stupid mistake and he didn’t want me there at all.

Ten

We fell silent. The question remained unanswered. I didn’t feel I could tell him that I had also been a detective and that Daniel might be relying on my skill and intuition to help him. This also was hard to believe. How many times had he refused my help in the past, and then accepted it finally, but grudgingly? He had admitted at times that I was not a bad detective, but as for involving me in his cases … that had hardly ever happened.

Liam tired of playing with blocks and took off down the car at a run, making me leap up to go after him. I carried him back complaining. Mr. Paxton took him onto his knee and played horsey with him, making Liam shriek with laughter. I looked around with concern. The other occupants of the lounge car were mostly sedate older people who might not welcome the noise of a child.

“Perhaps I should take him back to our berth,” I suggested.

“He’s having fun,” Mr. Paxton replied. “It’s good to laugh. You were also smiling for a while there and that’s about the only time I’ve seen you smile since we left Chicago.”

I sighed. “I’ve been weighed down with worry,” I said. “I keep telling myself that everything will be all right, but I can’t believe it.”

“Only one more day to go and you’ll be with your husband,” he said. “And all will be well, I’m sure.”

“I wish I were sure too,” I replied.

I carried Liam back to our berth and made him ready for the night. But he had become bored with trains and being cooped up in such a confined space. Probably he was picking up his mother’s misgivings. Anyway he cried and refused to be held or comforted until at last he fell into an exhausted sleep. I was sweaty and frustrated myself by this time and left him sleeping to go to the small washroom and splash water on any parts of me I could reach.

A real bath and a change of clothes by tomorrow night,
I told myself and pushed other thoughts aside. I returned to Liam and lay beside him. The light was too poor to read the magazine I had bought at the Chicago station. I was too wound up to sleep, so I lay there, being rocked from side to side by the train and feeling that bean soup heavy on my stomach. Lamps were dimmed and I lay in the unreal world of half darkness. From further down the car came the sound of heavy snoring. Outside the window was total darkness—no light, except for the stars that hung, unnaturally brilliant and so close overhead. I dozed, woke again, unable to find a comfortable position, dozed again, and was relieved when I spotted the first streaks of dawn in the sky.

Before the sun had fully risen I opened my eyes to find that the train wasn’t moving. I must have dozed off again for a moment. I sat up, trying not to disturb Liam, who was lying on his back with his thumb in his mouth, looking like a little angel. Then I lifted one corner of the blind and looked out. Around us was nothing but desert—rocky scrub with mountains rising in the distance. I wondered why we had stopped until I saw a wooden sign nailed to a post.
Reno,
it said. I raised the blind completely and lowered the window to look out. Yes, we were definitely at a station of sorts. There was a crude wooden platform with a hut beside it, but no sign of a town. A few more huts further off dotted the scrub and that was all. It looked like a place of utter desolation—the ends of the earth. Other passengers were alighting from the train and going into that hut. The train was taking on water. I eased myself past Liam and threw my shawl around my shoulders as I stepped down onto the platform and made for the hut with everyone else. They were offering coffee so strong it nearly took the roof off my mouth, and biscuits and gravy. I ate some—it wasn’t as bad as it looked—then dipped a biscuit in gravy and carried it back for Liam. There was no milk to be had. I’d have to ask Mr. Paxton to get some for me in the dining car.

I hoped this would be the last meal I’d be taking at a godforsaken station and hoisted myself back onto the train. Liam still slept but Mr. Paxton was now standing beside his bunk.

“We’re taking on water for the long climb over the Sierra mountains,” he said. “The hardest part of our journey, so I’m told.”

I nodded to him. He looked down at the sorry-looking biscuit in my hand. “Is that the best they could do?”

I nodded.

“Then why don’t you allow me to treat you to a decent meal in the dining car?”

I shook my head. “I couldn’t possibly. Besides, we’ll be in San Francisco later today.”

“The little guy needs his nourishment,” he said. “And besides”—he gave me a cheeky grin—“the opera company is paying.”

I didn’t refuse this time and when Liam awoke and was washed and dressed to the best of my limited ability we followed Mr. Paxton to the dining car, where we feasted on scrambled eggs, sausages, and hotcakes. As we ate, the train moved out of Reno station. Other passengers were muttering about the rumor of a late-season snowstorm ahead and the possibility that the track would need to be cleared.

“How long might that take?” a woman down the car asked.

The dining car attendant shrugged. “Could be a while. Could be days, depending on the depth of the snow.”

Days? To be held up when the end should have been in sight almost reduced me to tears of frustration. But I had to put on a brave face for my son. If only Sid and Gus could have come with me, I thought. Then the journey would have been a splendid adventure. We’d have laughed at the men wolfing down their pancakes. We’d have talked late into the night and they’d have helped me to find Daniel when we arrived in San Francisco.

But they weren’t here. I was alone and I’d have to make the best of it. “Only one more day,” I muttered as I carried Liam back to our seats. Roberts was making up the berths so we continued on to the lounge car. It seemed that most other passengers had the same idea as the car was quite full.

“They say the ride over the Sierra is spectacular,” a woman behind me said. A man stood up to offer me a seat. The track was beginning to climb across a bleak valley with a river rushing beside us. Then we were hugging the side of a mountain. Streamlets spurted out from under the track to cascade down to the river. It felt as if we were suspended in space and could crash down at any moment. Higher and higher we climbed, crawling at a snail’s pace until we came to the little settlement called Truckee, looking like something from a Christmas card scene. We didn’t stop here but climbed even higher, with snow-clad peaks all around us and the same peaks reflected in a long blue lake below us. I watched in awe as the train again seemed to cling to the side of a cliff, disappearing into tunnels and reappearing again. Indeed a remarkable feat of engineering. At the summit we came to an abrupt halt and we could hear the engine hissing as if with exhaustion. Presumably this was where the track had been blocked by snow. It was still snowing up here—great flakes fluttering down around us—and the tall pine trees were still draped in white mantels of snow. We heard shouts up ahead and fortunately the wait wasn’t long until the train gave a mighty jerk and we set off again. Snow swirled around us as we moved past banks of snow, passing men with shovels, crawling at a snail’s pace through a snow-covered landscape dotted with white-coated pine trees. Then we were descending and suddenly the snow was left behind and we were passing through a pine forest with a brilliant blue sky overhead.

Lower and lower we descended, as if the train sensed its destination was near and was anxious to be done. Pines became oaks among green grass dotted with orange poppies and purple lupines. The mountains turned to rolling hills. We passed through small townships and around midday we stopped at the state capital of Sacramento beside a wide river. This time we didn’t stop for long and we were off again, crossing a broad plain on which fruit trees were already coming into blossom. More green hills followed, interspersed with stretches of bright water. I thought it was a lake but Mr. Paxton told me it was the delta of a great river. Flocks of waterbirds rose at the sound of the train. And overhead seagulls wheeled, letting me know that we were close to journey’s end and the Pacific Ocean.