The Wrecker by Clive Cussler (book club reads .TXT) 📕

with John Chinaman,” Hennessy retorted. “That makes him good enough for me.”

Franklin Mowery stood up from the table and glanced at Whiteway, muttering, “Next time your train glides through the Donner Summit, cast your eye on their stonework.”

Whiteway, deaf to dissent, grinned at Marion. “I’ll wager that old Isaac here applauds Senator Kincaid’s understanding of the threat, since he’s the hotshot detective who stopped that opium-maddened Chinaman in his tracks.”

Bell thought that Whiteway’s grins at Marion were getting dangerously close to leers. Dangerous for Whiteway, that is.

“The motivation appears to have been money,” Bell replied sternly. Dodging Marion’s kick under the table, he added, “We have no evidence that the man who paid him smoked anything stronger than tobacco.”

Mowery gathered up his walking stick and limped toward the porch.

Bell hurried to hold the door for him, as his young assistant had not been invited to the banquet. Mowery tottered across the covered porch and leaned on the railing that overlooked the river.

Bell watched curiously. The engineer had been acting strangely all day. Now he was staring at the bridge piers, which were lighted by the electric arc lamps. The old man seemed mesmerized.

Bell joined him at the railing.

“Quite a sight from down here?”

“What? Yes, yes, of course.”

“Is something the matter, sir? Are you not feeling well?”

“Water’s rising,” said Mowery.

“It’s been raining a lot. In fact, I think it’s starting up again now.”

“The rain only makes it worse.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“For thousands of years, the river has descended from the mountains at a steep gradient,” Mowery answered as if lecturing from a textbook. “At such a gradient, countless tons of debris tumble in the water. Abrasive materials—earth, sand, gravel, rocks. They grind the riverbed deeper and wider. In doing so, they dredge up more debris. Where the river’s gradient decreases, she deposits this material. Crossing flats like the one this town’s built on, the river spreads out and meanders. Her channels interweave like braid. Then they bunch up here in the gorge, laying down tons and tons of sediment. God alone knows how much lies between here and bedrock.”

Suddenly, he looked Bell full in the face. His own features reflected skull-like in the harsh electric light.

“The Bible tells us a foolish man builds his house on sand. But it doesn’t tell us what to do when we have no choice but to build on sand.”

“I suppose that’s why we need engineers.” Bell smiled encourag ingly, sensing that the engineer was trying tell him something that he was afraid to voice.

Mowery chuckled but did not smile. “You hit that nail on the head, son. That’s why we trust engineers.”

The door opened behind them.

“We’re heading back up to the train,” Marion called. “Mr. Hennessy is tired.”

They thanked their hosts and said their good-byes. Charles Kincaid came with them, giving Franklin Mowery an arm to lean on. Isaac took Marion’s hand as they walked through the rain to the foot of the steep freight line.

She whispered, “I am going to plead weariness from my long journey and slip off to bed.”

“Not too weary, I hope, for a knock on your door?”

“If you don‘t, I’ll knock on yours.”

They boarded the Snake Line passenger car in which they had arrived. Three engines in front and two in back huffed them slowly up the steep switchbacks to the plateau where Hennessy’s special was parked on its siding, windows glowing in welcome.

“Come on in, gents,” Hennessy ordered. “Brandy and cigars.”

“I thought you were tired,” said Lillian.

“Tired of businessmen blathering,” Hennessy shot back. “Ladies, there’s champagne for you in the diner while the gents have a smoke.”

“You’re not getting rid of me,” said Lillian.

Mrs. Comden stayed too, quietly needlepointing in a corner chair.

Marion Morgan said good night and headed back to her stateroom.

Isaac Bell, waiting a decent interval for propriety’s sake, continued to observe Kincaid closely.

PHILIP DOW LOOKED OUT the curtain when he heard someone enter the stateroom car from the front vestibule. He glimpsed a beautiful woman walking toward the porter’s station. She wore a red gown and a full necklace of red rubies. Such displays of wealth usually raised a visceral anger in the union man. But he was taken by her happy smile. Women as beautiful as she, with her straw-blond hair, long, graceful neck, narrow waist, and coral-sea green eyes always smiled like they were congratulating themselves on their looks. This one was different. She smiled with happiness.

He hoped she would not stop at Marion Morgan’s door. He dreaded having to kill such a lovely creature. But she did stop and enter Stateroom 4. He had never killed a woman. He didn’t want to start now. Particularly this one. But he was not eager to meet the hangman either.

Quickly, he revised his plan of attack. Instead of waiting for her to open the door when Isaac Bell knocked, he would strike the instant that Bell raised his hand to knock. Bell would not be as distracted as he would be a moment later, stepping into her arms. The detective would be more alert to defending himself, but that was the price Dow was willing to pay for not killing her. He shoved his revolver in his belt so he could grab it quickly if Bell managed to dodge the sap. A gunshot would complicate escape, but he would pay that price too not to kill the woman. Unless she gave him no choice.

37

ISAAC BELL WATCHED SENATOR KINCAID’S MOUTH WRINKLE with distaste as Lillian Hennessy demonstrated that she was a modern woman. Not only did she refuse to leave the gentlemen to their cigars, she lighted a cigarette herself, telling her father, “If President Roosevelt’s daughter can smoke, so can I.”

Hennessy was no less annoyed than the Senator. “I will not have that grandstanding, opportunistic, self-promoting blowhard’s name uttered in my railcar.”

“You should count yourself lucky that I only smoke. Alice Roosevelt is also known to appear at White House parties wrapped in a python.”

Mrs. Comden looked up from her needlepoint.