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The Trainmasters Page 34

“Sixty thousand shares?” Thomson cried, incredulous. “That much? Unbelievable! How’d he manage to borrow all that? It’s over a quarter of the outstanding shares.”

  “He’s a thief and a scoundrel, my Dan’l. But you’ll never catch me accusin’ him of bein’ dumb. What he did is go after the stock the state and the cities and towns own… They don’t know a thing about it, mind.”

  “I understand that.”

  “And he was behind the runnin’ up of the stock in May. When Pennsylvania stock got hot and went up to fifty-four.”

  “That makes sense. That’s when there was all the activity in the stock—after Will Patterson arranged all his financing. We thought then that it was because of the new financing that so much stock was traded. But it wasn’t that, was it?”

  “Nope,” Vanderbilt said quietly. “It was Dan’l settin’ things up. He was very carefully sellin’ what he’d borrowed.”

  Thomson paused, meditating. Then he said, “So when does he have to cover his shorts?”

  “He has to deliver starting next month.”

  “And the stock’s already down to forty-seven.”

  “Yep,” Vanderbilt said with a nod. “And I think that he’s aimin’ to bring the stock down to about twenty-five or thirty. Or lower, if he can manage that.”

  Thomson gave him a bleak look. “Where’s the tremendous opportunity in all this? All I see is that I’m about to preside over the ruin of the Pennsylvania Railroad.”

  “Not if you can get some money.”

  “If I could get some money, my dear Mr. Vanderbilt, I’d own this railroad.”

  “That’s what the opportunity is. Now Dan’l has to buy back and return the stock he borrowed. If he can buy it for the twenty-five or thirty he hopes to get it for, then he stands to make somethin’ over a million dollars. But if another buyer can be found to get stock and keep the price up, then he loses a bundle.”

  “Somebody who knows what Drew’s up to could move in and corner that stock.”

  “That’s right!” Vanderbilt said. His voice was like a whip. And as he spoke, he gave Thomson a hard but encouraging look. He was not by any means lacking in sympathy for Thomson’s situation. “What you got to do, my friend, is corner that stock. If you work it right, you’ll control the railroad, and he’ll have to buy that stock he’s shorted for—I don’t know—maybe sixty. Maybe more.”

  “It makes a nice fairy tale for children,” Thomson said wryly and hopelessly.

  “I can be in with you for some,” Vanderbilt said. “And I’d like to be in with you for more. I kind of think I’d like to own me a railroad someday.” He paused to savor that possibility. “But right now I’m pretty well tied down in ships … and this canal thing in Nicaragua. If that damn place ain’t a hole to pour money into, I tell you!”

  “Then pull out,” Thomson said reasonably.

  But Vanderbilt shook his head. “Someday there’s gonna be a canal through Central America. And the best place for it is Nicaragua. Do you know what that canal’s gonna be worth to the man that owns it?”

  “Millions.”

  “That’s right. Millions.”

  “So that’s why your money is tied up.”

  “Yep.” Then Vanderbilt withdrew a watch from his pocket. “It’s nearly five. There’s a train leaving here at six for Jersey City. I’d best be on it.” He rose.

  “You won’t stay the night?” Thomson asked.

  “Thanks for the offer. But no. I can’t. I’ll be back though in a couple of days. Maybe you will have come up with an idea or two about where to find money.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Thomson said with obvious despair in his voice. “I don’t know where I’ll find the kind of money we’d need. What do you think it would take… close to a million dollars, no?”

  “Prob’ly.” And then he corrected that. “Maybe more’n that.”

  But then Vanderbilt brightened. “Oh God! I nearly forgot!” Thomson had never seen the Commodore’s face so vivid with excitement.

  “Yes?”

  “When I come in a few days, there’s a new thing of mine I want you to see.”

  “What’s that?” Thomson asked, intrigued. Did Vanderbilt have something up his sleeve that could help the railroad?

  “I want to show you my new boat.”

  “Your new boat?” he asked politely.

  “The North Star is her name. And I built her for me only … She’s my personal yacht. Two hundred and seventy foot long; and her tonnage’s close to twenty-five hundred. And she’s a beauty. Nothin’ faster on the water.” There was pride and eagerness in his voice. He’d changed in an instant from the financier hot on the trail of a big killing to a little boy with a new toy. “She’s just about finished and ready for a final shakedown. So maybe I’ll sail her down here and take you out, before I take her on her maiden voyage.”

  “I’d be delighted to see her,” Thomson said, with as much tact as he could manage.

  Goddamn! Thomson thought, angry and exasperated. The man wants to show off his new yacht while I try to come up with a million dollars! And I’ve got scarcely a month in which to do it.

  Later, at supper, Thomson summarized his meeting with Vanderbilt for Kitty, including Vanderbilt’s plan to show off his newest plaything.

  After he finished she put her hand to her mouth. Then she started to laugh.

  “Damn it, Kitty,” her father flared, “don’t do that. It’s not funny. It’s over a million dollars… and years of work. And the best damn railroad this country could ever see, all going like spit down the well. And you laugh at it.”

  “It’s not at you, Father,” she said, still giggling. “And it’s not about the trouble the railroad’s having either.”

  “Then what?” he snapped.

  “I know who has the money you want.”

  “You what?” he said, incredulous.

  “I said I know who has the money.”

  “The federal mint,” he said sarcastically.

  “That’s not who I mean.”

  “Then who? Stop playing.” He took a bite of potato.

  “Charles Elliot, of course.”

  Her father choked. Coughed. Laid his fork down and grabbed his glass.

  “Are you all right, Father?” she asked, rising to go to his aid.

  “Stay there,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  She resumed her place. “You heard who I said?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well?”

  “You’re right, Kitty. He has the money, and he just might be willing to invest it here.”

  “Well?” She looked at him. “What are you going to do?”

  “I want to think about it.”

  Early on the morning of Wednesday, July seventh, Graham Carlysle took a horse from the stable and left Gallitzin. Before he left, he did not tell anyone where he was going or even that he was going. But he did leave behind the following messages. The first was addressed to his father. The second had been addressed to Graham himself.

  Dear Father,

  The accompanying note will explain why I’m doing what by now I’ve done. Please do as it says; don’t follow me.

  Graham

  The other one read:

  GRAM YOU MERDRER,

  YOU BEN WATIN TO HERE BOUT YER LADY AN THE KIDS. NOW HERES WATS HAPENIN. YER DAD KIN GIT THE KIDS BACK AN THE OTHER LADY BUT WE WANT YOU. YOU COM TO TIRON THERSDY MORNIN AN WE WIL MET YOU THER. THEN WE WIL LEEV THE KIDS AN THE OTHER LADY GO. DONT YOU HAV NOBODY FOLLER YOU WEN YOU COM. COS IF YOU DO THE KIDS AN THE LADYS WIL GIT HURT.

  GEORGE KEAN

  After he read the messages John Carlysle immediately summoned Egan O’Rahilly to his office in the adminisvation building.

  When Egan arrived, he gave him the notes to read

  “So it is definitely the Keans, isn’t it?” Egan sa: i when he’d finished reading. He passed the pages back to John.

  “Definitely,” John said.

  “So what do we do?”
Egan went on. “Do we wait to see if they give the children and Deirdre back?”

  “On the theory that half a loaf is better than nothing?” John asked, grim-faced. Then he answered his own question. “That’s not good enough.”

  “I know it’s not good enough,” Egan said. “But do you have a better idea?”

  “The obvious answer to that,” John said speculatively, pulling hard on his lower jaw, “would have been to ignore the warning and follow Graham to Tyrone.”

  “You’ve ruled out that choice?”

  “I gave it serious thought,” John said. “But the choice was taken out of my hands. By the time these notes reached me, Graham had arrived in Tyrone. An exchange of telegraph messages with our people in Tyrone established that. Graham was met there.”

  “And Deirdre and the kids?” Egan asked.

  “No. There was no sign of them. There was no exchange.”

  “The Keans didn’t leave them?” Egan asked. “Holy Mary Mother of God! They were lying! And now they’ve got Graham, too!”

  “They might send them later,” John said without much conviction.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No,” John said sadly. “I really believe they’ll keep them and hold them up for more.”

  “For more what?” Francis asked.

  “I don’t know,” John said. “I could see how the father wanted to exact revenge on the people who killed his son— it’s insane but understandable—but I can’t make any sense at all of this other.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I have another problem,” John said, producing a telegraph message. “Read this.”

  TO: JOHN CARLYSLE

  FROM: J. EDGAR THOMSON

  URGENT YOU COME TO PHILADELPHIA

  INSTANTLY STOP IMPERATIVE THERE BE NO DELAY STOP YOU MUST RETURN TO ENGLAND STOP WILL EXPLAIN ON YOUR ARRIVAL STOP THOMSON

  “What do you make of that?” Egan asked.

  “I wish I knew,” John said. “This certainly doesn’t tell me much.”

  “Mr. Thomson obviously thinks he needs you,” Egan said.

  “I’m sure he truly believes he does,” John said with a slight negative headshake, “but I’m also needed here.”

  “I think he must know that, too,” Egan said, trying to place himself in Thomson’s shoes, trying to see what might have been inside Thomson’s mind. “He knows about the kidnapping?”

  “Of course,” John said.

  “I’m wondering if he might know something about it that we don’t, and that he doesn’t want to tell you in the open, on the telegraph.”

  “That’s possible,” John said. “But if that’s the case, why should he want me to go to England now?”

  “Still, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to go,” Egan said uncertainly. There was hardly any conviction in his voice when he made that suggestion. “I could handle things here while you were gone,” he added lamely.

  “I have three sons in the hands of some people who might do anything at all to them. I’ve lost my wife already. I don’t want to lose my sons, too. I could not possibly live with myself if I did not try everything in my power to save them.”

  Egan nodded gravely. John’s feelings were exactly his. “So what can we do, then? No matter whether you go to Philadelphia now or not, we haven’t much time.”

  “I realize that. There’s not much time for the captives; and whatever Edgar Thomson’s message means, there’s not much time available for me before I have to deal with him one way or another. I would dearly love to leave instantly for Philadelphia, and if necessary for England, but until I know that Peg and the women and my sons are safe, I can’t do that.”

  Then John rose from the chair where he’d been sitting and started to pace back and forth in an agony of intense thought.

  At last he stopped his pacing and, standing before Egan, he said quietly, “I think I know where the Keans must be keeping them.”

  Egan bent his head, breathed in, and then looked up at John and exhaled. “You do?”

  “Yes,” John said, then hesitated. “There’s been a thought nagging at the back of my mind… Do you remember Francis Stockton’s story, the part where he and Graham followed Collins up north of Tyrone to the big house in the woods?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I think it’s likely that the captives are there.”

  Egan thought a minute, then he agreed. “Of course, that’s the likely place isn’t it? And you want to find out for sure?”

  “More than that,” John said slowly, but with rising passion. “I want to go in there swiftly and suddenly and by surprise, and I want to clean the place out. If it turns out that the women and children are not held there, I would be willing to bet my life someone in that place will know where they are.”

  Suddenly, Egan stood up to show his resolve. “Yes, by Jesus! Let’s do that!” Then, in a softer voice he added, “So how do you propose to go about it?”

  “Let’s talk to Francis and work something out.”

  “Should I fetch him?”

  “Do that,” John said. “Bring him right away. Meanwhile I want to send a telegraph message to Mr. Thomson.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “That I’ll come to Philadelphia as soon as I can manage it.”

  John Carlysle had guessed right: The Keans were keeping Teresa, Deirdre, and the three children in the cellar of the big house north of Tyrone, though they intended to move them soon, since their enemies had seen the place—and there were large plans in the works for both captives and enemies.

  The captivity up until now had not been a painful one. The Keans clearly had no desire to physically harm any of their prisoners. But the time of captivity had been far from pleasant; there was no doubt about that. The cellar was damp and chill, even though it was summer. The food they were given was plentiful enough, but mean and unappetizing. For sleeping they had blankets to lie on that were hardly better than rags. And they were allowed a trip to the privy only three times a day and always under close supervision.

  On Monday, the first day of their captivity, they were allowed outside for a brief recreation; but Alex had taken that opportunity to try to make a break. His attempt failed, and it forfeited further recreation periods for the others.

  Now it was Wednesday, late in the afternoon of their third day in the cellar, and Teresa was telling a story to the children. She had been telling stories practically since their first moments in the cellar, for these had proved the only comfort available to the prisoners during their time of captivity. It was fortunate that her store of tales was practically inexhaustible, since there was nothing else for them to do.

  Outside there was a loud commotion. Since the captives had arrived the big house and its environs always seemed busy, but now they heard the bustling of even more men than usual. It sounded like they were setting up camp in the open spaces around the house. The captives could hear, too, the irregular drumming of ever more horses, the creaks and deep rumbles of Conestoga wagons, and the moaning of the oxen that pulled them.

  Inside, Teresa was in the midst of the tale of King Macbeth, who had gained his kingdom by murdering all the other claimants to the throne.

  The two boys were sitting directly in front of Teresa, with rough blankets between their bodies and the damp dirt floor. Deirdre held Peg in her lap off to one side.

  “And then the queen turned deathly pale,” Teresa said, “and she flung herself in despair into the—”

  At that moment the cellar door, which opened to the outside, was flung open, and full daylight exploded down the cellar steps and into the cavelike space below. All of the captives instantly forced their eyes shut to block out the painful glare. Blinking and wiping away sudden tears, they squinted to see who the intruder was. And then they managed to squeeze their eyes open a bit more, for much of the glare was now shielded from them by the large, hulking figure of Matthew Kean, who was standing at the top of the steps.
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  “Teresa O’Rahilly,” he called out, “where are you?” Under his breath he added, “You evil bitch.”

  “I haven’t left,” Teresa said sullenly.

  “Teresa, you come up here,” he said, ignoring that. “We’ve got somethin’ to show you.”

  Teresa rose to her feet, reluctantly obeying him. Then she glanced at Deirdre. “Can you finish the story for me?”

  “I don’t know that one, Tess,” Deirdre said with disappointment in her voice.

  “It’s a pity, then,” Teresa said.

  “Will you finish it later, Tessie?” David asked.

  “There’s nothing surer,” Teresa said as she climbed the stairs.

  When she reached the top she paused to look around. Everywhere were men and horses and wagons. The place teemed with people and activity; it was as busy as the Philadelphia docks with a dozen ships just in.

  What’s all this about? she asked herself.

  Matthew then led her around the house but not inside. Instead he took her out through the crowd and up a rise. This was topped by a low, rounded knoll that was itself surmounted by a dark, heavy wooden armchair. The chair was empty. But sprawled a few feet below it in the dirt was a body—dead or unconscious, she couldn’t tell. But she could tell whose body it was. It was Graham Carlysle’s.

  “Graham!” she cried and tried to rush to his side. But an iron grip around her arms prevented her.

  “Let me go!” she pleaded.

  “He’s alive,” Matthew said. “Just unconscious. But he’ll survive; never you worry about that.” Then he looked at her; there was black rage in his eyes. “He’ll survive what’s wrong with him now anyhow. Later’s another thing…”

  Somehow she wrenched free, or, what was more likely, he let her go, and she was instantly down next to Graham, cradling him in her arms.

  She quickly established that Matthew was telling the truth. Graham was indeed alive, but he was in a very bad way. He’d been savagely beaten. There wasn’t a particle of his face free of rough bruises, cuts, or abrasions. And his breathing was hard and labored.

  “Graham! Wake up, Graham. Please, Graham!” she whispered over and over into his ear. But there was no response.

  “I’ll be back when he comes around,” Matthew said. He was now standing behind the big, thronelike chair. “But for the time bein’, I’ve got stuff to do.”