The Ghost in Roomette Four Page 20

  And what a night it had been. Such a strange experience. Can there really be a ghost? she thought. It would be easy to say she’d been imagining things, but this was the second time on the train she’d seen the light that moved and glowed, and heard the taps that seemed to be Morse Code. And now the ghostly echoes of the argument in the vestibule. What’s more, Mr. Clark had seen and heard those things, too.

  She thought back to May, when she came upon Kevin Randall and Wade Hardcastle in the vestibule. The men had been arguing, and Jill was sure it had something to do with their jobs. When Jill had walked through the vestibule, she’d heard Kevin say the same thing, “The figures don’t add up.” Then he’d said, “I know what you want me to do and I can’t do it.”

  Do what? Figures implied numbers and Kevin worked in the financial department, as did Hardcastle. The books, Jill thought. Kevin Randall had been working in his roomette for most of the journey from Portola to Oakland, with that brown leather book, a ledger of some sort, and a mechanical calculator on the toilet lid in front of him. He had been scribbling notes on that yellow legal pad. The ledger and the pad were missing from the roomette when Jill found the body. Taken by the killer, no doubt. But Kevin had torn out those pages and mailed them to Margaret. The killer knew the pages were missing, but not where they were.

  Jill took another sip of coffee, thinking about Kevin’s business trip to Portola. He’d gone to audit books for one of the companies that was held by the Vennor Corporation. Hardcastle worked over Kevin in the financial department. Something must be amiss with the finances of that particular company. Both men knew it, but Hardcastle wanted Kevin to cover up the discrepancy. That was Jill’s best guess. And Tidsy’s task this week was to find out which company. There couldn’t be that many companies located near Portola.

  The waiter brought her breakfast. She spread butter on the French toast and poured syrup over the lot. Then she picked up her fork.

  “Good morning, Miss McLeod. May we join you?” The middle-aged woman in the floral print dress was already pulling out one of the chairs on the other side of the table.

  “Of course, Mrs. Hagedorn. You’re up early.”

  “I always wake up early in the summer,” the other woman said, sitting opposite Jill. “Because the sun’s up. Now, in the winter when it’s dark, I stay in bed. Particularly if the weather’s bad. My husband should be along soon.”

  Mrs. Hagedorn pulled a breakfast menu from the stand and glanced at it. The waiter appeared and poured coffee for her. Then Mr. Hagedorn, in a lightweight summer suit, sat down next to his wife. Jill had met the Hagedorns yesterday, while making dinner reservations for the sleeping car passengers. They had boarded the train in Grand Junction, Colorado, traveling in bedroom E of the Silver Gorge, and were headed to Sacramento, where Mr. Hagedorn, an engineer, was interviewing for a job with the California Department of Transportation.

  “I’m having the omelet, with ham,” Mr. Hagedorn said as he marked his meal check.

  His wife closed her menu and placed it back in the stand. “Poached eggs for me. I am so looking forward to seeing the Feather River Canyon, Miss McLeod. I’ve heard the scenery is marvelous.”

  “It is,” Jill assured them. “Make sure you get seats in the Vista-Dome.”

  The waiter took the Hagedorns’ meal checks. The dining car was filling up now, as passengers came in search of breakfast. Another passenger took the fourth place at the table. Jill had met him the day before when he boarded the train in Denver. He was wearing civilian clothes for this trip, but his military bearing marked him as an officer even before he introduced himself as Colonel Lusco.

  “I hope you slept well.” Jill smiled as she thought, he must have, because I could hear him. Colonel Lusco was the passenger in roomette one on the Silver Gorge, the one who had been snoring so loudly during the night.

  “Oh, yes, very well, thank you.” The colonel looked over the menu and marked his meal check. “I think I’ll take a leaf from your book, Miss McLeod, and have the French toast.”

  “I was in the Army myself,” Mr. Hagedorn said. “With the Seventh Infantry at Anzio.”

  “Twenty-first Infantry Regiment, in the Pacific Theater and then Korea,” the colonel said.

  “I’m really glad they’ve signed that Armistice in Korea,” Mr. Hagedorn added. “Who would have thought we’d fight another war so soon after the last one.”

  “Indeed,” the colonel said, pouring himself more coffee from the pitcher. “After the Twenty-first left Korea in January of ’fifty-two, I transferred to Camp Carson in Colorado Springs, training soldiers. Now I’m reporting for duty at the Presidio in San Francisco next week.”

  “Is your family with you?” Mrs. Hagedorn asked.

  Colonel Lusco paused as the waiter delivered the Hagedorns’ breakfast. He handed his meal check to the waiter and reached for his coffee. “No, I’m alone this trip. My wife is closing up our quarters at Camp Carson and coordinating the move, as she has done so many times before,” he added with a smile. “She and the children—we have a son and two daughters—will be arriving in a few weeks.”

  “I was born in Denver and lived there until the war was over,” Jill said. “And the Hagedorns are from Grand Junction.”

  They talked about Colorado while they ate, then the Hagedorns excused themselves. “I want to get up to the Vista-Dome,” Mrs. Hagedorn said.

  When they’d gone, Jill looked across the table at Colonel Lusco. “Was your regiment at Chosin?”

  He put down his fork. “No. We fought in the battles at Osan and Chochiwon, and on the Naktong River. Why do you ask?”

  Jill touched the rim of her coffee cup. “My fiancé was killed at Chosin.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “We lost a lot of good men in Korea. I’m glad that war is over.”

  ———

  After breakfast, Jill left the dining car and went forward to the Silver Club, where Mr. Griggs presided over the coffee shop and lounge. She saw him delivering pastries and coffee to a party of two in the coffee shop section. She followed him back to the lower level in the middle of the car. She was planning to go up to the upper-level Vista-Dome, to ride as the train left Nevada for California. At the last minute, she turned and went down to the lounge. Mr. Griggs was behind the counter, washing cups. Washing cups, Jill thought, as he had been back in May. That’s right, Mr. Griggs had been on the California Zephyr for that westbound run.

  “Good morning, Mr. Griggs. How are you today?”

  “Just fine,” the waiter said. “I’ll be glad to get home this afternoon.”

  “So will I.” Jill leaned on the counter. “Mr. Griggs, do you remember that run in May, when we talked about your daughter and her ballet lessons? You showed me her picture.”

  “Why, yes, Miss McLeod.” Mr. Griggs set a cup in the dish drainer. “My Emma wants to be a ballerina, like Janet Collins.”

  “I’ve never heard of Janet Collins,” Jill admitted.

  “She’s a dancer with the Metropolitan Ballet in New York City,” he said. “The first Negro dancer they’ve had.”

  “Really? I’ll look that up. About that run in May. That was when I found a man dead in his roomette back in the sleeper cars.”

  “I sure do remember hearing about that,” he said. “What a shame. I understand he was a young man and it was something with his heart.”

  “His heart, yes.” Jill frowned. She was remembering that day on the train, trying to bring things into sharper focus. “The man’s name was Mr. Randall. That afternoon, he was here in the lounge with two other men. One of them had a mustache and the other was big and bulky. He had a long nose.”

  “His eyes were cold,” Mr. Griggs said.

  “They are,” Jill said. She knew that very well after seeing Hardcastle at the Vennors’ party on Saturday.

  “And he was real unpleasant,” the waiter continued. “He snapped at you. I remember it very well. The three of them were having words. They got lou
d and people noticed. Mr. Randall left, and that man was rude to you, because you were looking at him. Then you left, but you came back later.”

  “I went back to Mr. Randall’s roomette, to see if he was all right,” Jill said. “Then I came back here, to the lounge. And had some coffee. Those men were still here. And then—” She stopped and thought for a moment.

  A movement caught her eye. The woman passenger who was seated near the bar had a glass of iced tea in front of her. She had just taken something out of her patent leather purse. It was an aspirin bottle. Jill recognized the familiar Bayer label, the rounded shape, the brown cap. The woman shook the bottle and the pills inside rattled against the glass. Then she removed the top and shook two aspirin tablets into her palm. She popped them in her mouth and washed down the pills with a swallow of tea.

  An aspirin bottle, Jill thought.

  That triggered a memory.

  ­Chapter Twenty-One

  May 1953

  The little girl in the photograph was about eight years old. She wore tights and a pink tutu and posed at a barre, attempting to stand en pointe. She looked very much like her father, Alonzo Griggs, who was a waiter here in the Silver Club, the buffet-lounge car.

  “What a beautiful girl,” Jill said. “How long has she been taking ballet lessons?”

  Her father smiled proudly. “About a year now. She says she wants to be a ballerina.”

  Jill handed the photograph back to Mr. Griggs. Then she heard raised voices behind her, and turned, as did other passengers in the lounge, to look at the source.

  She had entered the lounge a few minutes earlier, after the train had left the Stockton station. Mr. Randall sat at a table for four, his back to Jill and the bar. Across the table from him were the two other men who had boarded the train in Portola. Each man had a coffee cup in front of him. The man with the mustache hunkered over an ashtray that contained a smoking cigarette. He said very little. The other man, big and bulky, with a long nose and pale blue eyes, was doing most of the talking. He was the one Jill had seen earlier, arguing with Mr. Randall in the vestibule of the Silver Gorge. He was talking, his voice getting louder, as Mr. Randall tried to interrupt him.

  Finally Kevin Randall slid out of the seat, getting up from the table. He glanced at the other occupants of the lounge, who were staring at the group, and then his gaze moved back to the two men at the table. “There’s no point in discussing it further.”

  He stepped past Jill, carrying his briefcase. Since he’d gotten on the train this morning, she had never seen him without it. Right now he held it in front of him, like a shield. Or perhaps he was protecting the case. He left the lounge and headed toward the rear of the train.

  Jill looked at the two men still seated at the table. The man with a mustache was frowning. The cigarette in the ashtray had gone out. He shook another one from a pack and stuck it in his mouth, then thumbed a battered lighter and held the flame to the cigarette. The long-nosed man with the cold blue eyes glared at Jill. “What are you staring at?” he snapped.

  “I’m sorry,” Jill said, with a polite smile. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Though it was difficult not to look, or hear, when people made themselves objects of scrutiny, by their actions and the loudness of their voices.

  She turned back to the bar. Behind it, Mr. Griggs was washing dishes. They traded looks, then Jill left the lounge.

  What had caused the raised voices? There seemed to be a lot of tension between Mr. Randall and these men. She picked up on it every time she saw them. After stopping in her own quarters, Jill headed back through the train. In the Silver Gorge, Mr. Randall was in roomette four. The setup was as before, the briefcase open at his feet, with his suit coat inside, neatly folded. The mechanical calculator sat on the toilet lid. In his lap were the brown ledger book and yellow legal pad. “Mr. Randall, is everything all right? I couldn’t help overhearing what happened in the lounge.”

  He pushed up the black, horn-rimmed glasses that had slid down his nose, his expression rueful. “I’m fine, Miss McLeod. It’s just that those men would like me to do something I am not willing or able to do. I’ve explained it several times, but—” He stopped and smiled. “It’s really none of your concern, though. I won’t burden you with it. I’ll sort everything out when I get back to Oakland.” He picked up the legal pad. Jill glanced at the notes he’d scribbled there and caught sight of the words “Mohawk Valley.” She knew that was a valley west of Portola, near the little community of Blairsden.

  As she walked back through the rest of the sleeper cars, Jill thought about that letter Mr. Randall had given her, the one she’d mailed at the station in Sacramento. She wondered if the contents of the envelope had something to do with those lines and columns of figures in that ledger book, and all those notes he was scribbling on the legal pad.

  When Jill reached the dome-observation car, she climbed the steps to the Vista-Dome. The California Zephyr climbed Altamont Pass and she saw the welcome sight of the East Bay hills, knowing that San Francisco Bay, and home, were on the other side. She left the dome as the train crossed the Livermore valley. After the brief stop in the little town of Pleasanton, she walked back through the train. Mr. Randall was still in the roomette in the Silver Gorge. He had removed his glasses and his face looked very different without them. It appeared he had a headache, since he was rubbing his temples. He winced and Jill opened her mouth to offer aspirin from her first-aid kit. But Mr. Randall took a bottle from his trousers pocket, opened it and shook two pills into his palm. He swallowed them quickly, and put on his glasses.

  Now he looked surprised. “Miss McLeod, I didn’t see you there. I’m as blind as a bat without my glasses.”

  “Do you have a headache? Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Just tired after a couple of long days. I’ll certainly be glad to get home. I’ve got to finish these notes,” he added, fingering the yellow pad. He gestured toward the window, at the trees and hills visible outside. “Where are we now?”

  “That little town, Sunol. We’re just starting through the canyon to Niles, then we head up to Oakland. We’ll both be home soon.”

  ‘Can’t wait. I’ll see my fiancée. By the way, did you know they used to make silent movies in Niles?”

  Jill smiled. “Yes, I do. It was a company called Essenay, using the initials of the founders, George Spoor and Broncho Billy Anderson. They filmed that Charlie Chaplin movie, The Tramp, right here in Niles Canyon.”

  “My father worked at the Liberty Theater in Fresno, years ago, right after World War One. He liked those actors, Dustin and William Farnum, and Colleen Moore and Mabel Normand.”

  “My father likes Fatty Arbuckle, Buster Keaton and Laurel and Hardy,” Jill said as the train wound into Niles Canyon, traveling alongside Alameda Creek. Then Jill excused herself and headed forward to the Silver Club. She had the urge for a cup of coffee. Sometimes she felt tired in the late afternoon, and the caffeine would give her enough of a boost to finish out the run.

  The two men were still there, though one of them, the man with the mustache, had moved, sitting across from his companion instead of beside him. Both men looked at her, then glanced away.

  Mr. Griggs was behind the bar. Jill leaned on the counter. “I’d love to have some coffee. It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  “And you need a jolt,” he said with a smile. “Here you are.” He set a cup on the counter and poured it full of strong black coffee. She doctored it with a generous dollop of cream and took a sip. Just right. She carried the cup to a vacant seat across from the table where the two men sat. After saying hello to the woman sitting next to her, she took another sip of coffee and watched the two men over the rim of the cup, hoping they wouldn’t notice.

  The man with the long nose and the unpleasant blue eyes tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. “Are you sure it will do the job?” he hissed in a low voice.

  Across from him, the
man with the mustache stared at the ashtray, where the cigarette he’d been smoking had turned into a stub. “If what you’ve told me about him is true, it will.”

  “We’re almost to Niles,” the first man said. “We have to do it soon, before we get to Oakland.” When he didn’t get a response, he made a disgusted snort. “Now is not the time to get squeamish. We both have something to lose.”

  He got up from the table and left the lounge, turning left, heading for the rear of the train. Jill glanced out the window, seeing Alameda Creek in the ravine below the tracks. When she looked again at the man who remained at the table, he was staring at the smoldering butt in the ashtray. He raised his head and looked out the window, his eyes a deep opaque brown in his weathered face.

  Then he reached into his pocket and took out a Bayer aspirin bottle. She recognized it from the label, as well as the rounded shape and the brown cap. He unscrewed the cap and poured pills into his palm. More than a few, Jill thought, surprised. More like a handful. He must have quite a headache, if he’s taking that many pills.

  He didn’t take them, though. He closed his hand over the pills and got up from the table. He walked past the counter and left the lounge, heading back toward the sleeper cars.

  Jill took another sip of her coffee. Then she heard someone call her name. The attendant from the third chair car stood near the entrance to the lounge. “Need the first-aid kit,” he said. “Got a rambunctious youngster who decided to jump down the Vista-Dome steps and he fell instead. He’s got a cut on his hand.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Jill stood and carried her cup to the counter. Then she retrieved her first-aid kit from her quarters and headed for the chair car.

  ­Chapter Twenty-Two

  The pills, Jill thought now.

  She played the scene over again, seeing it in her head. The man with the mustache had most certainly pulled an aspirin bottle from his pocket. She had been close enough to see the shape, the brown cap, the label, buff and dark red, the word Bayer in white lettering.