The Wrecker

“Was he run through? Did the wound exit the back of his neck?”

“I didn’t stick around to examine him close, Mr. Bell. Like I said, I knew they’d blame me.”

“Get over there,” Bell told Kisley and Fulton. “Sheriff, would you send a doctor? See if he can reckon what killed him and how long he’s been dead.”

“Where will you be, Isaac?”

Another dead end, thought Bell. The Wrecker wasn’t just lucky, he made his own luck. “Railroad station,” he answered without a lot of hope. “See if any ticket clerks recall selling him a ticket out of here.”

He took copies of the lumberjack’s drawing to Union Depot, a multigabled, two-story building with a tall clock tower, and queried the clerks. Then, driven in a Ford by a railway police official through tree-lined neighborhoods of cottages with jigsaw woodwork, he visited the homes of clerks and supervisors who were off work that day. Bell showed the drawing to each man, and when the man did not recognize the face, Bell showed him an altered version with a beard. No one recognized either face.

How did the Wrecker get out of Ogden? Bell wondered.

The answer was easy. The city was served by nine different railroads. Hundreds, if not thousands, of passengers passed through it every day. By now, the Wrecker had to know that the Van Dorn Agency was hunting him. Which meant he would choose his targets more carefully when it came to preparing his escapes.

Bell enlisted Van Dorn agents from the Ogden office to canvass hotels, on the odd chance that the Wrecker had stayed in the junction city. No front-desk clerk recognized either drawing. At the Broom, an expensive, three-story brick hotel, the proprietor of the cigar store thought he might have served a customer who looked like the picture with the beard. A waitress in the ice-cream parlor remembered a man who looked like the clean-shaven version. He had stuck in her mind because he was so handsome. But she had seen him only once, and that was three days ago.

Kisley and Fulton caught up with Bell in the spartan Van Dorn office, one large room on the wrong side of Twenty-fifth Street, which was a wide boulevard divided by electric-streetcar tracks. The side of the street that served the legitimate needs of railroad passengers using the station was lined with restaurants, tailors, barbers, soda fountains, ice-cream parlors, and a Chinese laundry, each shaded by a colorful awning. Van Dorn’s side housed saloons, rooming houses, gambling casinos, and hotels fronting for brothels.

The office had a bare floor, ancient furniture, and a single window. Decoration consisted of wanted posters, the newest being the two freshly printed versions of the lumberjack’s drawing of the Wrecker, with and without the beard, noted by the sharp-eyed Southern Pacific ticket clerk in Sacramento.

Kisley and Fulton had regained their spirits, though Fulton appeared exhausted.

“Clearly,” Wally remarked, “the boss doesn’t waste money on office space in Ogden.”

“Or furnishings,” Mack added. “That desk looks like it arrived by wagon train.”

“Perhaps it’s the neighborhood that appeals, located within spitting distance of Union Depot.”

“And spitting they are, on our sidewalk.”

Continuing in Weber-and-Fields mode, they went to the window and pointed down at the crowded sidewalk. “Perceive Mr. Van Dorn’s genius. The view from this window can be used to instruct apprentice detectives in the nature of crime in all its varieties.”

“Come here, young Isaac, gaze down upon our neighboring saloons, brothels, and opium dens. Observe potential customers down on their luck earning the price of a drink or a woman by panhandling. Or, failing to kindle charity, sticking up citizens in that alley.”

“Note there, a mustachioed fop luring the gullible with shell games on a folding table.”

“And look at those out-of-work hard-rock miners dressed in rags, pretending to sleep on the pavement outside that saloon while actually laying in wait for drunks to roll.”

“How long was the man dead?” Bell asked.

“Better part of a day, Doc thinks. You were right about the stabbing. A narrow blade straight through his neck. Just like Wish and the Glendale yard bull.”

“So if the Wrecker killed him, he could not have left Ogden before last night. But no one saw him buy a ticket.”

“Plenty of freights in and out,” ventured Wally.

“He is covering mighty long distances in a short time to rely on stealing rides on freights,” said Mack.

“Probably using both, depending on his situation,” said Wally.

Bell asked, “Who was the murdered man?”

“Local owlhoot, according to the sheriff. Sort of a real-life Broncho Billy-our chief suspect … Sorry, Isaac, couldn’t resist.” Fulton nodded at the wanted poster.

“Keep it up and I won’t resist asking Mr. Van Dorn to post Weber and Fields to Alaska.”

“… Suspected of knocking over a stagecoach up in the mountains last August. The cinder dicks caught him robbing a copper-mine payroll off the Utah and Northern ten years ago. Turned in his partners for a lighter sentence. Looks like he knew Jake Du

Bell shook his head in disgust. “The Wrecker is not only hiring hands to help but hiring criminals to hire help. He can hit anywhere on the continent.”

There was a tentative knock at the door. The detectives looked up, gazes narrowing at the sight of a nervous-looking youth in a wrinkled sack suit. He had a cheap suitcase in one hand and his hat in the other. “Mr. Bell, sir?”

Isaac Bell recognized young James Dashwood from the San Francisco office, the apprentice detective who had done such a thorough job establishing the i

“Come on in, James. Meet Weber and Fields, the oldest detectives in America.”

“Hello, Mr. Weber. Hello, Mr. Fields.”

“I’m Weber,” said Mack. “He’s Fields.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Bell asked, “What are you doing here, James?”

“Mr. Bronson sent me with this, sir. He told me to ride expresses to beat the mail.”

The apprentice handed Bell a brown paper envelope. Inside was a second envelope addressed to him in penciled block letters, care of the San Francisco office. Bronson had clipped a note to it: “Opened this rather than wait. Glad I did. Looks like he made you.”

Bell opened the envelope addressed to him. From it, he withdrew the front cover of a recent Harper’s Weekly magazine. A cartoon by William Allen Rogers depicted Osgood He

“What the heck is that?” asked Wally.

“A gauntlet,” answered Bell. “He’s challenging us.”

“And rubbing our noses in it,” said Mack.

“Mack’s right,” said Wally. “I wouldn’t cloud my head taking it personal, Isaac.”

“The magazine is in there, too,” said Dashwood. “Mr. Bronson thought you’d want to read it, Mr. Bell.”

Seething inwardly, Bell quickly sca

“What does it mean?” asked James.