The Wrecker

“Isaac Bell is no fool. Neither is Osgood.”

“Worthy opponents,” Kincaid agreed, “but always several steps behind.” And, in the case of Bell, he thought but did not say, unlikely to survive the night if Philip Dow was his usual deadly self.

“I must warn you that Franklin Mowery is growing suspicious about his bridge.”

“Too late to do anything about it.”

“It seems to me that you are growing reckless. So reckless that they will catch you.”

Kincaid gazed up at the stars, and murmured, “They can’t. I have my secret weapons.”

“What secret weapons are those?”

“You for one, Emma. You to tell me everything they’re up to.”

“And what do I have?” she asked.

“Anything money can buy when we have won.”

“What if I want something-or someone-money can’t buy.”

Kincaid laughed again. “I’ll be in great demand. You’ll have to get in line.”

“In line . . . ?” Emma Comden raised her sensual face to the starlight. Her eyes shone darkly. “What is your other secret weapon?”

“That’s a secret,” said Kincaid.

In the unlikely event Bell somehow survived the attack and got lucky enough to thwart him again, he could not risk telling even her about “Lake Lillian.”

“You would keep secrets from me?” she asked.

“Don’t sound hurt. You know that you are the only one I have ever given the power to betray me.”

He saw no profit in mentioning Philip Dow. Just as he would never tell Dow about his affair with Emma, which had started years before she became the railroad president’s mistress.

A bitter smile parted her lips. “I have never known a worse man than you, Charles. But I would never betray you.”

Kincaid looked around again to make sure absolutely sure no one could see them. Then he snaked an arm inside her coat and drew her close. He was not at all surprised when she didn’t resist. Nor was he surprised that she had removed every stitch of her clothing before she put her fur on.

“And what have we here?” he asked, his voice thickening with desire.

“The front of the line,” said Mrs. Comden.

38

“WHEN IT COMES TO POLITICS,” OSGOOD HENNESSY SNORTED IN answer to Isaac Bell’s question, “I’ll believe anything that happens.”

Isaac Bell said, “I’m serious, sir. Do you believe that Kincaid is making an earnest run for the office of president?”

“Politicians can delude themselves into anything that suits their fancy. Could he get elected? I suppose. Voters do the damnedest things. Thank God, women don’t vote. He’d get elected on his pretty-boy looks alone.”

“But could he get nominated?” Bell pressed.

“That’s the real issue.”

“He’s got Preston Whiteway behind him. Whiteway must think there’s a chance.”

“That rabble-rouser will stop at nothing to sell newspapers. Don’t forget, win or lose, Kincaid for President still makes for a story right up to the last night of the convention.”

Bell named several of the California businessmen in Whiteway’s group. “Do they really believe they could bull Kincaid past the party regulars?”

Osgood He

“Maybe,” said Bell.

“Why do you ask?” said He

Bell probed back. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance be undermining your friend’s rival for my daughter’s hand?”

Bell stood up. “I’m not sly. Nor furtive. I’ll tell you here and now, to your face, that your daughter deserves better than Charles Kincaid. Good night, sir.”

“Wait,” said He

CHARLES KINCAID SAW EMMA COMDEN to the door of the double stateroom she shared with Osgood He

“Thank you for walking me to see the stars, Senator.”

“A pleasure as always. Good night, Mrs. Comden.”

They shook hands chastely. Then Kincaid headed to his own stateroom several cars back in the special. His knees were shaking, the usual effect Emma Comden had on him, his head still reeling, and he had unlocked his door and closed it behind him before he realized that someone was sitting in the easy chair. Dow? Escaping pursuit? Never. By the killer’s strict code, he would shoot himself in the head before he would risk betraying a friend. Kincaid pulled his derringer from his pocket and turned up the light.

Eric Soares said, “Surprise, Senator.”

“How did you get in here?” Kincaid asked the engineer.

“Jimmied the lock,” he answered nonchalantly.

“What the dickens for?”

Soares removed his wire-rimmed glasses and made a show of polishing them with his handkerchief. Finally, he put them back on, smoothed the tips of his handlebar mustache, and answered, “Blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” Kincaid echoed, thinking furiously.

As Senator Kincaid, he knew that Eric Soares was engineer Franklin Mowery’s assistant. Only as the Wrecker did he know that Soares falsified inspection reports to Mowery about the state of the stone piers supporting the Cascade Canyon Bridge.

He pressed the derringer to the young engineer’s head. Soares didn’t flinch.

“You can’t shoot me in your own stateroom. Which is mighty fancy compared to my miserable little upper Pullman berth. It’s even posher than Mr. Mowery’s.”

“I can shoot you and will,” Kincaid said coldly. “It was dark. I didn’t realize it was poor Mr. Soares startling me. I thought it was a radical assassin and defended myself.”

“That might satisfy the law. But shooting an orphan who is practically the adopted son of the most famous bridge builder on the continent will not exactly boost your presidential hopes.”

Kincaid pocketed his gun, poured himself a brandy from the crystal decanter provided by the Southern Pacific Railroad, and sipped it while leaning on the paneled wall and staring down at the intruder. He was greatly relieved. Soares, like everyone else, believed his Kincaid for President sham. That probably meant Soares did not know that he was the Wrecker. But what did he know that he thought was worth blackmail?

“I’d like a drink, too.”

Kincaid ignored the request. While it might be helpful to get him intoxicated, it would be more helpful to remind the little weasel of his place.

“You’re absolutely right about my political aspirations,” he said. “So let’s stop playing games. You’ve broken in here for a purpose. What is it? What do you want?”

“I told you. Money.”

“Why would I give you money? For what?”

“Don’t be dense, Senator. For not revealing that you hold a controlling interest in the Union Pier and Caisson Company of St. Louis, Missouri.”

The Wrecker concealed his astonishment, but only just. He felt the legs knocked out from under him, and this time he couldn’t blame Emma Comden.

“What gave you that idea?” he asked.

“I got curious about who was paying me to lie about the piers. Reckoned sabotaging the biggest bridge in the West ought to be worth a few bucks more if I knew who my bribes came from. So I went to my old bunkie from the orphanage. He took up banking when I took up engineering. He explored a maze of holding companies. The maze turned into a jungle, but my old bunkie is really good. He finally traced them back to you. You bought enough shares secretly, a controlling interest, in the company building the piers for the Cascade Canyon Bridge.”