City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (31 page)

“This man is ill. Call one of your nurses.”

The SP man stared at her as if she’d asked him for money.

“We don’t use our nurses for the porters.”

“I’ll say, I don’t want no nurse touching me who’s touched one of them—”

Miranda turned toward the blonde. “You’re lucky Harvey touches you, lady, and that’s because he’s a drunk. Pick up your fucking baggage and drift.”

Her mouth opened and shut like Charlie McCarthy’s, while red flushed her skin and Harvey raised his eyebrows, thick lips twisting up at the corners. The Southern Pacific official stood stunned, unsure of what to do.

Miranda spoke to the younger man still holding her cases. “Drop mine and hoist theirs. I’ll wait.”

The young man carefully lowered Miranda’s two pieces of luggage and easily picked up the heavy trunk, while the blonde retreated into the shadows of the car, shooting baleful looks at Miranda. Harvey bent forward and passed the old man a dollar bill, almost falling off the steps, then corrected himself with dignity and followed his wife into what Miranda hoped was not a room near her.

More passengers had lined up behind them, most with porters.

The SP official made some tut-tut noises and said: “Can he sit down on that bench? I’ll call the doctor.”

The official disappeared, glad to be out of the scene, and Miranda helped the old porter to a wooden bench. He was still unsteady, still making noises she couldn’t understand. A middle-aged man in flannel pants slid over to make room.

“What’s wrong with him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

The younger porter jumped down from the train and picked up her luggage. Walked slowly toward where she stood over the older man. Isaiah was holding his head in his leathery hands.

“You ready, Miss?”

She nodded and thrust a five-dollar bill into Isaiah’s palm. She whispered: “Hold on. They’re getting a doctor.”

The old man whispered something she couldn’t hear. The
City of San Francisco
shrieked a whistle, and she followed the younger porter to the platform, looking back once she climbed the last step. A doctor in a white coat was running from the station.

The young porter stood stoically outside room A, an en suite double bedroom on the right side of the car, just in front of the drawing room compartments. His mouth was tight.

“Here you are, Miss. Room A, Twin Peaks car.”

“Thanks.” She handed him another five.

He looked down at the money, jaw working.

“Miss, I’m on this train. Substituting for Joe in the shoeshine service. You need anything … you let me know.”

“Thanks. What’s your name?”

“George.”

“Mine’s Miranda.”

She held out a hand and he stared at it, hesitated, then grasped it in his own and shook it.

“If you find out how Isaiah is, I’d like to know.”

He lifted his face to hers, a genuine smile raising his cheekbones impossibly high. “I’ll make it my business to find out. And thank you, Miss.”

The door shut noiselessly behind him. She looked around the small room.

She was on the
City of San Francisco.

*   *   *

The small room was airy, big double windows—“fog-proof,” boasted the SP brochure—providing plenty of natural light. Flush against the short wall was a small vanity sink, complete with built-in lights for the mirror above and 110- and 32-volt outlets for a curling iron or electric razor. A lounge chair sat comfortably next to the sofa-cum–folding bed, positioned by a Formica table with a small console radio on top, ready for cards or conversation before getting folded up and stowed under the bed when Miranda wanted to go to sleep. Color scheme was a bright Nantes blue and apricot, with the sink and mirror a complementary French green.

She pushed open a folding door directly across from the sink. The commode was tucked in a crevice smaller than most closets, a cellophane bundle of Southern Pacific tissue perched cheerfully on a glass-and-chrome shelf above. Miranda smiled wryly, thankful she’d never been claustrophobic.

With a grunt, she hoisted the luggage on the blue sofa, the vibrating hum of the engines traveling up her legs.

A whistle blew and the train started to move,
bump-bumpety-bump
rhythm section beginning its marathon session, wooden ties adding a higher note, iron tracks beating steady, and Miranda remembered the Jimmie Rodgers song she heard the hobos sing in ’32, Salinas lettuce pickers, strawberries, grapes, oranges, whatever fruit, whatever vegetable, eyelashes thick with dirt, skin like dry leather.

Every time I see that lonesome railroad train …

She took a breath.

Time to look for Jasper.

*   *   *

6:07
P.M
. The streamliner pulled out of the Sacramento depot, California’s state capital bustling with politicos and their brethren, lobbyists, aggrieved citizens, and the omnipresent lawyers, younger versions sharply dressed in crisp-brim fedoras and double-breasted suits, or, in the William Jennings Bryan tradition, elder statesmen with wavy gray hair and a black cravat, starched white shirt and watch fob, everyone with a mouth open and hand out.

She watched as an older couple in formal wear climbed the steps, helped up by George, the same porter who’d carried her luggage.

Miranda sighed. Third walk through the train. Try again.

She stopped for a drink and smoke at the club car, Embarcadero, where an older couple had already launched a bridge game, then on past the open-berth sections, most curtains drawn, except for a large man with white and gray stubble who scratched himself and grinned as she squeezed through the aisle, and finally double-backed to the Fisherman’s Wharf, the car where Jasper held his suite.

No one in sight. She lingered in front of the door to room G, no noise within, and very carefully tried the knob.

Locked, but possibly … pickable.

She kept walking, pulling open the heavy doors in between cars, roar and scream of the engine, warm air blasting from the rails below. Passed her room in Twin Peaks, smiled at a tall young man in a brown fedora, eager-eyed and wide grin, with a young woman holding his arm, mouth lipsticked and impish. He reminded her of Rick, and she hurriedly plowed ahead.

Four more cars, open section, double bedrooms or roomettes, some with families or couples but mostly single business travelers, arranging deals back in the City or planning a call ahead to Chicago as soon as they reached the next station. Finally, the observation car Nob Hill, with three double bedrooms and a drawing room compartment tucked in the front and thirty-odd seats for scenic viewing lining the sides. A small buffet and bar filled the inner corner, wood and chrome, streamlined but with a nod to ’49er days. A tall, thin man with a white glove on his left hand sat in the nearest chair on the left, legs extended, drinking gin or vodka.

Jasper.

Miranda twisted her head toward the right, strode quickly to the far end of the car and one of the few empty seats on the same side as Jasper. A middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and too-orange nail polish sat next to her, reading last month’s
Vogue,
while a boy about twelve in short pants and ruffled white shirt with chocolate stains was kicking his legs up and down in the seat on her left. The mother—a washed-out debutante in her mid-twenties—finally pulled him out of the chair and dragged him and his little sister screaming from the car.

Miranda picked up a newspaper, pretended to read it. Jasper was wearing a gray suit, dark blue tie, no hat. No book or magazine either, just a glazed, almost troubled look while he sipped the clear alcohol.

The young couple she’d passed earlier walked in, spotted the two empty seats on her left and sat down, still grinning like newlyweds.

The tall young man was holding the hand of his girl, speaking in an undertone while she laughed. He looked Miranda’s way and caught her eye, smiling broadly.

“Hello, fellow passenger. This train’s all right, isn’t she? Just passed Sac Town, and now we’re cookin’ with gas … be in Reno before ten-thirty tonight. Whaddya think of that?”

Miranda grinned. “I think it’s plenty fast. You two on your honeymoon?”

He raised his eyebrows skyward in mock horror while the young woman laughed and dug her elbow into his side, leaning around him to address Miranda.

“I’m embarrassed that you guessed so easily. Tom and I are heading to Virginia … he’s got a job for a newspaper there. We’re from Portland. My name’s Marie.”

“Marie O’Day,” her husband added. “I married her for her gams.”

“Tom!” She dug her elbow in again, while he laughed and held her mock fists in his.

Miranda glanced to her right again. Jasper showed no sign of interest in anything but his drink. She faced Tom and asked politely: “You’re a news hawk?”

“He was one of the best reporters in Portland.” Marie spoke proudly. “Maybe too good.”

Tom’s face grew serious. “Marie…”

“Well, it’s true! If Mr. Easton had any courage or ethics at all, he’d have run that piece you wrote on Jim Elkins and Rayden Emlou.”

O’Day leaned toward Miranda, face flushed, lopsided, embarrassed smile. “You know how it is. She said yes and so now I’m a hero.”

“Tom…”

“Elkins and Emlou are the resident hoods, I take it?”

He nodded. “Poised for a big takeover of the city—all kinds of vice and getting worse by the day. And the police weren’t too keen on my information.”

Marie’s generous mouth stretched thin. “They’re getting paid off by Elkins and Emlou. That’s why we’re moving to Virginia. Who knows how long we’ll stay, though … Tom has itchy feet.”

The tall, lanky young man shoved his fedora off his forehead and Miranda winced. Too goddamn much like Rick.

“Now, Marie … I told you that someday we’re going to see every state in this great country of ours—from sea to shining sea—and until then…”

“Service Two is ready in the dining car. Please make your way to the dining car. All the way at the front of the train, Madame.”

A slight, balding white man in a waiter’s uniform stood at the front of the car, alternately ringing a well-bred dinner chime and nervously tugging his collar, steering hungry passengers down the narrow passageway, and repeating the information to a deaf old lady sitting across from Jasper.

“Service Two is read—”

“I believe everyone has heard the announcement. And some of us have already partaken of your excellent Service One.” The professor looked up from his reverie, mild irritation crossing his face.

The waiter raised untrimmed eyebrows, series of three wrinkles forming in the pasty white skin of his forehead. “Sorry, sir.”

Miranda quickly turned to the young couple, speaking softly. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Marie shook her head and laughed. “We’ve been much too excited to eat. But come to think of it, I am a little hungry.”

“Then let’s go, honey.” Tom stood up and held out his hands to help her up.

Jasper’s eyes were closed again, legs outstretched. Miranda bit her lip. The car was empty except for the professor.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“We’d like nothing better! And what kind of manners you think we have, I’m sure I don’t know … sitting here and boring you with our life story. Why, we don’t even know your name!”

Miranda glanced again at Jasper before turning back to Marie with a big smile.

“Miranda. And we’d best get to the dining car before they run out of mashed potatoes!”

Tom and Marie both laughed, and Miranda followed closely behind them, keeping her face averted from Jasper’s view.

*   *   *

Miranda barely tasted the dinner. Baked Red Snapper au Gratin, consommé, browned new potatoes, fresh garden peas, and a Brown Betty with vanilla sauce for dessert. She ate perfunctorily, eyes on the door in case Jasper should come in, absentmindedly deflecting questions from Tom and Marie, who chattered continuously about Virginia, Portland, train travel, and visiting the Lincoln Memorial just like Jimmy Stewart did in
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.

She avoided direct answers, changed the subject frequently, sticking to well-worn anecdotes about movie stars and the Depression, the war abroad and how long England could hold out against the Nazis.

Too much talk about England and Miranda changed the subject again, hands shaking, craving a cigarette, and glancing yet again at the doorway. The young reporter’s eyes sparkled. He leaned over the fruit pie he shared with Marie and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Who are you looking for?”

She gave a nearly imperceptible jump. She stared at the young couple, eager, honest, excited to start a life together.

Goddamn it.

Miranda spoke in a low monotone. “Your fiancée is right. You’re too good a reporter. Can you keep a secret?”

Marie’s eyes were as big as the saucer of tea biscuits. Tom nodded, serious. “You can count on it.”

Miranda opened a pack of Chesterfields. Asked, “Mind if I smoke?” before lighting it with her Ronson Majorette, Tom and Marie shaking their heads no. She leaned forward over the half-eaten Brown Betty.

“I’m a private detective from San Francisco. Name’s Miranda Corbie.”

“A real lady detective?” Marie stared at her, fascinated.

Tom’s voice was low. “I knew it. You’re here for someone, aren’t you? You’ve been watching that door for the last twenty minutes. Crooks? The saboteurs from last year? Or are you just chasing a wayward husband?”

She cracked a smile and exhaled, sending a stream of smoke skyward.

“I can’t tell you. And I should be going.”

Miranda stood up and pushed her chair in, bending forward over the table, voice barely above a whisper.

“I told you this much so you’d understand and stay away. My work is dangerous.”

Marie impulsively put her hand over Miranda’s, outstretched on the table. “We’re in drawing room suite D in the Twin Peaks car. Let us know if we can help.”

Miranda smiled, patted the girl’s hand. “Just have a good trip—and a wonderful life.”

She nodded, striding out of the dining car as the young couple stared after her, Tom holding Marie’s hand under the table.