Night Probe! - Cussler Clive - Страница 35
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"This way," he said, motioning.
Pitt entered, his nose sorting out the musty smells of aged wood and leather from the kerosene vapor, his eyes scanning the shadows that quivered under the soft flame of the lamp. He recognized the interior as an office furnished with antiques. A potbellied stove squatted in the middle of the floor, its flue sprouting straight through the roof. The orange glow revealed a safe backed into a corner, its door decorated with the painting of a covered wagon crossing the prairie.
Two desks sat against a wall of windows. One was a rolltop with an old-fashioned telephone perched on its surface, the other was long and flat and supported a large cabinet filled with pigeonholes. On the edge, in front of a leather-cushioned tilt back chair, there was a telegraph key whose wires angled up and through the ceiling.
The walls held a Seth Thomas clock, a poster touting the Parker and Schmidt traveling amusement show, a framed picture of an overripe girl holding a tray stacked with bottles of beer advertising the Ruppert Brewery on 94th Street in New York City, and a Feeney Company insurance calendar dated May 1914.
"Sam Harding's office," Magee said proudly. "I've recreated it exactly as it was on the night of the robbery."
"Then your house…..."
"Is the original Wacketshire station," Magee finished. "The farmer I bought the property from used it to store feed for his cows. Annie and I restored the building. A pity you haven't seen it in daylight. The architecture has a distinctive design. Ornate trimmings around the roof, graceful curves. Dates back to the eighteen eighties."
"You've done a remarkable job of preservation," Pitt complimented him.
"Yes, it's been given a better fate than most old railroad stations," said Magee. "We made a few changes. What used to be the freight area is now bedrooms, and our living room is the former waiting room."
"The furnishings, are they original?" Pitt asked, touching the telegraph key.
"For the most part. Harding's desk was here when we bought the place. The stove was salvaged from a trash pile, and Annie rescued the safe from a hardware store in Selkirk. The real prize, though, was this."
Magee lifted a leather dust cover revealing a chessboard. The hand-carved ebony and birch pieces were cracked and worn by the years. "Hiram Meechum's chess set," explained Magee. "His widow gave it to me. The bullet hole from Massey's pistol was never patched."
Pitt studied the board for a few moments in silence. Then he looked out the windows at the blackness. "You can almost sense their presence," he said finally.
"I often sit alone here in the office and try to visualize that fateful night.
"Do you see the Manhattan Limited as it roars past?"
"Sometimes," Magee said dreamily. "If my imagination flows freely." He stopped and stared at Pitt suspiciously. "A strange question. Why do you ask?"
"The phantom train," answered Pitt. "They say it still makes its spectral run over the old track bed."
"The Hudson valley is a breeding ground for myths," Magee scoffed. "There are those who even claim to have seen the headless horseman, for God's sake. What starts as a tall tale becomes a rumor. Embellished with age and exaggerated by local folklore, the rumor turns into a full-blown legend bending the outer fringe of reality. The phantom train hauntings began a few years after the bridge failure. Like a ghost of a guillotined man who wanders about searching for his head, the Manhattan Limited, so its disciples believe, will never enter that great depot in the sky until it finally crosses over the river."
Pitt laughed. "Mr. Magee, you are a card-carrying skeptic."
"I won't deny it."
Pitt looked at his watch. "I really must be on my way."
Magee showed him outside and they shook hands on the old station platform.
"I've had a fascinating evening," said Pitt. "I'm grateful to you and your wife for your hospitality."
"Our pleasure. Please come back and visit us. I love to talk trains."
Pitt hesitated. "There is one thing you might keep in mind."
"What's that?"
"A funny thing about legends," Pitt said, searching Magee's eyes. "They're usually born from a truth."
In the light from the house, the kindly face was somber and thoughtful, no more. Then Magee shrugged noncommittally and closed the door.
Danielle Sarveux warmly greeted Premier Jules Guerrier of Quebec Province in the corridor of the hospital. He was accompanied by his secretary and Henri Villon.
Guerrier kissed Danielle lightly on both cheeks. He was in his late seventies, tall and slender with unkept silver hair and thick tangled beard. He could have easily accommodated an artist's conception of Moses. As Premier of Quebec he was also the leader of the French-speaking Parti Quebecois. "How marvelous to see you, Jules," said Danielle.
"Better for old eyes to behold a beautiful woman," he answered gallantly. "Charles is looking forward to seeing you."
"How is he getting along?"
"The doctors say he is doing fine. But the healing process will take a long time."
Sarveux was propped up by pillows, his bed parked beside a large window with a view of the Parliament building. A nurse took their hats and coats, and then they grouped around the bed on a chair and sofa. Danielle poured a round of cognac.
"I'm allowed to serve a drink to my visitors," said Sarveux. "But unfortunately alcohol won't mix with my medication so I can't join you."
"To your speedy recovery," toasted Guerrier.
"A speedy recovery," the others responded.
Guerrier set his glass on an end table. "I'm honored that you asked to see me, Charles."
Sarveux looked at him seriously. "I've just been informed you're calling a referendum for total independence."
Guerrier gave a Gallic shrug. "The time is long overdue for a final break from the confederation."
"I agree, and I intend to give it my full endorsement."
Sarveux's statement fell like a guillotine blade.
Guerrier visibly tensed. "You'll not fight it this time?"
"No, I want to see it done and over with."
"I've known you too long, Charles, not to suspect an ulterior motive behind your sudden benevolence."
"You misread me, Jules. I'm not rolling over like a trained dog. If Quebec wants to go it alone, then let it be. Your referendums, your mandates, your incessant negotiations. That's in the past. Canada has suffered enough. The confederation no longer needs Quebec. We will survive without you."
"And we without you."
Sarveux smiled sardonically. "We'll see how you do starting from scratch."
"We expect to do just that," said Guerrier. "Quebec Parliament will be closed and a new government installed. One patterned after the French republic. We will write our own laws, collect our own taxes, and establish formal relations with foreign powers. Naturally, we'll maintain a common currency and other economic ties with the English-speaking provinces."
"You'll not get your cake and eat it too," said Sarveux, his voice hard. "Quebec must print its own money, and any trade agreements must be renegotiated. Also, customs inspection stations will be erected along our common borders. All Canadian institutions and government offices will be withdrawn from Quebec sod."
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