Watching Eagles Soar (27 page)

Molly caught up with the conductor. “There's a murderer on board,” she said. “You must not allow anyone to leave the train. You must telegraph the Denver police to meet us.”

“Madam, you will allow me to do my job.” The conductor took her arm and turned her toward the steps where Charles Langford was waiting.

“I'll see Mrs. Brown on board,” Langford said, looking back at the conductor. Then he guided Molly up the steps and into the first-class corridor. They stopped at the first door. The sound of three long whistles filled the air as the train started to lurch forward.

Molly said, “I saw the girl boarding in Leadville. She was with a traveling companion, a tall, dark-haired girl.”

“A traveling companion.” Langford seemed to turn the idea over in his mind a moment. “My dear Mrs. Brown, the authorities will look into the details of this unfortunate incident.”

Molly studied the relaxed, confident face—the face of a man who understood a world into which she and J.J. had taken only the first tentative steps. There was so much to learn. Still . . . “It would seem a simple matter to find the companion and learn what she may know,” she said.

A gentle smile spread across Langford's handsome face. “If, indeed, the girl was thrown from the train, as you insist, Mrs. Brown”—a slight hesitation—“she could hardly be one of our sort. I am certain Mr. Brown would not approve of your meddling in this matter. Unfortunately you are bereft of his wise guidance at this moment. As a gentleman, I must stand in for your good husband and shield you from your womanly inclinations.” Langford opened the compartment door. “Allow me to fetch you a tonic for your nerves,” he said, stepping past her. The compartment was almost a duplicate of hers; green plush seat, lantern swaying overhead as the train gathered speed. Stuffed in the overhead rack was the chinchilla coat.

“No need to put yourself to any further trouble.” Molly had no intention of drinking something that might dull her senses. She wanted to make certain the conductor did not allow anyone to leave the train at Pine Grove.

“Nonsense. It's no trouble at all. You will find the tonic most soothing.” The man had opened a black case on the seat and was pouring a ginger-colored liquid from a small crystal decanter into a glass. A pungent odor that Molly couldn't identify drifted across the compartment.

“Here you are,” he said, holding out the glass. “This will help you recover from your shock. You have only to open your mouth.”

“Undoubtedly some people on this train would prefer me with my mouth closed, Mr. Langford,” Molly said, giving him a polite smile and starting toward her own compartment. Footsteps sounded behind her, and she realized he was following her.

Molly opened her door, then hesitated. A cold understanding flooded over her: the murdered girl's companion was also in danger. Molly had seen the anxious way the dark-haired girl had looked around the platform, as if she had wanted to make certain no one was following. Unfortunately the girl hadn't seen the man in the red plaid coat watching from the depot doorway.

Turning back to Langford, Molly said, “I'm sure someone was after the murdered girl. He must've gotten her in the gangway, where he threw her overboard. He may try to kill her companion to keep her from telling what she knows.”

“My dear Mrs. Brown,” Langford began, a condescending note in his tone, “you have a most vivid imagination. If you choose to pursue this matter, I must warn you that it will harm your reputation. No one whose name appears in the newspaper in connection with a scandal could expect an invitation to the Christmas dance at the Denver Country Club.”

Molly backed into her compartment, closed the door, and leaned against the paneling, marveling at the proposition Charles Langford had made her. She had only to remain in her compartment until the train pulled into Denver Union Station, and an invitation to the Christmas dance would be hers. Hers and J.J.'s, although she knew the real challenge would lie in convincing J.J. to attend.

She closed her eyes and swayed in rhythm with the train, imagining herself in J.J.'s arms, gliding across the polished floor of the Denver Country Club, orchestral music filling the perfumed air, and all of the Sacred 36 admiring the gown she would have made for the occasion. She had waited two years for this invitation.

Her eyes snapped open. She could wait a while longer. The dark-haired girl was in danger now.

Molly flung open the door and hurried to the coach car. At the far end, a small group of miners waited outside the water closet. Other passengers sat upright, eyes ahead, as if on the lookout for the killer in their midst. Molly gripped the backs of the seats and pulled herself along the aisle, looking for the dark-haired girl. She stopped at the vacant seat across from the man in the red plaid coat. Tossed in the seat was a single black cloak, the fabric shiny and thin, a patch neatly stitched to the hood. She felt her heart turn over. The girl was gone.

Molly whirled toward the man across the aisle. “Where is the girl with dark hair?” she demanded.

The man moved his head from side to side as if to bring Molly into clearer focus. “Ain't you the lady that seen her get tossed off the train?” His voice had the scratchy texture of tobacco.

“You're mistaken.” Molly held the man's gaze. “The blond girl in the blue dress was thrown from the train.”

“Beggin' your pardon”—the man shook his head—“but the pretty one with the long yellow hair got off at Como.” Shouts and hard thuds came from the front of the coach. Molly glanced around. Two miners were pounding on the water closet door. Turning away from the commotion, she said, “What makes you believe the blond woman disembarked at Como?”

“I got her grip down from the rack. Took it out to the platform myself.” A wistful smile played at the corners of the man's mouth. “She was a pretty thing. I seen her in the depot. Don't mind saying I was looking forward to getting acquainted. Too bad she was only goin' as far as Como.”

Molly tried to swallow back the alarm rising inside her. Obviously the man had concocted a story meant to exonerate himself: she had seen the girl flying over the ledge when the train was twenty miles beyond Como. And where was the dark-haired girl? Had he also tossed her from the train?

The shouts and pounding were louder, angrier. Looking around, Molly saw that the conductor had joined the group. She started toward him. “Mr. Stout,” she called. “A girl is missing . . .”

“Please, Mrs. Brown.” The conductor waved a hand in the air. “One emergency at a time.” He turned and rapped on the door. “Open up,” he shouted. “There's folks need the facilities.”

Molly stared at the closed door. So that was where the dark-haired girl had gone to. She was hiding from a killer. Molly pushed through the crowd of miners and, ignoring the look of astonishment on the conductor's face, knocked hard on the door. “This is Mrs. J. J. Brown,” she called. “I know what happened to your friend. No one is going to harm you. You can come out now.”

The only sounds were those of the miners drawing in sharp breaths, the wheels rattling beneath the floor. Slowly the door slid open. The girl leaned against the frame, dark curls pressed around a pale face, both hands clasped under her chin. Her knuckles rose in little white peaks.

One of the miners sneered. “About time.”

Molly placed an arm around the girl's thin shoulders and drew her forward. As she guided her past the men, Molly called back: “Mr. Stout, please join us in my compartment.”

* * *

L
aura Binkham sat at the far end of the plush seat, huddled against the window. Molly sat beside her, legs tucked sideways to make room for the conductor who leaned back against the compartment door, arms folded across his broad chest. The murdered girl—“A good girl, she was,” Laura said—was Effie Rogers. “She never meant to go wrong, but after she was let go . . .” Laura sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Molly had handed her.

“Let go?” Molly prodded.

“From the grand house where Effie was the second-floor girl. Times got hard after the silver crash. Lots of fancy people couldn't keep help like me and Effie anymore.”

Molly pictured the fine mansions in Leadville, the army of former domestics searching for other employment after the silver market had crashed. Even she and J.J. had hit upon hard times, until J.J. had struck gold.

The girl went on: “I was the lucky one. My mistress kept me on at half wages. Leastwise I had a roof over my head. Not like Effie. She caught on at a shop on Harrison Avenue, but the wages wasn't enough to keep her. What choice did she have?” The girl pressed her lips together against the answer; light from the overhead lantern glinted in her dark eyes.

“Effie began entertaining gentlemen friends, is that it?” Molly was beginning to understand: one of the friends was the man in the red plaid coat—a man Effie had most likely rejected.

The conductor shifted from one foot to the other; his uniform made a scratchy sound against the door. “I hardly think any of this matters, Mrs. Brown.”

“Please go on,” Molly said to the girl.

“I told Effie, you gotta get hold of your gentleman.”

“Gentleman?” The man in the red plaid coat was certainly not a gentleman.

“'Cause he's the one that . . .” Laura threw an embarrassed glance toward the conductor, then lowered her eyes. “When Effie was employed in his grand home . . .” Her voice faltered. “I told her, he's gotta help you out, your gentleman. He's gotta take care of you.”

The picture was beginning to change, like tiny glass pieces in a kaleidoscope forming and reforming. Molly had misjudged the man in the red plaid coat. She wondered which of Leadville's millionaires had imposed himself on the second-floor girl.

“So Effie sent a telegram to Denver,” the girl was saying.

“Denver? You said Effie worked in Leadville.”

Laura nodded. “That's right. She come up there after she was let go.”

“Did she tell you the gentleman's name?” Molly asked.

“Oh, no. Effie was very protective of his reputation. She always called him ‘my gentleman.' And sure enough, he telegraphed her back. Said to meet him at the Vendome Hotel.”

“The Vendome?” Molly felt the muscles in her chest contract. The compartment felt warm and close; it was difficult to breathe.

“That's right,” Laura said. “Only he never showed up.”

“I must return to my duties.” The conductor withdrew a gold watch from his vest, snapped open the cover, and peered at the face. “We will pull into Pine Grove in exactly nine minutes.”

“One moment, Mr. Stout.” Molly patted the girl's hand. “Please continue.”

“Well, the gentleman come to the shop and give Effie some money and a one-way ticket on the Denver Express. He says she was not to worry. He was gonna make things right with her in Denver. But she told me he was acting nervous, not like his old self. I think she was scared. So she asked me to come to Denver with her. You know, just 'til she seen everything was gonna be fine. My mistress give me two days off, and Effie used the gentleman's money to get me a round-trip ticket. Soon's the train pulled into Como, she pretended to get off, just like the gentleman told her. When it was all clear, she got back on and . . .”

“And went to Charles Langford's compartment,” Molly said.

“I must protest.” The conductor's tone was sharp with astonishment. “Surely, Mrs. Brown, you cannot believe this”—he waved toward the girl huddled beside the window—“this domestic's story has anything to do with a fine gentleman like Mr. Langford.”

Molly got to her feet. “I suggest we check Mr. Langford's compartment. I believe the murdered girl's cloak and canvas bag are in the overhead, nicely hidden by a chinchilla coat.”

The conductor hesitated, then squared his shoulders and threw open the door. Molly brushed past and led the way down the corridor. She knocked sharply on the first door.

After a moment, the door swung open and Charles Langford peered out, annoyance and concern mingling in the handsome face. His gaze shifted from Molly to the conductor. “Yes? What is it?” he asked.

Molly said, “I believe you have something that belongs to Effie Rogers.”

Langford looked at her with unconcealed disdain. “I'm afraid your imagination has outrun my patience, Mrs. Brown,” he said finally. He stepped back and started to close the door. The conductor rammed his shoulder against it, holding it open, and Molly slipped inside.

Langford faced the conductor. “If you do not remove this meddlesome woman from my compartment, I shall contact the president of this railroad and have you removed from your position.”

“Mrs. Brown believes the dead woman's things are in this compartment,” Stout said. “If that is untrue, we shall be on our way with my sincerest apologies.”

Molly reached up to the rack and pulled down the chinchilla coat. It fell away in great, heavy folds, enveloping her arms and shoulders, the fur tickling at her nose. Her heart thumped against her ribs. The rack was empty. She looked around the small compartment. Nothing, except Langford's black case. He must have already thrown the cloak and canvas bag overboard.

And then she glimpsed the small rectangle of brown beneath the seat. She dropped to her knees and began tugging at the canvas bag.

“Leave that alone,” Langford shouted. “It is none of your business.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw the man rear over her, one fist in the air, and the conductor grab his arm. “Now, now, Mr. Langford. We will have no violence.”

Molly pulled out the grip, trailing the shabby black cloak across the floor. Then she got to her feet and faced Langford. “Effie threatened to expose your treatment of her, isn't that true? So you came to Leadville with the purpose of murdering her.”