The Illusion of Murder (41 page)

The scheme starts to take some shape in my mind, at least the passing of the key. The person who was supposed to receive the key was a European, probably someone from our ship. While many passengers on board may have visited the marketplace, only a few of them stand out in my mind, Lord and Lady Warton and Von Reich, and only because I accompanied them. It was Lord Warton who insisted we go to that area of the marketplace because he wanted to pick up something for his sister.

That doesn’t meant that there weren’t a dozen other passengers in the area or that the pass off wasn’t to take place later. That snake magic had me engrossed and I wasn’t paying attention to what was happening around me.

Whoever picked up the scarab-key intended to carry it to America and open the storage area underneath Westcot’s private train car. But why?

What is in that locker that is so important it triggered murder and intrigue halfway around the world, has some connection to a holy war in Egypt against foreigners, and can rattle the sabers of the British Empire because their hold on the Suez Canal is threatened?

From the news stories I read about Stirling Westcot, he was an unlikely candidate to be involved in international intrigue or anything across the seas. He prided himself on making money, period, and the only business he had with politicians were the stuffed envelopes he slipped them when he wanted something. Other than gouging as much money as he can from coal mines and railroads, his only passion is horse-racing. If it wasn’t for Sarah’s cryptic remark about a racehorse, I would not be able to make a connection between Egypt, the canal, and a Pullman car called
Amelia
.

The secret I still have no clue about is the contents of the storage box, but no matter how I stirred the pot, it all boils down to one thing: When the key is used on the
Amelia
, it will open Pandora’s box. And it will trigger something with international consequences. There is no other explanation for a Mahdi connection.

Somehow Sarah is mixed up in the intrigue, but I’m certain it’s an innocent involvement. I found her too blunt and open about her thoughts and feelings to picture her as a schemer. Nor does she strike me as politically zealous. I’m sure Sarah could care less whether the Suez Canal belonged to Egyptians, the British, or the man in the moon, and she is definitely too melodramatic for spying.

Whatever earthshaking events are unfolding, they don’t seem to relate to Sarah but to the important man she is clandestinely rendezvousing with. And try as I might, I can’t see her romantically connected to Stirling Westcot. A man had to have more than money to capture her heart. Perhaps Westcot has a son Sarah has become involved with? One in the diplomatic corps?

No matter how I try, I can’t get the pieces to stack into nice, neat piles. Maybe I’m building a mountain out of a molehill; perhaps I’m wrong, a train car named
Amelia
might just be a bizarre coincidence—but it sounds right to me.

Now I’m worried for Sarah. I need to contact her, find out where she is going and where this train car
Amelia
is. But how?

I must finish my race. Too many people are counting on me. I’ve gone this far, there’s no turning back.
Damn!
What I desperately need is time, which I don’t have.

George knocks on my door. “Miss Bly, there’s a reception committee here for you.”

I find the social area of the car quite filled with good-looking men.

“Hello, Miss Bly, I’m Mr. Cornelius Gardener, the vice president of the Chicago Press Club.” He steps forward, with his hat in his hand. “We’ve come to Joliet to escort you to Chicago.”

“Thank you.”

Before the train departs the station, I give the conductor a telegram to run in to the station office, a query to Mr. Bissel, the kind railroad executive I met in Oakland. I request a most urgent reply; I’m hoping that I will find a response at Chicago, our next stop.

Before we are into the station I have answered all the questions of the newsmen, and even joked about my sunburned nose and discussed the merits of traveling around the world with only one dress and a devilishly clever—and bad-tempered—monkey.

Since I’m changing trains in Chicago, I bid a teary-eyed farewell to the wonderful men of the rails who have brought me safely and speedily two-thirds of the way across the continent in record time. It was done only because the crew on my train and many dozens of trainmen on the Santa Fe route made my winning the race a part of their own lives and I shall be forever grateful to them.

The
Miss Nellie Bly Special
was given the right of way along the entire route and all speed limits were ignored. As news of the train’s impending arrival flashed over the telegraph lines to the next station, switchmen, engine changers, and coal and water tenders were standing by and went into action like a race crew, breaking many records, including switching an engine in forty-five seconds.

Because of their efforts, we set a new record for a run from the San Francisco Bay to Chicago—nearly 2,600 miles at an average speed of 37 miles per hour and occasional bursts of 60 miles per hour.

The rails between Chicago and the Eastern Seaboard are too crowded with rail traffic to permit my special train to dominate the tracks, so now I must leave the
Miss Nellie Bly Special
to board a regular passenger train for the rest of the race.

My train in Chicago is not ready to depart when we arrive and carriages are waiting to take me and the group of newsmen to the meeting room of the Press Club.

As I step aboard a coupe I shall share with Vice President Gardener, George the porter comes huffing and puffing from a good run to catch up with me and thrusts the reply to my telegram in my hands.

“Here you are, Miss Bly. God’s speed to the finish line!”

The query to the Oakland manager had requested the progress of certain passengers from the
Oceanic
who had left behind me. It is easy for a railroad man in a very short time to determine the progress of trains because most of the telegraph lines across the country follow the tracks.

My specific question is about Sarah, Frederick, the Wartons, and Von Reich. The answer: They left together on the train that crossed the mountains and are due to arrive in Chicago several hours
after
I am scheduled to leave.

Mr. Gardener interrupts my thoughts.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought,” I apologize. “What did you say?”

“My dear, Miss Bly, I am strongly tempted to steal you. You are quite a lady.”

“Well, Mr. Gardener,” I say, giving him my innocent young-woman smile that worked many times with Mr. Pulitzer, “that is an opportune suggestion because I do indeed need to have you and the Press Club members steal me for a few hours. I’m changing my departure time so I can join up with friends coming in from the west.”

“Isn’t that risky?”

“I hope not.” But I know it is.

Those words that have become a mantra with me, “If I lose the race, I will not, cannot return to New York,” create a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach.

I can see the headlines:
NELLIE BLY FAILS! SHE FAILED AMERICA AND WOMEN!
Instead of
HURRAHS
, I’ll be receiving
BOOS
.

But there is no other choice. Delaying my departure to join my former shipmates is the only honorable thing for me to do. I’m certain Sarah is in danger, more than she realizes.

War, death, illicit love—deadly sins are all in some way wrapped up in Sarah’s journey, events not far from her description of armies marching on darkling plains.

“You appear sad, Miss Bly.” Mr. Gardiner gives me a kind smile. “I hope it’s because you know that you will only spend hours in our beautiful city.”

“I was just thinking about how peaceful it was when I was very small and had not one care in the world.”

62

In the beautiful rooms of the Press Club I meet the president, Stanley Waterloo, and a number of clever newspapermen. They weren’t expecting me in Chicago until noon. The club had arranged an informal reception for me, but when they were notified of my speedy trip and consequently earlier arrival, it was too late to notify the members.

After a most delightful reception they escort me to Kinsley’s, where the club has a breakfast prepared. Owing to some misunderstanding, none of the men has had anything to eat since the night before. After breakfast, the members of the Press Club, acting as my escort, take me to visit the Chicago Board of Trade, the commodities exchange, where I encounter two surprises.

First: Their billboard lists my name as a guest for this day to address the commodities traders.

Second: Mr. Stirling Westcot, the millionaire and owner of the
Amelia
, is listed below my name. He is going to address the commodity traders tomorrow night.

I must have been staring at his name because my escort notices.

“Acquainted with Mr. Westcot?”

“Only by reputation, but I would like to meet him.”

“Unfortunately, you’ll miss him on this trip. He addresses us tomorrow and leaves for the West Coast the following morning.”

Going west in his private train car, of course. And I’m going east. So are my shipmates. Sarah wouldn’t come all the way to Chicago just to turn around and head west. Maybe there is more than one Amelia in this world and I have been focusing on the wrong one.

When we enter the commodities trading room, the pandemonium that seems to reign all during business hours is at its height.

My escorts take me to the gallery and just as we get there a man raises his arm to yell something to the roaring crowd, but he spots me and yells instead:
“There’s Nellie Bly!”

In one instant, the crowd that has been yelling like mad becomes so silent a pin could have been heard falling to the floor. Every face, bright and eager, turns up toward me; instantly every hat comes off, and then a burst of applause resounds through the immense hall.

I am in shock. People can say what they please about Chicago, but I do not believe that anywhere else in the United States can a woman get a greeting which will equal that given by the Chicago Board of Trade.

The applause is followed by cheer after cheer and cries of
“Speech!”

I take off my little cap and shake my head at them for I can’t speak. I just pray I can hold back my tears; I can’t have these men seeing me cry … it’s just so incredible.

My gesture only serves to increase their cheers.

*   *   *

I
T IS LATE AFTERNOON
when Press Club members escort me to the Pennsylvania Station, where I reluctantly bid them good-bye, unable to thank them heartily enough for the royal manner in which they have treated a little sunburned stranger.

From Mr. Bissel’s telegram, I already know the Wartons and Von Reich have compartments in one car. Frederick Selous and Sarah are in other cars. My compartment is in the same car as Sarah’s. Sarah and I will be next-door neighbors and the rest closer together than when we were on ships. It will be interesting to see what happens with all of us sandwiched together like sardines.

Right now I’m very curious as to how they will react when they see me. And what Sarah tells me when I demand answers from her.

A group of people boarding pause and look in my direction as a man takes off his hat and yells,
“You’re on the last lap, Nellie! Get going and get across that finish line!”

Smiling, I wave and mouth a “thank you” to him. God, I hope I will.

Well, the cat’s now out of the bag.

Lord Warton, who is entering a Pullman, two cars down from the one I will be riding in, turns and gives me the sort of frown and grimace I would expect a hanging judge to cast down on a prisoner in the dock. As for her ladyship, she merely glances in my direction, lifts her chin, and gives me her back. An ice-cold wind would have been a warmer welcome.

Inside, I drop my bag and ulster in my own compartment and knock on Sarah’s door.

“This is the police,” I whisper at the door. “We are investigating a mystery woman.”

A scream of joy comes from the other side of the door and it flies open.
“Nellie!”
She gives me a genuine, warm, enthusiastic hug. “Come in!”

Pretending to peek around the tiny compartment, I ask, “What, no coffin to sleep in?”

She dramatically puts the back of her hand against her forehead. “Alas, it ended up in the baggage car. I’m so delighted you are here! I thought for sure we had seen the last of each other.”

“Me, too.” I close the door behind us. “Sarah, I have to talk to you.”

She takes a seat, while I remain standing.

“What is it, dear? You look positively alarmed.”

“We need to talk about your rendezvous. You have to tell me—”