On the Wrong Track by Steve Hockensmith Page B

popped wide, and he marched back to the Pacific Express on legs that looked about as steady as jelly.

Ten
    BLACK CURTAINS
    Or, The Passengers Get Ready for Bed As Gustav Goes to Work
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    The train’s porters hadn’t been lollygagging while the rest of us worked our jawbones outside. In our absence, the sleeper cars had been transformed. Where once had been rows of well-cushioned settees was now a narrow passage hemmed in on either side by dark, velvet draperies. Behind these curtains were our beds—pulled down from ceiling cabinets in the case of the upper berths, folded together from our seats for the lower.
    It was a jarring sight to return to. What had seemed like a long sitting room when we’d left now had the cramped, clammy feel of a mausoleum.
    But the real tomb was up ahead of our Pullman, in the baggage car. Word quickly spread that porters had deposited the baggageman’s body there … stuffed in a stewpot from the dining-car kitchen.
    Oh, that’s bunk, I almost replied upon hearing this from Horner, who relayed it with the eyebrow-waggling leer men usually reserve for off-color jokes. The body was banged up, sure, but you couldn’t squeeze it into no pot. You’d need at least a washtub.

    I held my tongue out of deference to the ladies milling about nearby. The Pacific Express was under way again, and our fellow passengers were preparing for bed. As a result, a steady stream of females pressed past us, either going to or coming from the women’s washroom Gustav had so briefly toured earlier that day.
    Pullman travel, it turned out, had a side benefit of which I hadn’t been aware—a relaxation of the normal rules of decorum. Most of the ladies were attired only in their nightgowns and perhaps a flimsy robe or wrap, and I had to be careful to conceal the degree to which I found such sights distracting.
    My brother was unable to pull off such a masquerade himself. In fact, he was quite obviously mortified, and he shuffled up the aisle sideways, his face pressed into the drapes and his hands plastered to his sides lest they accidentally brush against female flesh.
    He was headed for the privy at the front end of the car—the men’s privy, he was careful to confirm—and I’d been instructed to follow once I’d recovered our carpetbag from our berth. It was hard to escape from Horner once he got his lips up to a gallop, though.
    “I’ll bet this is it for the Pacific Express,” the drummer was saying. “It’s supposed to keep on through October, when the Exposition ends, but I don’t see that happening. The Give-’em-Hell Boys hit the very first run back in May, and now a drifter murders one of the crew? When word gets out, you won’t be able to pay people to take the Express.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mrs. Kier said. She was still in her day clothes, having been roped into conversation with Horner before she could flee to the WC. “After all, what some consider ‘danger,’ others consider ‘excitement.’ I don’t think one robbery and one unfortunate death are going to scare many customers away. Just look at me. I was on that first run to Chicago myself—I saw Barson and Welsh with my own eyes. And I came back.”
    I didn’t think Horner’s mouth could open any wider, but his jaw dropped so low I could’ve rolled a doughnut down his throat.

    “ You were on the Express when … oh, pardon us, Miss Caveo. Do you have room to get through?”
    I had to fight to keep my gaze at eye level as the lady joined us. I could see enough of her shoulders to know she was in sleeping attire of a frilly, lacy design, and the urge to peek lower was difficult indeed to resist.
    The three of us stepped back to let her maneuver into her bed (though I couldn’t help noticing that Horner didn’t give her quite the leeway Mrs. Kier and I did). But rather than retreat behind the curtains of her berth, Miss Caveo lingered in the passageway.
    “Reviewing the day’s