Amerikan Eagle

Sam reached into the Packard, took out a bag of sandwiches he had made quickly while Sarah and Toby got dressed. He went over to a path that led into the woods and, in a few moments, fashioned three sticks that pointed to the left. Another old Boy Scout message. Look to the left. And to the left, at the base of a large pine tree, he dropped the sack of sandwiches. Waited. Waited for movement out in the brush and the trees. One hand went into his coat pocket, about a set of handcuffs.

If Tony came out right now, Sam could get control of one problem. Get him back to his house, toss him in the cellar… So much going on, and to have his escapee brother roaming around…

Waited some more, checked his watch, and then went back to his Packard.

* * *

When he got to his desk, he was pleased to see that Mrs. Walton was out sick that morning. He hated having her nearby, listening in on what he was saying over the telephone, reading his notes and paperwork when he went away, and generally being the nosy woman that she was, keeping track of him and the others in The Log.

He had another pleasant surprise when he settled in his chair: an envelope on his desk with his name scribbled on the outside, and a stamped return address of Boston & Maine Railroad. Portsmouth Station. Portsmouth, N.H.

The envelope felt heavy in his hand. To do the smart thing, to be a smart fellow, would mean tossing the envelope into the trash without opening it. The case now belonged to the FBI and the Gestapo. It didn’t belong to him. But that old man, that tattooed man… Sam remembered what the medical examiner had said. Fuck ’em all. He leaned back in his chair, slit the envelope open. A thick sheaf of papers came out, with a note clipped to the top:

Sam—

Happy to get this to you quicker than I thought. Let me know if you need anything else.

—Pat

Sam looked at the papers. A collection of blurry carbons listing the passenger manifest of the train from Boston to Portland, the one that just might have been carrying his John Doe.

He dialed the local four-digit number for the B&M station, and when Lowengard got on the phone, Sam told the station manager, “Pat, you did good. Thanks. The department owes you one.”

Lowengard’s voice was shaky, but he seemed happy to be praised. “So glad it worked out, Sam. Is there anything else I can do for the department?”

“Yeah, there is.”

Silence. Just the sound of the heavy man’s labored breathing.

“Only a question, Pat. According to the new internal transport laws, there’s got to be a manifest for the passengers, right? And the manifest is checked by a railroad cop assigned to that particular train?”

“That’s right,” Pat said carefully.

“Good. Now. According to the law, shouldn’t the manifest be checked when the train arrives? To match the number of people getting off the train against the master list?”

“Sam, please don’t hold me to this… I really don’t want to say anymore. I mean, look, I’m in an awkward position and…”

“Pat, whatever it is, you won’t be in trouble from me. I’m just trying to find out if my John Doe got tossed off that train to Portland. If there’s a name on the list that didn’t get checked off in Portland, then there’s a pretty good chance that’s my man.”

No answer.

Sam said, “Things get busy, don’t they? Paperwork gets sloppy. Train pulls in late, nobody wants to hold up the passengers, checking off names. So people look the other way. Maybe there’s a favor. Someone doesn’t even make the list. A good guess?”

“A very good guess, Sam.”

“Then tell me who to call up there in Portland, your counterpart. On the off chance that the paperwork was done right.”

“George Culley,” the station master said. “He should be able to help you.”

“Thanks, Pat.” But by then Sam was talking to a dead phone.

* * *

Sam took a quick bathroom break and then came back to his office, saw a note among the papers. It was from Sean Donovan, records clerk, and all it said was See me ASAP, v. important, Sean. Sam called down to the records department. No one picked up the phone.

Later, then, for now it was time for real police work. After going through the local New England Telephone operator, getting a long-distance line, he got hold of George Culley of the Portland office of the Boston & Maine. Culley’s tough Maine voice sounded as though he belonged on a lobster boat and not in a train station, but when Sam told him what he needed, the Mainer’s voice became conspiratorial, like that of a child who had spent too much time listening to Dick Tracy.

“Really?” George asked. “A murder investigation?”

“That’s right,” Sam said. “I believe the murdered man was on the express from Boston to Portland three days ago. I have the manifest of those passengers who boarded in Boston. If you have the manifest of the departing passengers, then—”