Amerikan Eagle

Yeah, plans, he thought. But the good police marshal Harold Hanson had plans of his own.

So what now?

Go home and be a good boy?

Or…

He reached up, gently undid the lapel pin, and dropped it in his pocket. He shifted the Packard into reverse, then into first gear, and went back to being a cop.

Just a goddamn cop.

* * *

It took a few minutes of driving in an upscale section of town before he found what he was looking for, a turn-of-the-century Victorian house with light yellow paint. He parked in front and went up to the front porch, turned the doorbell, and waited.

A man opened the lace-curtain-covered door. Pat Lowengard, manager of the Portsmouth office of the Boston & Maine railroad.

“Oh,” Lowengard said, crestfallen, as though he’d been expecting anybody but Sam. “Inspector Miller.”

“Pat, you don’t look like you’re happy to see me.”

“We’re about to have supper, and my mother is visiting, and—”

Sam stepped in, forcing Lowengard back. Sam said, “I need a few minutes of your time. Then you can go back to supper and your happy family.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“It certainly can’t. Now, we can talk here, or I can drag you down to the station. Your choice.”

A woman’s voice called out. Sam couldn’t make out the question, but Lowengard yelled, “It’ll only be a minute, Martha! Just a bit of business to take care of.” Lowengard closed the door. “This way. My office.”

The station manager led Sam down a carpeted hallway. Sam looked at the nice furniture, the framed photos on the wall, and a thought came to him—that old phrase about how the other half lived. During these tough times, it was more like how the fortunate few lived.

At the end of the hallway was an open polished wooden door, and inside the small room were bookshelves, a desk, a typewriter, and two leather chairs. On the bookshelves were a collection of model trains and some leather-bound volumes, and on the floor was a small leather suitcase. After Sam entered the room, Lowengard closed the door and sat down and said, “Inspector, please, make it quick. What do you need?”

“You know trains, Pat, am I right?”

“Yes, I know trains. Is that why you came here? To ask me a stupid question like that?”

“Special trains.”

“What?

Sam put his hands on top of Lowengard’s desk. “Special trains. And don’t bullshit me, Pat. I’m talking about trains that don’t officially exist, trains that have no outside markings, save some yellow stripes. Trains that move at night—trains full of people. What are they?”

Lowengard’s face seemed to pale, as though the blood had suddenly stopped flowing to the skin. He licked his lips and said, “Sam, please… I could end up in a camp. Or someplace worse.”

“The other camps, right? The ones that are worse than the labor camps. Where are they? You must have an idea. The trains, where do they come from?”

“I… I can’t say anything, Sam. Please. I’m begging you…”

This close, Sam couldn’t help himself. He struck Pat across the face, the sound of the blow sounding sharp and loud in the small room. Pat gasped and brought his hand up to his cheek, and Sam said, “I’m investigating a homicide. And you’re impeding my investigation, which is a crime. Now. You may or may not get into trouble by telling me what you know, but I can guarantee you a shit-load of trouble right now unless you talk to me. It’ll make me very happy to drag your fat ass out of this nice, comfortable house and toss it in a county jail, or a state jail, or, if I get enough dirt on you, a labor camp. Think a guy in your shape will like cutting down trees at sunrise every morning?”

“Sam, please—”

Sam reached into his pocket, took out the flag pin, stuck it on his lapel. “Check it out, Pat. Know what this means? It means I’m part of something that’s not a goddamn club like the Elks or the Kiwanis. Something powerful. Something that can put you in a world of hurt if I just say the word. So. Should I say the word?”

Pat slowly rubbed his cheek, looking like a chubby child who could not believe what Daddy had done to him. “I… I’ll talk. Just for a few minutes. And you never tell anyone you talked to me, and we’re done. All right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. We’re done.”

Pat blinked, and Sam saw tears in his eyes. “The trains… they started a few years ago. Top priority, we had to clear tracks and sidings for them, no delays, no questions. They departed from navy installations up and down the East Coast. You hear things, you know? In this business, you hear things.”

“Was the shipyard one of the departure points?”

“Yes, but not often. Maybe two, three times.”

“Who are in the trains?”

Pat shook his head. “People. That’s all.”

“Where do they come from? And where do they go?”

“Transport ships, that’s all I know.” Pat rubbed his cheek. “From there, they mostly go to small towns down south. A few out west. And just a while ago, a place in upstate Vermont. That’s it. The trains go to these towns, and poof, they disappear. As if Mandrake the Magician made them go away.”

“What’s the name of the town in Vermont?”