“Or flew!”

The spy glanced toward the back of the car. A tall man in a white suit was gliding in from the rear vestibule.

“Maybe he’s got no ticket, figuring to ride the rails.”

“There goes the conductor—on him like a terrier.”

“Guard my cocktail,” said the spy. “I just remembered I have to dictate a letter.”

The 20th Century Limited supplied a stenographer, free of charge. He moved quickly to the man’s portable desk at the head of the observation car, pulled his collar up and his hat low, and sat with his back to the detective. “How soon will a letter I post leave the train?”

“Forty minutes. It will go off at Harmon when we exchange the electric engine for a steam locomotive.” He reached for an envelope engraved VIA 20TH CENTURY. “To whom shall I address it, sir?”

“K. C. Dee, Plaza Hotel, New York.”

“They’ll have it this evening.” The stenographer addressed the envelope, spread a sheet of 20th Century stationery, and poised his pen.

The train was accelerating up the cut that ran north out of the city. Stone walls cast shadows, darkening the windows, causing the glass to mirror the interior of the crowded car. The spy watched Isaac Bell’s pale reflection pass behind him. The conductor trailed solicitously, and it was clear that, ticket or no, Bell was a welcome passenger.

“Ready when you are, sir,” prompted the stenographer.

He waited for Bell and the conductor to pass through the vestibule to the next car.

“‘My dear K. C. Dee,’” he began. He had miscalculated Bell’s reaction to the killing of his fellow detective and underestimated how quickly Van Dorns moved when aroused. Fortunately, he had left Katherine Dee fully prepared to accelerate events. It was simply a matter of unleashing her early.

“Ready, sir?”

“It appears that our customer did not receive our last shipment,” he dictated. “New paragraph. It is imperative that you make a personal visit to Newport, Rhode Island, tonight to set things straight.”

ISAAC BELL HAD PRESENTED Scully’s ticket for upper berth number 5 in Pullman car 6 and asked to pay the extra fare for a stateroom. Informed that every available room was sold out, he had produced a railroad pass. It was signed by the president of a rival line, but competing titans accommodated one another’s personal whims.

“Of course, Mr. Bell. Fortunately, we do have a company suite empty.”

In the privacy of the rosewood-paneled stateroom, Bell tipped the conductor generously.

“With that special pass, you don’t need to tip for good service, Mr. Bell,” said train conductor William Dilber, his hand nonetheless closing like a rattrap around the gold pieces.

Isaac Bell did not need service. He needed an eager associate. He had less than eighteen hours before the 20th Century Limited reached Chicago to find out who killed Scully. No more passengers would board between New York and Chicago. Except Van Dorn detectives.