Bell shaved there before dressing for dinner. While he could afford a lavish suite with its own facilities, he preferred shared facilities when he traveled. In such lounges, just as in the changing rooms of gymnasiums and private clubs, something about the combination of marble, tile, running water, and comfortable chairs in the absence of women made men boastful. Boastful men talked openly to strangers, and there was always some tidbit of information to glean from overheard conversations. And indeed, as he slid his Wootz steel straight razor across his face, a rotund and cheerful slaughterhouse owner from Chicago put down his cigar to remark, "Porter told me that Senator Charles Kincaid boarded the train in Ogden."

"The 'Hero Engineer'?" replied a well-dressed drummer stretched out comfortably in the other leather armchair. "I'd like to shake his hand."

"All you gotta do is corral him in the dining car."

"You can never tell with those senators," said the salesman. "Con gressmen and governors will shake any hand that still has blood flowing in it, but United States senators can be a stuck-up lot."

"That's what comes from being appointed instead of elected."

"Was he the tall fellow who jumped aboard at the last second?" Bell asked from the shaving mirror.

The Chicago meatpacker said he'd been reading the newspaper as the train pulled out and hadn't noticed.

The drummer had. "Hopped on quick as a hobo."

"A mighty well-dressed hobo," said Bell, and the meatpacker and the drummer laughed.

"That's a good one," the meatpacker chortled. "Well-dressed hobo. What line are you in, son?"

"Insurance," said Bell. He caught the drummer's eye in the mirror. "Was the fellow you saw jump on last minute Senator Kincaid?"

"Could have been," said the drummer. "I didn't look close. I was talking to a gent at the front of the car and the conductor was blocking my view. But wouldn't they hold the train for a senator?"

"Reckon so," said the meatpacker. He heaved his heavy body out of the chair, stubbed out his cigar and said, "So long, boys. I'm heading for the observation car. Anyone use a drink, I'm buying."

Bell went back to his stateroom.

Whoever had jumped on at the last minute had disappeared by the time Bell reached the observation car at the rear of the train, which was not surprising since this Overland Limited was an all-stateroom train, the only public spaces being the dining car and the observation car. The dining car had been empty except for the stewards setting tables for the evening meal, and none of the smokers in the observation car resembled the well-dressed man Bell had seen at a distance. Nor did any of them resemble the lumberjack's sketch of the Wrecker.