Chapter 13

Tuesday, February 13, 1894

Early the next morning, while she was shaving him, Malik and Peng held a quiet conversation. As she lathered his face, he said, “Should we draw any inference from the fact that Ozzie Lambert was from Feldspar and that our biggest contract problems seem to be centered on the same area, around Joplin?”

She drew the razor down his cheek, from his temple to his jaw line. As she wiped the razor, she said, “It seems a bit thin, at the moment, but we have learned to be suspicious of coincidence, Master.”

“True,” he mumbled, trying to keep his face still as she brought the razor to bear, once more. “But I don’t think we can rule it out. Even though, I’ll admit, with Lambert having lived up here for so long, there seems little connection.”

“I cannot disagree, but we should remain open to the possibility.”

“Of course,” he agreed. Then he said, “Do you reckon your Dawn of Justice acquaintance has stumbled across Fu-Chun’s intelligence organization?”

“That seems a decided possibility, Master. Mister Fu-Chun seems an extraordinarily capable man whose talents continue to reveal themselves.”

“I was thinking the same thing. But I was also wondering if he was also discovering them, himself, as opportunities arose.”

She paused in thought, but then returned to wiping the shaving foam residue from his face. “You may be right. I detected no hint of some of these facets of his persona in years past.” After another thoughtful pause, she added, “I suspect that his association with you, your brother, and Chen Ming-teh may have given him the opportunity to flourish beyond what otherwise may have occurred.”

She finished with the towel and bent to kiss his lips, then said, “Thank you, Master, for allowing me to serve you.”

They found Tremaine and Wade already sitting at the dining table, as Zou Lei was just serving breakfast. The two younger men rose as Peng entered the cabin.

“Morning, gents,” Malik said. “Let’s wolf down a few bites and then you can fill us in on your late night excursion.”

Malik sat, then Peng followed suit, followed by Wade and Tremaine. Zou brought out a platter of triangular-shaped, multi-folded pastries with some manner of filling visible from the open end. “Jianbing,” he said. Malik immediately reached for the serving platter, but the other two men looked askance.

Peng addressed Zou, briefly, in Cantonese, and he made a slightly longer reply.

Peng said “M’goi.” (“Thank-you.”) to Zou, then, as the cook returned to the galley, she turned to Wade and Tremaine. “These are called jianbing. They are a thin pancake, similar to a French crepe.” Unfolding hers and examining the contents with the aid of a fork and knife, she said, “It appears Mister Zou filled these with egg, cheese, spring onion, black bean paste, chopped cabbage, and shredded smoked pork.” She folded it back, then cut off a small corner, using her fork to transfer it to her mouth.

Malik said, “They’re really not that good. Why don’t you just ask for some toast and I’ll eat these.”

Tremaine said, “Pretty funny, boss. How ‘bout passing that platter this way?”

Malik grudgingly passed the platter, but added, “Well, don’t let Peng intimidate you with her table manners.” He lifted the jianbing from his plate and bit off a portion. “This is peasant food, like a taco, or a burrito, or a ham sandwich. Using a knife or fork insults the chef. And only Peng can get away with that.”

Ten minutes later, each of the three men were just finishing their second jianbing, when there was the sound of someone mounting the steps. Israel Soriano could be seen approaching the door and knocking.

“Come on in, Lieutenant,” Malik called.

“Good morning,” Soriano said, as he stepped into the parlor cabin.

“Had breakfast?” Malik asked. “There’s one left,” he said, indicating the sole item left on the platter.

“What is that, a jianbing? Boy, I sure wouldn’t mind, if no one else wants it.”

Malik said, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Let’s just say, you’re welcome to it.”

Zou set another coffee-filled mug on the table, along with a plate and place setting. Soriano seated himself.

“What brings you out here this morning, Israel?”

Soriano had just taken a bite from the crepe, holding it in his hand. He pointed to his full mouth.

Malik said, “Take your time. We were just about to hear about the boys’ late-night interview of the Santa Fe train crew that carried our kidnappers to Wichita.”

Soriano had finished swallowing and took a sip of coffee. “I was interested in that, myself, plus I thought I might offer to lend a hand, if you need more help.”

“Be glad to have you along, Israel. By the way, have you and Emma set the date yet?”

“Funny you should ask. We just decided last evening: September eighth, in San Angelo.”

Malik looked toward Peng, who was already making a note on her small pad.

The table conversation turned briefly to congratulations and planning, before Malik said, “Frank, Davy, did you find out anything helpful last night?”

Tremaine said, “Not so much, boss. The conductor remembered them traveling together, but the only thing he commented on was that Lambert seemed to be running things.”

“Yeah, that was about it,” Wade said.

Malik said, “Well, we had to check.”

Soriano said, “I might have something.”

“Let’s hear it,” Malik said.

“Well, being new to these parts, I didn’t know who any of them were, when Frank showed me their likenesses. Even so, seeing Lambert’s face ... I don’t know. It was ... it was like an itch on my back that I couldn’t reach. Then, last night, Emma was talking about the mine owners from down Joplin way who were squawking about the contracts being enforced and she mentioned the name Owen Lambert and it came to me: I’d seen Ozzie Lambert meet Owen Lambert at our Kansas City depot a couple weeks ago,” he frowned and shook his head, “or maybe it was ten days ago, I can’t be certain.”

Malik had sat up in his seat. He asked, “Are you saying a man named Owen Lambert is one of the mine owners near Joplin?”

“Well, not exactly. One of the lead mines is owned by the miners, who bought out the widow of the original owner. Owen Lambert is their, I don’t know, their chairman or something. But he also serves as their general manager. They’re the same group who own a five percent piece of the Division, or a one percent share of the Kanzona, if they decide to convert the stock.”

Malik looked at Peng and said, “Looks like we might have been wrong about that coincidence.” She simply met his gaze with a neutral expression, which was her standard public face.

Then he turned his attention back to Soriano. “How was it you knew who Owen Lambert was?”

“Ah, I met him down in Feldspar, after our crew put a hopper on the ground.”

Malik filled in, for Wade. “On the ground means derailed, in railroad jargon.” Then, “Please go ahead, Israel.”

Soriano picked up his narrative. “I think somebody down there may have been showing their dislike of us enforcing the terms of our contract, as someone had moved a derail on the mine siding at Feldspar without moving the warning sign, with the upshot that our crew put one end of an empty ore hopper on the ground when they were backing into the siding. The boys managed to get it back on the iron, using some shoring timber, but Emma wanted me to look into it.

“So I met with Owen Lambert and explained that the siding was leased to the mine and that the lease terms made them responsible for reporting changes in track conditions to us. He didn’t seem pleased when I assured him that they’d be liable for any damage caused by such shenanigans. He’s a big fella, like his son was, and he tried to cow me, but I learned my lessons from Sir Geoff, and Miss Peng, and, more recently, Lieutenant DeWitt, so even a shorter man, like me, doesn’t have to back down.” He smiled, momentarily lost in thought. Then he finished with, “So, that’s why I noticed the two of them, meeting at the depot, when Owen got off the train.”

“You didn’t hear what was said, did you?” Malik asked.

“No. I was inside and saw them through a window. They walked off, right away. They never came near enough for me to hear them.”

Malik sat back in his chair and appeared to be examining his articulated prosthesis, running his fingers over the oblong hook. The others finished eating, or sipped their coffee. Peng sat silently, watching him.

Finally, he sat straighter and rested his hand and the hook on the table and directed his gaze toward Wade. “Before we left Wichita, had there been any word about who might have killed Ossian Lambert?”

“Well, the boys seemed to think he ran afoul of one or more men who have been working the waterfront. His is not the first body to turn up with a slit throat, this winter.”

Malik continued to look at him for a moment, then moved his eyes to Tremaine, who sat stoically under his scrutiny.

Finally, he turned to look at Peng, who said, “Sometimes, a coincidence is simply a coincidence.”

Malik looked surprised. “You’re willing to change horses in the middle of a stream?”

She said, “I am no more willing to dismiss the possibility of a coincidence than I am the likelihood of a connection. But inflexibly in assuming either position invariably leads to error. The maxim is to be suspicious of coincidence, not to dismiss nor adhere to it out of hand.”

Malik, a sour set to his lips, looked away from her, out the window, at a nearby locomotive working the adjoining switchyard. Finally, he nodded. “Of course, you’re right. But,” he said, turning back to Wade, “I’d appreciate it if you would send a wire to Wichita and ask if there have been any further developments.”

“Certainly. I’ll do it now,” and he reached for a pencil from the mug kept in the center of the table, next to a stack of half-sized note paper.

Turning back to Peng, Malik said, “Nonetheless, it is difficult to think that these five men acted spontaneously to pursue two separate actions against our family, in two widely-separated locations, within such proximate time, without their being a common motive. What’s more, there has been no real evidence that either group was actually seeking a ransom. I have even wondered whether those first two may not have thought up the notion of a ransom demand on their own and after the fact.”

There were footfalls on the steps and a young man could be seen through the curtains. He knocked at the door, calling, “Telegram for Mister Malik.” Malik stood and went to the door, returning quickly with an envelope in hand. He reseated himself and, with a table knife, he slit the top edge of the envelope and withdrew the message form.

Feb 13 1894

Emil Malik, Lincoln Falls Loop, AT&SF Guest Siding, Kansas City, Mo 13Feb1894

Be advised Carter Sweeney homicide Feb 4 League City.

Fu-Chun Li, Summer Lake, Aren

Malik looked around the table. “This is from Fu-Chun Li, a business associate from Summer Lake, in Arenoso. He says that Carter Sweeney was murdered, a week ago, in League City, Texas, where Sweeney lived and had his office.”

He paused in thought, then added, “Sweeney was the majority shareholder of the Kansas City and Western Missouri Railroad before it became our Western Missouri branch. He and Maximilian Freiling owned ninety-five percent of the stock of the KC and WM.”

Wade mumbled, “The plot thickens.”

Tremaine said, “What?”

“The plot thickens. It’s something written by Conan Doyle in a mystery short story, A Study in Scarlet. It’s about this genius private detective, Sherlock Holmes”

“Sherlock Homes?”

“Holmes, with an ‘L.’ He’s a --”

Malik interjected, “Fellas, let’s not get sidetracked. The book club can meet at lunch.

“Sorry, boss,”

“Yeah, sorry, Mister Malik.”

Malik shrugged. “Not that I have anything more valuable to contribute.” He paused, then, looking at Peng, said, “Except maybe it’s time to reinvoke the Rule of Unlikely Coincidences.”

Peng said, “This would appear to beg that question.”

Soriano asked, “Do you know where Max Freiling is?”

Malik shrugged, saying, “He said he was headed for Hawaii. But why would those two ... Oh, of course. They entered into the crooked deals with the mine consortium, got them to invest in the railroad, and then pulled the rug out from under them be selling out to us.”

Peng said, “That seems a credible explanation.”

“It does make a sensible story, when told that way,” Wade said.

“If Max Freiling turns up dead,” Tremaine added, “it would for sure make it more likely...”

Soriano said, “If it is that mine consortium, then coming after you or your family --”

“That won’t hold water,” Malik said. “What good does it do them to attack us? Do they expect they’ll get better shipping rates if they kill my children?”

Peng said, “Perhaps that is how they gained the concessions from the prior owners. Making good on those threats would be a message to you.”

“Except,” Malik said, “no one has ever given us that message.”

Peng said, “Perhaps that is because we keep killing the messengers.”

“And will continue to do so. Though we certainly didn’t kill Ozzie Lambert.”

“But his wounds made him vulnerable to others,” Peng suggested, “and we were responsible for those wounds.”

Malik shook his head, wearing a grimace of frustration. The silence that followed was broken by the sound of more footsteps mounting the coach’s platform.

A knock on the door was followed by the call, “Telegram.”

Still shaking his head, Malik said, “I’ll get it.” He stood up and went to the door. He accepted the envelope, tipped the messenger, and was reading the wire by the time he walked back to his place at the table.

Before seating himself, he looked over at Peng. “Well, this is interesting. It’s from Mister Fu-Chun. He says that Jin Zemin, from Dawn of Justice, is on his way here, and is arriving on Santa Fe train number thirty-four, tomorrow morning.”

This gained a response from the normally unflappable Peng: she briefly wrinkled her brow in puzzlement.

Malik said, “Fu-Chun gives no hint, other than to say that Jin’s visit is at our expense. I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“He is Song Yi’s intelligence officer, or was, at least at our last contact,” Peng said.

“Yes, I recall. Do you see any point in speculating about this?”

“No. It is simply that, when triads become involved, then the plot truly does thicken, as the Detective Sergeant alluded.”

“Well, we should know by this time tomorrow.”

“Triads?” asked Soriano. “Speaking of Sir Geoff, I remember he said many were harmless social organizations, but a few gave them all a bad name.”

Malik said, “I reckon you came in after we’d talked about triads. Jin Zemin is a member of the Dawn of Justice Society. To keep it simple, I’ve described them as rather more like the Pinkertons than a criminal gang. Peng was an officer in one of their cohorts.”

Soriano looked toward Peng, who was watching Malik.

Malik said, “Speaking of telegrams, I believe you were going to send one, Davy.”

Wade looked startled, then said, “Slipped my mind. I’ll run it over to the depot, now.”

Malik slid a coin across the table toward him. “Use this.”.

When Wade returned, Malik asked him, “Can you wire the police force in League City, to see if they have more information about Carter Sweeney’s death?”

Wade hesitated. “Those kind of wires can end up being expensive, League City will want us to pay for their reply.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that. Have it sent COD,” Malik said, fishing a ten dollar coin from his pocket. He handed it to Wade and said, “Let me know if you need more.”

“Depends on what they send.”

“Ask them specific questions that suggest succinct answers. It might help them focus. But we want information, so I’d think maybe your last question could be something along the lines of, ‘Is there anything else you think is noteworthy?’ or however you coppers would say it. The information is more important than the money.”

Malik looked at the three policemen and said, “Why don’t you three work on that. Peng and I are going over to talk to Emma. Do you know if she’s in this morning, Israel?”

“She is. She told me that, as long as you were in town, she wasn’t planning to go anywhere, not without telling you, first.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of her.”

“Thoughtful?” Soriano chuckled. “She’s just worried she might miss out on some excitement.”

Malik looked grim. “Like getting shot in the back?” He shook his head, looking at the floor.

“That’s water over the dam, as far as she’s concerned. Just bad luck, Patron.”

“Well, with Carter Sweeney’s demise, both the men behind her shooting are dead.”

“I don’t reckon it will matter to her all that much. She was just glad to be able to get back to work, and she likes this division. Even more, she gets a kick out of living in a big city.”

“That’s good to know. Still, that was a helluva thing.”

“Let’s sit in the lounge,” Emma Watts said. “I’ve a tea service ready.” She led the way into a room adjoining her office. It was furnished less as workspace and more to elegant domestic standards, with four overstuffed wingback chairs and a divan, all gathered around a polished terra cotta tile hearth with a gray polished granite surround, in which a fire had been kindled. Dark oak wainscoting lined the walls under a chair rail, with a coarse plaster stucco above. The ceiling was finished with the same dark oak panels. It was a leftover of Maximilian Freiling’s administration of the KC&WM Railroad.

“This room is conducive to relaxed conversation,” Malik commented. “Have you ever had Owen Lambert in here?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. He came up here, quite belligerent, after he received his first monthly invoice from us. He insisted that he’d already paid for more favorable treatment.

“I brought him in here and offered him tea. He looked over at that liquor cabinet and asked if there was anything more invigorating. I told him I’d emptied that cupboard, and that we wouldn’t be running things the same as Mister Freiling. The room did seem to calm him some, but he remained insistent that he had paid a fee for discounted tonnage.

“He was quite clearly trying to intimidate me, but I set him in his place when I asked him if he knew what he was risking in signing falsified weight receipts. He had no idea that he was liable to the Cotton Belt for those discrepancies, should they ever be discovered.”

Malik asked, “They transship their ore on the Cotton Belt?” Cotton Belt was the trade name of the St. Louis Southwestern Railway Company.

“Yes, that’s right. When he heard that, he said, ‘What do you mean? Max never said anything about that.’

“So I told him that, with the sale of the Kansas City and Western Missouri to the Kanzona, and a settling of all KC and WM debts, the mine consortium was the only group left holding the bag, as far as the courts would be concerned, if fraudulent weights were discovered.

“I also explained that we had no official knowledge of any discrepancies, or any arrangements for them, since they occurred before we took over and Mister Freiling never mentioned them. Nor have they occurred since. But, if he chose to assert that there was an arrangement for underweight measures, at that point I would be obliged to inform the authorities, in order to limit the Kanzona’s liability.” She grinned. “That shut him up.”

“And?” Malik prompted.

“Not much,” Watts said. “He stared into the fire for maybe half a minute, then abruptly stood and said, ‘We’ll see,’ and he walked out and left the building. I haven’t heard a peep since.”

“When was that?”

“December twentieth.”

“So he didn’t come to see you the day Israel saw Lambert with his son?”

“No.”

Malik frowned and looked off into the middle distance. Watts sipped her tea. Peng watched her Master. Finally, Malik sighed and looked back at Watts. “To be clear, Lambert is expecting the same treatment from us that he received from Freiling, that we should record weights less than the actual?”

“Yes.”

“And you explained that our contracts are for the same rates as everywhere else on our system?”

“Yes, Emil.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he expects more favorable rates.”

Frowning again, Malik rubbed his forehead with the smooth edge of the articulated hook on his left arm. “I don’t understand this. What does he want from us?”

“He wants special treatment, and he seems offended that we won’t extend it.”

“Why? Why does he think he merits special treatment?”