Train Song

By Jo Allison

In 1911, the fastest trip from San Francisco to St. Louis takes four days-every one potentially deadly for two honeymooners.

In April 1911, Julia Nye McConnell has enjoyed a delayed honeymoon with her husband, William, who is reporting on the rebuilding of San Francisco five years after the Great Earthquake. As they prepare for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Old Underwood Publishing
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9780998940809

Jo Allison

Jo Allison is the award-winning author of historical fiction and non-fiction, set in 1910s St. Louis and beyond. Jo drives family and librarians crazy with the depth of her research but delights readers who like good, solid history with their stories. Five books make up the Julia Nye Mystery series, about a 1910s "new woman" who goes where the police don't dare in investigations. Allison is also the author of *Storied and Scandalous St. Louis: A History of Breweries, Baseball, Prejudice, and Protest*, from Globe Pequot Press. You can read about Jo and reach her at joallisonauthor.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Monday, April 17, 1911

Five years ago today, residents of San Francisco, California, felt the mild quakes that were common to the city. Early the next morning, April 18, 1906, the largest earthquake in its history began a reign of devastation. In the five years since, the city has rebuilt and redefined itself. Globe-Democrat staff reporter William R. McConnell’s series on the rebuilding effort five years out begins tomorrow.

The view from my favored table overlooking San Francisco’s Union Square is losing its charm. I’m ready to go home, eager to get back to work and a routine. My husband has a different plan, and we’ll begin the debate any moment.

William has finished the morning papers, apparently necessary each day even if they’re San Francisco papers. Later today, if we’re still here and not blessedly on a train headed east, he’ll visit the shop that carries four-day-old Globe-Democrats to keep up with St. Louis news.

Now he’s on his third of three notes he’s received. He gets several a morning from news sources he’s picked up in our five days here, suggesting other lines of inquiry or asking for a meeting, maybe saying good-bye. The first two notes must have been inconsequential. He’s been looking at the third long enough that I’m getting anxious. All it will take is some wiseacre with a totally new story angle for Will to argue for another’s day stay.

Well, Julia. The idea of a trip to Los Angeles before we head home is looking better than ever.

There’s something odd in his expression, a tension around his eyes, a tautness in his lips, unusual in a man whose coolness helps define him.

"Oh, Will, has someone suggested another story? You’ve sent three back already. Long ones. Surely that’s all the Globe can expect." I’ll hold off begging to go home the quickest way, retracing the Union Pacific route we used on the trip west, lest I hear a good answer. I truly do appreciate the work William’s done. It’s just that home is four days away—and that’s starting to feel like a long time.

The story is the same one I’ve been suggesting, Jule. Los Angeles is getting to be a sizeable city, and some of that growth is fueled by people leaving San Francisco after the quake. It’s more than Forrest expects, but he’ll take it. However . . .—William looked at the note in his hand—there may be another reason to go besides pleasing an editor.

What?

In response to my shortness, Will flicks the note toward me. It says,

---

Tread carefully. Your life is in very much danger.

---

My God. Images of William hurt in our past adventures begin to pound in my head; memories of him facing down danger make my gut tighten. I shift the note to my left hand and flail with my right across the table. Will catches my fingers.

I take a deep breath before I read the note a second time, convinced it can’t say what I take it to mean. But it does.

What in the world, Will? I can’t think of anything better to say, but I don’t need to. He’s reading my panic. The response in his face says we calm down and deal with it, love.

We’ve done this before, gotten threatening notes, puzzled over the sender, worried through our response. Last summer. And, I’d have thought I couldn’t be more anxious than I was this past fall when an assassin was stalking Will in Chicago.

But that was before we wed and agreed to take more care in our investigations.

I glance about. What has become familiar elegance is shadowed with threats, assassins watching our reaction from behind the large palms and the marble columns. I lower my voice to ask the obvious. What are we going to do?

Will raises my hand that grips his and kisses it. Ask Hoover at the desk how it was delivered. Think over that odd wording. Maybe speak to Jonesy outside.

Will has made friends, naturally, with several cops, including one he calls Jonesy who patrols Union Square, along with various reporters and even some residents of what the city calls Chinatown. To say he’s made friends with the city leaders he’s interviewed stretches the word friend too far.

And, I do think the trip to Los Angeles is a good idea. If someone is looking to do me harm on the way home, then we should choose another route. We can head to Los Angeles today. I’ll pick up whatever I can quickly. Then we’ll take a southern rail home and come into Kansas City by a different route. Maybe take a different line home to St. Louis from there.

All I can do is nod. The return route home suddenly is peopled with assailants lurking at Salt Lake City, at Cheyenne, at Denver, knowing our schedule, knowing our vulnerability every time we step from our sleeper.

We do it, then. Will rises. Let’s ask Hoover for a train schedule. After that, I’ll find Jonesy, and you finish packing.

No. My tone stops him. I’m not letting you out of my sight. If you’re going out that door to chat in the middle of Union Square, I’m beside you.

I didn’t carry my bag with me from our room. The refurbished St. Francis Hotel has become so much our home that I left the purse, complete with the revolver it carries, upstairs. And you’ll have to wait until I get my gun.

I gather up the presumably innocuous notes and the deadly one, hand them to Will, and straighten the newspapers. Will keeps the threatening envelope in his hand, eases all three notes into an inside jacket pocket, moves to my side, and tucks my hand on his arm.

He speaks quietly, doing nothing to indicate that our world is tipping out of control. I’ll say this. It’s a good thing I travel with a well-armed and stubborn bodyguard.

He smiles at me and squeezes my hand against his ribs. I can all but feel the note simmering through his coat. My stomach tightens a notch more with his words. I will indeed protect him with all my skill. And my life. I hope it will be enough.

CHAPTER TWO

I let go of William’s arm and turn to survey the lobby while he asks his questions of Hoover, the desk clerk. Like many buildings in the city, the St. Francis is new and clean, the result of rebuilding after the quake. Open spaces have replaced cluttered ones; sleek has replaced ornate. William has talked to people who bemoan all that has been lost. While he sympathizes, being a sucker for anything old, he’s pleased with my delight in my stylish, temporary home.

Which is suddenly not so homey. Guests sit about with their coffee or tea, apparently as engrossed in the papers as William was a short time ago. I search for anything that interrupts the sophisticated tranquility.

I glance back to see the offending envelope in William’s hand. His name is an awkward scrawl.

He speaks quietly. Do you have any idea, Mr. Hoover, who delivered this note for me?

Ah, no, I don’t, Mr. McConnell. It was a young boy, somewhat younger than the usual delivery boys and not one I recognized. Poor lad could barely reach up to the counter. Certainly not someone hired by the telegraph concerns, sir.

No, I shouldn’t think so. It’s a handwritten note, not a telegram. Is there any way to track it back to a source?

No, sir, Mr. McConnell. I can’t think how. I hope it isn’t bad news, sir?

Let us say it isn’t good news. In fact, Mrs. McConnell and I are indeed leaving today. We’ll be traveling south to Los Angeles, do some brief business there, and then catch a limited back to St. Louis through Kansas City. The Santa Fe, perhaps? I want him to speak more quietly, although this is likely the softest voice he has; all I can do is look around to see that no one seems to notice.

Which is to say, no heads move. But a savvy assassin could be listening in.

I’m sorry to see you go, sir. Mrs. McConnell. I look back, and the kindly-but-proper middle-aged man seems to read my distress. I’m especially sorry if it’s bad news. I can check the precise line and station, but the morning trains for Los Angeles have already left. The next train out will be one of the evening lines—and most don’t have sleeping accommodations unless you use a through service.

William explains again that we needs the day tomorrow to do business in Los Angeles, so we’ll have to make do with sleeping seats. As opposed to a real bed in an enclosed space. I can’t avoid the sigh, and both men look at me for a moment. Maybe Mr. Hoover takes it to mean I don’t want to sleep in a chair with neighbors nearby. William’s frown tells me he takes it to mean I’ll be awake all night.

If you could indeed check the schedule, we’ll appreciate it, Mr. Hoover. We’ll see what you’ve found in a bit.

William glances around the lobby as he leads me to the elevator. He exchanges pleasantries with the operator while I all but stamp in impatience. My mind’s grinding away with possibilities and anxieties.

We’re no more than inside our room when I object. I think a through train is better. We can sleep in some safety tonight and head back east, all in one move. The drawing room sleeper is our safest bet.

But that puts us in Kansas City and then St. Louis at about the same time we’d have arrived by the northern route. If someone is waiting either place, even one more day’s delay might make a positive difference.

We don’t know that someone is waiting at home. Maybe someone is watching us and will get on that train tonight. With us lying there in the dark in an open car, helpless.

We won’t sleep at the same time. We’ll take turns, O.K.? Do you want to nap this afternoon?

It’s a practical question. He’s about to heft his large bag on the bed. Our trunk is propped in a chair where I’d started the packing process last night. Hopeful I’d been. Then.

I may not sleep until we’re home.

That’s not very helpful in terms of protection, sweetheart. He moves from the bed to my side, taking me in his arms.

It’s been an amorous ten days, the train trip and the luxury hotel adding up to a delayed honeymoon. Beyond the unaccustomed leisure and travel, I still can scarcely believe I’m so much in love with this man, the romance unexpected, the caring almost a distraction. William pulls back from a kiss to see wet eyes instead of a smile.

Let’s look at the note again, before we go out and talk to Jonesy, he says. Let’s analyze what we can.

It’s a good idea, but it takes me several more seconds to let go. On the way to the table, set near windows with a higher view of the Square, I pick up my Hopkins & Allen revolver from a bedside table, put it carefully into my drawstring bag, and lay it nearby. William pulls two chairs close enough that we can consider the note together.

If we were home, William would handle the note more carefully. And offer it to the St. Louis Police Department’s crack finger print man, Jimmy Parson. Jimmy would immediately go giddy at the thought that his evidence-gathering might help and would have started dusting away.

To be honest, though, we might not still enjoy the privilege of police help. The St. Louis Police Department has a new chief of detectives, and he had at one point last month fired me from my job, typing for the police nominally, detecting with them more subtly, for investigating the death of a friend. When I finally helped solve the case working with a detective service, Major Fuller said he wanted me back.

Although I think he was posturing. I still don’t know if I’ll return to the police or take up a new position with the private detectives. Will and I talked about it frequently on the trip out here, but I’ve come to no decision. I need some normality for that.

Will seems to know what I’m thinking. At least regarding police help. Be nice if Jimmy could identify some prints. He opens the note between us.

I make myself pick it up, hoping it’s only my habit to avoid leaving prints that makes me hesitate. Good quality paper stock. A good dark ink. Awkward hand, though. Like the envelope.

Yes, Will agrees, but no letterhead, no return, nothing. Not that we’d expect that much help.

It’s so awkward, the phrasing. Who would say ‘in very much danger’?

Will nods. He surely noticed that at once, all his editing instincts alert to the syntax as well as the message. It could be someone who doesn’t speak English well. Or it could be someone who started to write ‘Your life is in danger’ and wanted to make it stronger without starting over.

Writing in a hurry, perhaps? I turn the note over and see nothing to confirm that, no ink smeared on the off-white bond.

Possibly. But he took time to think out two sentences. ‘Tread carefully’ is interesting, an interesting opening.

So, it’s handwritten, not typed, and delivered by a young boy. That indicates someone here in San Francisco, doesn’t it? I try to stop my shiver as I say it, but Will notices and runs a hand down my arm.

Not necessarily. This is what I want to ask Jonesy about. Are you up for a mid-morning stroll about the Square, maybe an early lunch?

Will, we have to be careful.

O.K., we’ll eat here. But I do need to go out. You don’t need to go with me. I’ll be armed, too, and the Square is wide-open.

There could be a sharpshooter.

That’s a little extreme, love. Sharpshooters who don’t work for the police, unlike yourself, are expensive. For that matter, I can’t imagine that shooting me is worth paying anyone for.

Will stands and, of course, I jump to my feet as well, grabbing my bag in the same move. I’ve developed a technique of holding the drawstring top open so that my hand is on the pistol without actually pulling it out. I won’t hesitate to blow a hole in the soft bag if I need to shoot without sighting. I’m actually good at that. If I can stop trembling. Will shakes his head and makes for the door.

Number 19 on the Southern Pacific’s Shore Limited leaving at 9:30 tonight from the Third and Townsend Streets Station. We pick up the information from Mr. Hoover as we travel through the lobby on our way out. The news makes me more nervous. Nine-thirty tonight. Dark, in an unfamiliar setting. Then we’ll sit up all night. Or pretend to sleep. I can do that, but Will can’t. Will’s a wonderful sleeper, good enough to sleep through an assassination attempt. I’ll have to insist on sitting on the aisle.

We make our way into a sunlit Square. I can scarcely imagine mayhem on a day like this. Five years ago today, a couple strolling through the Square couldn’t imagine the earth shaking and pipes breaking and fire racing through these buildings by morning. I want to remind William of that, remind him that those people would have done anything to prevent the disaster, just as I will do anything to prevent our personal disaster. Instead, I jerk along beside him, wanting to hurry, wanting to check the windows, the doorways, the other people walking the pavement.

Sometimes William seems oblivious to danger. I’ve seen him walk into it over and over. His twenty-ninth birthday is coming up in two weeks. He’s tall, trim, athletic, has done amateur boxing, has walked with the police he covered for ten years on uneasy streets into fraught situations. And, in our shared police adventures, I’ve seldom been able to complain about his daring, having done daring things on my own. Early in our romance, he was injured, and I learned that I’m more comfortable facing danger myself than thinking he’s in trouble.

Officer Jones is talking to two well-dressed middle-aged men. We stop to read again a plaque describing the naming of Union Square after pro-Union speakers who used the empty block to promote their cause before the War. As if we’re really reading.

Jones seems happy to nod the two men on their way and join us. How’s it going, Mac? Mrs. McConnell? When, over the course of five days, has a San Francisco beat cop come to know William well enough to call him Mac? I shake my head: not unlikely, given Will’s personality, and not important now. Mac hands Jonesy the note, pointing to the awkward wording.

Do you think it originated here—or could someone not want me to come home?

Jonesy tilts his head, the tall helmet well-attached with its chin strap. Well, there’s a good question, Mac. Could be from Missouri, could be. Someone sends a telegram to the right person. That person translates it into a note. Hands it to some kid, following directions on where you might be. Could be, Mac.

Jones hands the note back. In fact, it might account for the wording, don’t you see? It could have been, ‘Your life is very much in danger,’ and someone got hasty, you see, and changed it around. The original writer wouldn’t do that, but someone copying the message might.

So. Will refolds the note into the unfortunately bland envelope. Do you know who does that sort of work?

No, no, afraid I can’t name anyone. Or more to the point, there are probably lots of such folks. The trick is to know someone here. We’re a long ways out. No carrying messages with you on a day trip. So, the trick is just to get the name of someone. Available from any company back east that does business out here, I should think.

Possibilities run through my head. Are you saying, Officer Jones, that we should look for businesses that have a St. Louis-San Francisco connection?

Officer Jones had considered me from the corner of his eye but now looks me up and down. Yes, ma’am. Of course, that could be half the businesses in town. And I shouldn’t put the odds of that being the case at more than one in four.

Will glances at me and takes my hand. Ah well. Probably not worth our time to try to run it down. He smiles at Jones. I can’t think of anyone I’ve angered that much, here or back home.

Asking questions. You don’t think of that as risky, not for this kind of thing. Now, down in Los Angeles, the papers have had their troubles, right enough. But that was more than asking questions. And what does anyone here care what’s written in a St. Louis newspaper? ’Course, if you’d gotten after the Chinese about something bad, maybe. They can be touchy. But they got their places back, so I’d think they’d be content, right?

Yes. I did ask questions of them, but they’ll likely be happy with that part of the story.

I’m trying to catalog the parts of William’s stories that would ruffle other feathers when he says, I did mention reports of irregularities with soldiers from the Presidio. That’s old stuff here. And questions about how contracts were let from City Hall. But no one’s seen those stories yet.

Presidio, huh. They’re touchy, too. More than the Chinese when you come right down to it. ’Cause they probably had some bad eggs on the streets. Might have heard that someone talked to you.

Jones stops rolling from his heels to toes. Have you sent those stories off yet?

Yesterday evening. They start running tomorrow.

So, a threat had to come today to stop them.

William grunts softly. But that wasn’t the message.

Jones gets a notch closer to Will. You know, maybe it isn’t a threat, really.

Will tightens his grip on me as I jerk forward to say, Then what would it be, Officer Jones?

A prophecy-like, ma’am. Maybe someone here or back home’s been seeing some clairvoyant-type, huh?

CHAPTER THREE

A couple lighter at heart than we, in actions at least, have my table. So I choose one that allows me a view of the St. Francis lobby entrance and most of its inhabitants while Will composes telegrams in his reporter memo book. I’m shaking with the need to identify the threat, so I’ll know where to make my stand. Here in foreign territory or back home. Or along the way. Will’s telegrams might help on that score if we can get answers quickly. He tears a page out of his notebook and hands it to me.

This one’s to Chief Micah Wright. I’m so glad he’s back from the holiday that left the inexperienced, strutting, Julia-hating Major Hobart Fuller in charge. I have no idea what the discussion between them had been when the chief returned to find that Fuller had driven me out of the police department—although I heard reports of yelling and cursing. Chief Wright had called on me in our Tower Grove bungalow, apologized repeatedly, and asked me to come back. I didn’t give him an answer, having none myself at the time, but I know he’s a true friend. If there’s a trail to be followed in St. Louis, Chief Wright will find it. The note intended for him says,

HAVE RECEIVED POSSIBLE DEATH THREAT STOP ANYTHING IN STL WE SHOULD KNOW QUERY WILL TRAVEL TO LOS ANGELES TONIGHT VISIT TIMES PROCEED HOME WEDNESDAY MORNING ON CALIFORNIA LIMITED

The note tells me more than I knew a few minutes ago, Will having ordered events as he’s wont to do. I don’t know why we’d visit the Times but talking to other reporters is a natural move and more informative than a visit to the Chamber of Commerce. I nod as I read it, but Will’s moved onto the next telegram’s message.

For our friend, Carl Schroeder.

HAVE RECEIVED DEATH THREAT OR MAYBE ODD PROPHECY STOP PLEASE CHECK ANYONE WHO MIGHT HOLD GRUDGE STOP LOS ANGELES TONIGHT ON SOUTHERN PACIFIC ARRIVE TOMORROW MORNING VISIT TIMES TO FINISH STORIES LEAVE WEDNESDAY MORNING ON CALIFORNIA LIMITED STOP BE CAREFUL STOP MESSAGES SENT TO WRIGHT AND FORREST

Will’s essentially