Railroad Stories #12: The Silver Switch Key

By Wilson Wells

The Silver Switch Key gleamed a deadly message from a plush-lined box ... Thundering in from the East, No. 31 brings sinister news of a murder mystery on the Great Southwestern Railroad. Shining tracks of the Great Southwestern Railroad stretched east to west, and so, too, did Death's bony finger. A railroad executive lies dead. Fighting to hide a ghastly secret, the murderer singles out another victim. A railroad bull suffers the penalty of meddling with the murderer's plans. When it seems the killer might escape, Sherriff Bob Martin, ex-freight conductor, makes himself a human target by pointing an accusing finger. Produced under license from White River Publishing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Dec 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215585283

Book preview

The Silver Switch Key

Railroad Stories #12

Wilson Wells

Produced under license from White River Publishing

Bold Venture Press

Copyright

Railroad Stories #12

Rich Harvey, Editor & Designer

Copyright © 1931 The Frank A. Munsey Company, Inc.

Copyright renewed © 1959 and assigned to White River Productions, Inc.

All rights reserved.

RAILROAD STORIES TM & © 2023 White River Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Available in paperback.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder. All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

CONTENTS

The Silver Switch Key

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Short Stories

Beginning of a Boomer

Life Saver

Scrap Heap

Nonfiction

Regulating Bus Traffic

Battlefield of Traffic

Bibliography

The Lure of Railroad Stories

The Silver Switch Key

It gleamed a deadly message from a plush-lined box and sent the operating vice president on his last long ride.

Chapter 1

GEORGE W. GREGORY, operating vice president of the Great Southwestern Railroad, settled himself at his desk in the company’s executive offices at El Paso, and ran a cold eye over his calendar. It was two o’clock, and a hurried luncheon had not improved his disposition. An hour of desk detail confronted him. Then, at three, he was scheduled for a meeting with a committee of locomotive engineers. The grim lines about his hard, thin-lipped mouth tightened. He hated committees from the ranks, hated their grievances. But he had to deal with them, for these men represented power that he, in all his ruthlessness, could not trample down. And George W. Gregory was wise. He knew just how far he could go, just how much he could exact.

A soft tap sounded on the paneled door. Gregory’s iron-gray head came erect, eyes narrowed. Why in thunder couldn’t that sap-headed secretary of his leave him alone?

Come in! It was more a fierce snarl than a command — a snarl loud enough to carry through the somber paneling to the man who stood beyond.

The door opened, and Gregory’s secretary presented himself. He was a man nearing his thirties, a little thin and perhaps a little too pale. Large eyes behind heavily rimmed spectacles blinked timidly. His long, sensitive fingers held a small package. With this he advanced to the official’s desk.

I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, the secretary said in a subdued tone. A man brought this and said it was urgent. Asked that I present it to you personally, at once, sir. He didn’t give me his name. Said you’d understand.

Gregory eyed the secretary keenly, reached across the glass top of his desk and took what appeared to be a small, square box, tightly wrapped in brown paper. The vice president studied the parcel a moment, turned it slowly over in his great hands, but saw no marks thereon, no written or printed address. The paper was secured by a light string. Gregory took his brass paper knife and broke the cord.

He stripped off the paper and disclosed a plain box of the variety used by jewelers or gem dealers for rings or stones. For a moment the vice president frowned in puzzled query, then he snapped back the lid with his thumb.

Against the blue velvet lining of the box, standing out in bold relief and touched by a slanting finger of the sun from the high window over Gregory’s shoulder, gleamed a silver key — a miniature reproduction of the stout and stubby type of brass key used for railroad switch locks.

Gregory’s widespread fingers poised above the box, his body tensed. His eyes narrowed, and the blood drained from his face as he pushed his swivel back a foot from the desk. The secretary took a step forward, alarm written on his features.

Jarvis! The vice president whipped out the words. Jarvis! Where did you get this box?

As I told you, sir, Jarvis spoke up. A man left it. He said you’d understand. I — I hope there isn’t anything wrong —

Jarvis! What did the man look like? The vice president was on his feet now, jaw thrust forward, cold eyes fixed on his cowering secretary.

Why, uh — Jarvis was trying hard to recollect.

Out with it, Jarvis! Speak up!

Why, uh — uh, Jarvis stuttered again, he was just an ordinary-looking man. Rather young. Looked the way any messenger might. He —

Rather young, Gregory mumbled the words, eyes wandering back to the silver key that caught and held the finger of light. The vice president turned, stepped back of his desk, whipped out his watch.

Jarvis! Listen closely to me!

Yes, sir.

First of all, get rid of this committee of engineers that’s slated for three. Get hold of the chairman and tell him I’ve been called out on the line.

Yes, sir.

Call the yards and have my office car ordered to be hooked on No. 3 at four o’clock. Make arrangements to accompany me, and cancel any other engagements I may have. Get that?

When shall we be back, sir?

Don’t worry about that, Jarvis. Janet, my daughter — get her on the wire right away.

Gregory turned abruptly and took a dozen paces across the room. He straightened his six feet of lean length, thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Jarvis took the telephone and called a number. After an interval he turned to his employer.

Miss Gregory, sir, said Jarvis, handing over the receiver.

Get moving on my other instructions, Gregory rapped out. Then send Beedle to me, at once.

Yes, sir. Jarvis closed the paneled door behind him.

Janet, Gregory barked into the phone. You were going out to the ranch at San Marcos tonight on No. 7, weren’t you? Well, I’m going west on No. 3 at four o’clock. I’ve ordered my business car. Can you make it convenient to change your plans and accompany me? … All right. You can board it at the station. No, there’s nothing wrong … I said no … Goodbye.

Gregory replaced the receiver with a bang. His hard eyes went suddenly to the silver key in the velvet-lined box. Up to this time he had not touched it. Now he sat down slowly at his desk, curled his talon fingers over the glittering object, touched it as though it might be some powerfully dangerous thing, then pushed it away from him and closed the lid.

For what seemed an endless period Gregory stared straight ahead of him, grim jaws set. The fine lines about his eyes seemed deeper, the hand of age seemed suddenly to have brushed across his seamed, high-boned cheeks. His big right hand reached out, and the fingers closed slowly over the handle of the paper knife. His grip made the knuckles show white beneath his dark skin.

After a time, he straightened in his chair, reached into a drawer of his desk. His gray eyes now glittered with a sudden animation, his movements bespoke a definite purposefulness. From the drawer he took a blue, snub-nosed automatic of .38 caliber, examined it hurriedly, saw that it was ready for use. He dropped it into the side pocket of his coat and deposited an extra clip of cartridges in another pocket.

The door swung suddenly open in front of Gregory, and the pudgy bulk of Mal Beedle confronted him. Small black eyes were fixed questioningly on the vice president.

What’s up? Beedle asked after he had shut the door.

Come over here, Gregory commanded, his keen gaze riveted on the chief of the railroad’s detective force. The little black eyes returned Gregory’s stare, flashing a peculiar gleam at him from a coarse-grained puffy face that might have been the mask of a thousand evils.

You look like you’ve seen a ghost, the chief bull grunted, heavy lips baring uneven yellow teeth.

I’ve seen no ghost, Mal, Gregory snarled. I wish to Heaven it were nothing more than a ghost!

What you drivin’ at? Beedle leaned heavily over the desk, resting his whole weight on the palms of his pudgy hands.

"John Chasteen is alive!"

CHAPTER 2

Those four words from the bloodless lips of George W. Gregory, sent Beedle back from the desk in sharp recoil. The detective straightened, little eyes widening, lower jaw sagging. Gregory peered up from beneath drawn brows, toying idly with the ring box before him.

John Chasteen is alive! Beedle echoed the words, and the sound that issued from his dry lips was little more than a sharp hiss. Where — where did you see him?

I didn’t see him, Gregory barked. If I had, I — well, I might —

Who told you this? the detective pressed.

For answer Gregory snapped back the lid of the box beneath his fingers and held its contents before Beedle’s intent stare.

Beedle thrust out his hand as if to take the object, then arrested the movement. That silver key! He carried it with him when —

Yes, the vice president snarled. Exactly. John Chasteen carried that key with him when—

Gregory didn’t finish. A slight shudder shook his spare frame. He didn’t want to finish the sentence he’d started. Instead he closed the lid over the gleaming object, took the box between his fingers and placed it in a pocket of his vest.

He sent that — that thing to you? It was evident that the company chief of detectives was trying hard to regain his composure.

He either sent it or brought it, Gregory said, and briefly told Beedle how the key had been presented to him such a short time before.

I’m going to San Marcos, the vice president shot out. I’m going on No. 3. I’ll be at my ranch out there tomorrow, and I’ll likely stay over the weekend. Janet is going with me, and that chap, Fellowes — her fiance. Have you a man you can send with me?

Yes, said Beedle. I’ll send Edwards. I’ll tell him nothin’ more than to keep a sharp eye out for you.

See if you can take up the trail on Chasteen, Gregory ordered, speaking rapidly. That secretary of mine saw the man who brought the silver key. Said he was a young man, looked like any ordinary messenger. That won’t help you any.

Not a bit, snapped the chief.

I’ll leave this end of it up to you, the vice president went on. Find Chasteen, whatever the cost. Find him before — well, you know what procedure to take. It isn’t necessary for me to tell you.

A look of complete understanding passed between the two.

I know what to do, Beedle asserted.

If anything develops, the vice president instructed, you can communicate with me in code. Not company code.

I get you, said Beedle.

If I need you, I’ll wire for you. Stay close to things and expect any kind of a communication from me. Is that clear?

All clear, answered the chief.

Gregory looked straight before him for a full minute, deep in contemplation. Then he arose slowly and stepped over to face Beedle.

Another thing, he said earnestly. No matter what happens, Janet is to know nothing about this silver key — or about anything else.

I know, said Beedle.

That’s all. Gregory watched Beedle turn, walk to the door. For a moment he stood thus, boring into Beedle’s broad back with his gimlet gaze, and for just a space the shadow of doubt crossed his mind. But keen as those gray eyes were, they could not see the grim smile, half contemptuous, or the little gleam of cunning in the detective’s inscrutable eyes.

At the door Beedle turned.

I’ll have Edwards put on your car, he told his superior. Adios.

Gregory did not reply, but bowed slightly and watched the door go shut.

***

The vice president of operations of the Great Southwestern, accompanied by Jarvis, his secretary, left the office building by the back way at half past three. Fifteen minutes later the two men stepped from a cab at the station and walked directly to business car No. 101, which had already been tacked to the rear of the train. Gregory walked a pace ahead of Jarvis, who struggled along with his briefcase and bag.

Adam, the porter-valet, a giant of a Negro, met the official and his secretary and took charge of the baggage. Gregory lit a black cigar and settled himself in a chair. He glanced at his watch frequently while Jarvis laid out the papers and work he had brought with him.

Suddenly Gregory rose from his chair and strode to the rear platform. It was 3.58, and across the platform he saw Janet running toward him, face flushed, red lips smiling. At her heels followed Thomas Fellowes, Gregory’s choice for Janet’s hand — a tall, athletic man in the middle thirties, whose very bearing one associated with polo ponies, clubs, the Riviera.

The hard lines in the vice president’s face softened as his eyes took in the girl. She dashed up to the steps while Fellowes and two porters crowded closely behind.

I’m almost late, dad, she said breathlessly. It was such a rush.

You’ve two minutes yet, Gregory said, the harshness notably missing from his tone. He shook hands with Fellowes, and they went inside.

What a break! said Janet. This is so much better than going up to the ranch tonight in a stuffy old Pullman as we’d planned. When did you get the brilliant idea to take your car and go up the line, dad?

It was rather sudden on my part, Gregory said. For a moment, as he looked at the smiling girl, a shadow passed over his features. I hate to break in on your plans, too, for the weekend, but I — well, things developed that made me feel a quiet weekend at the ranch was just what I needed.

That makes me glad, plenty, dad, Janet enthused, smoothing the loose strands of her chestnut hair that peeped out from her close-fitting blue hat. Maybe we can make it livelier. You see, Tom will want to ride a little, and fool with his guns, and —

Now, Janet, Fellowes chided, I promised you that this weekend I’d do the things that you wanted to do.

Mr. Gregory.

The vice president gave a start, turned, just as the train lurched into motion. He saw a lean, dark-visaged man standing to one side of the group.

Pardon me a moment, Gregory said to Janet and Fellowes, and stepped over to the newcomer.

I’m Edwards, the man said in a low voice, dark eyes studying the official. Mal Beedle gave me orders to ride with you. Said you’d tell me —

Come with me, the vice president snapped, and led the way to his compartment. The detective followed.

With the door shut behind them, Gregory wheeled to face the man.

Edwards, your identity is not to be revealed to a single person in the party. Do you understand that?

Yes. But what am I supposed to do?

You are supposed to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, Gregory told him. So far as the others on this car are concerned, you are a member of the engineering staff. That’s a good enough excuse for your presence. You are to accompany me to my ranch at San Marcos. I will acquaint you with the identity of those who belong there. Make it your business to be where I am, or close thereabouts. I am to be informed of any suspicious characters whom you might see. I’ll leave the rest to your own judgment. Is that clear?

Clear enough, Edwards returned.

And whatever you act like, Gregory said tensely, do your best not to act like a detective.

Leave that to me, said Edwards, and Gregory missed the note of resentment in the dark man’s tone.

That’s all.

Wait a minute, Edwards turned about. Put me wise a little to this layout. Who’s the handsome mug out there with the dame?

The young lady is my daughter, said Gregory coldly. The gentleman you refer to is her fiancé.

O. K. with me, said Edwards coolly.

I’ll make the proper introductions.

The sappy guy with the big specs is your secretary, ain’t he?

His name is Jarvis. He is my secretary.

O. K., said Edwards again. His eyes fell on the bulge in