NIGHT PROBE

This is chapter one of a 86 chapter novel

cHAPTER 1
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Streaks of lightning signaled a threatening thunderstorm as the MANHATTAN LIMITED hurtled over the ballasted rails piercing the New York countryside. Coal smoke burst from the locomotive's stack in a drumstick plume that dusted the stars stippling the night sky. Inside the cab, the engineer slipped a sliver Waltham watch from the pocket of his coveralls, sprung the lid and studied the face in the glow from the firebox. It was not the approaching storm that worried him, but the relentless crawl of the time that sought to rob him of his precious schedule. Gazing out the right side of the cab, he watched the creosote ties sweep under the eight huge drving wheels of the 2-8-0 Consolidation-type locomotive. Like the captain of a ship who lived with his command, he had been at the same throttle for three years. He was proud of “Gallopin’ Lena,” as he affectionately called the 235,00 pounds of iron and steel. Built by Alco’s Schenectady Works in 1911, she was burnished in gloss black with a red stripe and her number 88 neatly hand-painted in gold. He listened to the steel wheels pounding out a moving rhythm against the rail joints, felt the momentum of the locomotive and the seven cars the followed. Then he pulled the throttle up another notch.

In the sevnty-foot private Pullman that brought up the rear, Richard Essex sat at a desk in the vestibuled library.Too tired to sleep and bored with the tedium of the trip, he composed a letter to his wife to pass the time. He described the ornate interior of the car, the elaborately carved Circassian walnut, the handsome brass electrical lamps,the red velvet revoling chairs and the potted palms. He even mentioned the beveled mirrors and ceramic tile floors in the lavatories of the four spacious sleeping compartments. Behind him in a richly paneled observation parlor, five army guards in civilian dress played cards, the smoke from the cigars drifting in a blue cloud toward the brocade ceiling, their rifles laid casually about the furniture. Occasionally a player would lean over one of the brass spittons dotting the Persian carpet. It was perhaps the highest level of Luxury any of them had ever enjoyed, Essex speculated. The palatial transportation must have cost the government nearly seventy-five dollars a day, and all for the movment of a scrap of paper. He sighed amd finished the letter. Then he sealed it in an envelope, which he stuffed inside his breast pocket. Sleep still evaded him, so he sat and stared through the arched bay windows at the darkened landscape, listening for the wall of the engine’s whistle just before a village depot or country crossing flashed past. Finally, he stood up, stretched and walked to the elegant dining room, where he sat down at a mahogany table covered by a snowy cloth enhanced by crystal glasses and sliver service. A glance at his watch told him it was a few minutes before two in the morning. “What is your pleasure, Mr. Essex?’ A black waiter had appeard as if by magic. Essex looked up and smiled. “I know it’s quite late, but I wonder if I can get a light snack.” “Happy to oblige, sir. What would you like to order?’ “Something that will help me close my eyes.” The waiter flashed a toothy grin. “May I suggest a small bottle of Pommard burgundy and a nice hot bowl of clam bouillon.” “That will be fine, thank you.” Later, as he sipped his wine, Essex coulden’t help wondering if Harvey Shields was also finding sleep so elusive.