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September 13, 1939
En route from Los Angeles to New Orleans
United States of America
“Oh, come on, Wilkins. Just one drink?” Richard asked. “You’ve been cooped up in here all day with your books and that... thing. It’s not healthy.” The American stared into a small mirror on the wall beside the cabin door, smoothing his hair with a splash of water from the fold-out sink beneath it.
“I’m not in much of a mood for company,” Wilkins said.
“It’s the Frenchman you told me about, isn’t it? This...”
“Henri. And no, it’s not that. I simply want to catch up on some reading.”
“That was your excuse at lunch when you had the porter bring you a sandwich, and at dinner when I had to bring you a tray. I know you like to seclude yourself with your books, but don’t make me go to the bar car alone. What about this Henri has you so shaken?”
“I told you already; there’s something not right about him. And what about how I felt a shock when we shook hands, and again when they brushed together? It wasn’t natural.”
“Probably just static electricity. It’s not surprising with those wool socks you insist on wearing despite the heat. You could probably power the train with those if you rubbed them together fast enough.”
“Funny,” Wilkins said with an absolute lack of mirth. In all honesty, the encounter with Henri unnerved him, but it wasn’t only that. He abhorred travel, the company of strangers, and—most of all—large gatherings in small spaces. Attending a social in the bar car of a moving train seemed to be something born of nightmares to him.
“Just one drink,” Richard insisted.
Wilkins huffed and blew out his mustaches. “Fine, but only one. Then I’m retiring for the evening.”
“That’s the spirit,” Richard beamed. After taking one last look in the mirror, he folded the sink back into the wall and slid the cabin door open. Wilkins shrugged into his coat. As he approached, his companion gave an exaggerated flourish and a bow, as if inviting some noble lord to pass.
“Charming,” Wilkins groaned.
“The ladies think so.”
* * *
The bar car was appointed similarly to the observation car, save for having smaller windows and a larger bar. Narrow booths ran its length along one side, with dark mahogany tables and casings, and burgundy-dyed leather upholstery. The armchairs opposite them were darker in tone and smaller in stature, ostensibly to fit more of them in the small space, and there were only small side tables between them. Overall, the car had the darker feel of a gentleman’s parlor, while the observation car had been purposefully designed to feel light and airy.
The throng of bodies made the closed-in and dark atmosphere even worse. The loud hum of too many conversations being held at once filled the car. The smell of assorted liquors mingled with a variety of perfumes and colognes, all carried in a haze of odorous smoke from myriad cigars, cigarettes, and pipes.
Wilkins coughed as Richard opened the door to the car and the wave of unclean air buffeted him. “Perhaps this was an even worse idea than I thought,” he said as he stepped inside.
Lighting a cigarette of his own, Richard asked through pursed lips, “Why’s that?”
Wilkins reflexively rolled his eyes, a habit he seemed to engender with more frequency when in the company of the brash American. “Oh, no reason.”
Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. The bar awaits.”
They shuffled through the crowd to the small bar, which sat to one side in the center of the car. The edifice was a shallow horseshoe shape which matched the other furnishings of the car. Behind it, from floor to ceiling, were shelves upon shelves of bottles from around the world, all secured into place behind narrow brass rails. A cheerful enough young man—who looked barely old enough to drink—tended the affair with the assistance of a pair of waitresses who glided gracefully throughout the crowd. The youth had on a pressed white shirt and black tie with matching slacks—accouterment one would expect from a bartender of a high-class establishment such as the one aboard the luxury streamliner. Flashing a crooked grin offset by a curious squint as the pair approached, the lad cheerfully greeted them. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
Richard stepped up and leaned an elbow on the bar. “Whiskey for myself, neat, and...” he glanced at Wilkins, “brandy for my friend?”
The Englishman nodded.
The two took their drinks and found a pair of unoccupied seats at one of the small booths. Richard grabbed a crystal ashtray from another table and slid it across the mahogany surface, seemingly without a care for the finish, as he sat down opposite Wilkins. “See, this isn’t so bad,” he said as he lit up another cigarette and puffed at it contentedly.
“As you say.” Wilkins groaned inwardly as his gaze shot around the room, taking in the particulars of the crowd all at once while endeavoring not to make eye contact with any of the gathering’s assorted guests. He recognized several of their fellow passengers, whom he had run across over their few days aboard the streamliner, and some from the boarding platform in Los Angeles.
The older woman, who was fond of large hats and complaining, was seated in the booth behind Richard, remarking loudly about the failings of the locomotive’s operators to fulfill her needs adequately. Wilkins could not see her, but as her voice carried over the crowd, an impressive crest of white feathers danced over the edge of the booth. They swayed as she built her case against the company, and every time she drew a conclusion regarding the staff’s ineptitude, the feathers jerked to one side and then back to the other. A high-pitched yapping accompanied her words, and he could only assume her small dog was seated next to her in the booth. Wilkins stifled a chuckle as he imagined her head bobbing like an angry chicken.
“What’s that?” Richard asked.
Wilkins pointed behind his partner.
Richard arced his neck and lifted himself from the seat for a better look, then settled back in with a hearty laugh. He leaned over the table and whispered, “That peacock’s going to get tossed off the train if she keeps it up.”
Wilkins attempted to cover his own laughter by taking a sip of the brandy. He hadn’t laughed since Peru, and it felt good to relax for a change. Maybe that was Richard’s secret to taking it all in stride: When nothing was happening, he found some diversion and unwound the coil of mortal danger surrounding them.
As the thought crossed Wilkins’s mind, Richard winked at him and shuffled out of the booth. The anthropologist leaned out to see him approaching a young redhead, probably in her mid-twenties, whose evening gown left little to the imagination. He recognized her from the platform as the young lady who was trying desperately to avoid the attentions of the man in a white cowboy hat. Wilkins peered around, but did not see the telltale headwear which would identify that individual.
He did, however, catch sight of the well-dressed businessmen from the platform seated in two armchairs, leaning in close to one another. One of them locked eyes with Wilkins, giving him a look which implied some unmentionable menace, and the Englishman looked away. Those two were trouble, no doubt about it. There were several other familiar faces carousing through the reception, but none that stood out overly much.
Wilkins turned back to the table and almost shrieked in fright when he found an unexpected figure sitting across from him. It was Henri, the handle-bar mustachioed Frenchman.
“Excusez moi, I did not mean to startle you yet again. I simply wished to ask after your health. I had not seen you all day, and aboard such a thing as a train this is surprenant, no? After last night, I worried you might have run afoul of some malady, or perhaps fallen back into your book and been lost in Austria.”
Wilkins’s head felt as if it were spinning as he took in the rapid-fire words of his surprise companion. He took a long draw of brandy and replied, “No, thank you. I’m quite fine, actually.”
“Très bon. I am gladdened to hear this. Getting lost in a book can be such a dangerous thing.”
“I’m actually quite fond of getting lost in a good book, if I must say so,” Wilkins said, not sure why he was even speaking to the man. Something about his charm seemed to put anxiety at ease, but it still felt unnatural.
“Ah, I agree. But one must be careful. We sometimes know not what waits for us on the other side. One must rely upon the author to be our guide and to protect us from the perils within, no?”
“Very much so. I must say, it’s a great pleasure to speak with another lover of the written word for a change. My companion is rather... limited when it comes to such subjects.”
“Ah, I see. L’amour knows no boundaries, am I right?” Henri gave a wink and reach a hand out to pat the back of Wilkin’s own.
There was a spark between them as their flesh met yet again, but this time Wilkins did not draw back. The sensation was not painful, yet it was unnerving. “No, that’s not it. We’re merely business partners.” The words left his mouth before he realized he was saying them.
“Excusez moi, I should not have assumed so much. You and your American friend, what sort of business are you in?”
Wilkins felt like he should be anywhere but there. He wanted nothing more than to leap from the booth and run from the car. Instead, he took another drink. “Anthropology. Rather, that’s my forte. Richard is more of a treasure hunter, but our agendas coincide often enough to be helpful to one-another.”
“And during your latest excursion in Peru, you found something quite interesting, did you not?”
Henri’s eyes were locked on Wilkins’s own in a gaze which seemed to bore into his very soul. How does he know about Peru? he thought. Dear God, what’s happening? Were Wilkins able to rise from his seat right then, he would continue running to the back of the train and leap from it, bodily harm be damned. The fear driven into him by this man was all-consuming. Worse than this was the sensation of not being in control of his own body and mind. It was as if he were a puppet, and Henri was pulling the strings.
“You found something?” Henri asked again, sounding annoyed.
“Yes,” Wilkins said.
“The effigy of a wailing man?”
Wilkins’s mind screamed at him to flee, but he could hardly move. A finger twitched and one foot pivoted slightly, but compared to the actions he desired from the limbs, these were but a faint reflection. His eyes darted over Henri’s shoulder as Richard returned with the lovely red-headed woman on his arm. Wilkins’s eyes pleaded with his friend for help, but the American’s attentions were divided, and the imperiled man was not his primary focus.
Henri turned to follow his gaze. “Ah, your friend returns.” The Frenchman reached out and patted Wilkins’s hand once again. Like before, there was a shock and a tingling sensation ran up his arm. “Très bien, I will take my leave for now. Bonne nuit, Wilkins Chapman, and be careful your reading doesn’t lure you so deeply into another realm that you might never escape.” He said the last in an ominous tone, made more sinister by his usually jovial nature.
Richard reached the table as Henri departed in the opposite direction, making his way through the door toward the sleeper cars of the train. “Was that your new friend, Henri?”
Wilkins wanted to jump to his feet and scream, but his mind and body were still constrained by whatever Henri had done to him. The man’s power over him seemed to be fading with the distance between them, and he raised one arm toward Richard as if to grab the man by the collar and shout at him. Instead, a trembling hand lifted mere inches from the table and a whisper passed his lips. “He knows.”
