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THE TRIP FROM ALAMOSA to Antonito took an hour and five minutes exactly. With track that was in good condition and no curves, the 478 sped along with its consist, easily keeping to the schedule. The pleasant ride allowed me to focus on examining my first real piece of evidence in the investigation, Mueller's wallet.
True to the coroner’s word, a grand total of forty-three dollars was in the wallet, along with a round trip ticket on the Rio Grande Southern from Durango to Ridgway. He'd kept a handwritten log of his trip. It consisted of nothing more than dates, locations, and the means of travel. If accurate, the log would allow me to reconstruct his travels if necessary. Supporting the log was a collection of receipts, organized by date, each of which had a tiny, handwritten note on the back, usually explaining what the expenditure was for. An identity card providing evidence Mueller worked for the Department of War, and a worn, folded scrap of yellow paper were the only other items in the wallet.
There were no photos, personal notes or letters, or anything else that would give me a clue about Johann Mueller’s life. With care, I replaced each of the items in their original location. If the Rio Grande’s Special Agent hadn’t stolen the money in the wallet, it was unlikely he’d taken anything else. Given the lack of respect given him and the man’s general demeanor, I doubted he was intelligent enough to be trusted to belong to any grand conspiracy.
Besides, the man wasn’t on the train which gave him an alibi.
Having returned everything to its place, save the yellow scrap of paper, I took a moment to examine this last item. I unfolded the paper, which was both worn and dirty and had sharp creases in it from being folded and carried about in the wallet. Fully spread out, the scrap was roughly five inches by eight inches, the size of a small notepad, and was covered with faint blue lines that formed tiny squares. It was a piece of paper used to graph equations or record data of some sort. Precisely the kind of thing you'd expect a scientist to use to write ideas down on.
It was blank on one side, so I turned it over for further examination. In black ink, written in Mueller's neat, precise block letters were three letters: K. E. F.
With nothing else recorded on the bit of paper, I folded the yellow bit of paper back into its original small square and, along with Mueller's credential, returned it to the wallet.
Another mystery to solve.
—-
"MAY I HELP YOU, MA'AM?"
Carina smiled and walked over towards the clerk in the tiny post office. “Yes, I’m looking or my cousin, Karl Nilsson. He works here in McPhee.”
The man made a face of sorts, causing Carina to indeed look carefully at him for the first time. He was shorter than average in stature with jet black hair save for a few strands of grey making their presence known. His skin was a dark brown, the color Carina had come to associate with Mexican-Americans. His clean shaven face was scarred with pockmarks, either from teenage acne or a childhood disease. Watery brown eyes looked at her from beneath thick, black eyebrows.
“Nilsson,” the clerk said, his speech devoid of any heavy accent. “European, probably Swedish. Am I right?”
“Why, yes,” Carina replied cheerfully. “We’re Swedish.”
A grunt was the postal clerk’s reply. He looked away for a moment as if wondering what to say to his unexpected and apparently unwanted visitor.
“It’s a game I play,” he mumbled as if an explanation were necessary on his part. “Trying to guess what country you Anglos came from.”
Puzzled by the label, Carina responded promptly. “Anglo? I’m not British.”
Shrugging, the clerk turned his back to Carina and walked over to a rather large collection of small wooden cubbyholes of the sort used to sort and store mail. "It's just a term, ma'am. If you're white around here, you're an Anglo. Don't matter which country you came from, you ain’t a Mexican or an Indian.”
“Oh, I see,” Carina replied, taking note of the clerk’s attitude towards whites.
“Karl’s at work at the moment,” the mail clerk volunteered as he sorted a few more letters, placing them in the appropriate cubbyhole. "If you go next door to the company offices, you'll find him." Glancing over his shoulder, the clerk spoke one final time. "Karl won't be able to take you around till his shift is over. The company brass don’t like people skipping out on work during their shift for things like giving a visiting family member a tour of the town. Besides, there ain’t that much to see.”
Dealing with rude people was nothing new to Carina. She thanked him for his time and went next door to the company offices located in the same building. It took but a minute for her to find Karl Nilsson. He looked exactly like the description she'd been provided.
“Karl Nilsson, it’s me,” Carina announced, causing the few other workers in the office to look up from their tasks. “Your cousin, Carina.”
For his part, Nilsson looked as if he'd seen a ghost. His pale white face turned flush, and his glasses slide down his narrow, pointed nose causing him to hurriedly push them back up to their proper place. His receding blonde hair had a faint trace of red to it and was cropped close to Nilsson's scalp. A stylistic choice that did him no favors as the result was to make his ears appear as if they stuck out further than they actually did. Recovering from his initial shock, Nilsson rose from his chair, revealing a bony frame that was slightly stooped. He wore a decent enough set of clothes, but they showed signs of wear.
“I’m sorry, Carina,” he said softly, stepping from behind his desk. “I didn’t anticipate your arrival until later this week.”
“Well, things changed,” Carina replied, her smile disappearing. “You know how it is when you travel over long distances. Things happen.”
"So true, so true," Nilsson mumbled, clearly upset by his attractive cousin's sudden appearance. "Do you have any money," he asked suddenly. "I can't meet with you until my shift is over, and I have quite a bit to do. If you're hungry and need some money, you can charge a sandwich and a piece of pie to my account. You should wait for me at my house until I get off at the end of my shift. My house is easy enough to find."
It was hardly the greeting Carina had expected. Still, considering the man wasn't really her cousin, just a contact of Swedish descent, she decided his behavior wasn't that out of place. His fumbling response was more likely due to her looks than anything else.
"Thank you, Karl, I appreciate the offer. But I have some money still." Carina picked up her suitcase, which she was still carrying about with her. "A sandwich does sound good, though."
—-
CHECKING HIS POCKET for the third or fourth time, Arkady looked at his watch. It would be hours before the train to Durango arrived, leaving him with nothing to do but walk about the tiny village of Chama until then. It was too early to have a beer, and the twinges of a headache reminded Arkady he needed to show a little restraint.
It didn’t help that he was excited. As he’d expected after sending his coded report to his handler via telegram, Arkady had received a response that morning.
He had been entrusted with another important mission for the party. Arkady was to travel to Durango by train and wait for further instructions. A room had been reserved for him at the Palace & Savoy, and a letter with the details of the task would be waiting for him.
