The Spread Rails
It was after dinner, in the great house of Sir Henry Marquis inSt. James's Square.The talk had run on the value of women in criminal investigation;their skill as detective agents . . . the suitability of thefeminine intelligence to the hard, accurate labor of concretedeductions.It was the American Ambassadress, Lisa Lewis, who told the story.It was a fairy night, and the thing was a fairy story.The sun had merely gone behind a colored window. The whole vaultof the heaven was white with stars. The road was like a ribbonwinding through the hills. In little whispers, in the darkplaces, Marion told me it. We sat together in the tonneau of themotor. It was past midnight, of a heavenly September. We werecoming in from a stately dinner at the Fanshaws'.A fairy story is a nice, comfortable human affair. It's about ahero, and a thing no man could do, and a princess and a dragon.It tells how the hero found the task that was too big for othermen, how he accomplished it, circumvented the dragon and won theprincess.The Arabian formula fitted snugly to the facts.The great Dominion railroad, extending from Montreal into NewYork, was having a run of terrible luck; one frightful wreckfollowed another. Nobody could get the thing straightened out.Old Crewe, the railroad commissioner of New York, was relentlessin pressing hard conditions on the road. Then out of the West,had come young Clinton Howard, big, tawny, virile, like the raceof heroes. He had cleaned out the tangles, set the thing going,restored order and method; and the confidence of Canada wasflowing back. Then Howard had made love to Marion in hispersistent dominating fashion . . . . and here, with herwhispered confession, was the fairy story ended.Marion pointed her finger out north, where, far across thevalley, a great country-house sat on the summit of a wooded hill."Clinton has discovered the Commissioner's secret, Sarah," shesaid. "The safety of the public isn't the only thing moving oldCrewe to hammer the railroad. He pretends it is. But in fact hewishes to get control of the road in a bankrupt court."She paused."Crewe is a Nietzsche creature. Victory is the only thing withhim. Nothing else counts. The way the road was going he wouldhave got it in the bankrupt court by now. He's howling `safetyfirst' all over the country. `Negligence' is the big word inevery report he issues. It won't do for Clinton to have anaccident now that any degree of human foresight could haveprevented.""Well," I said, "the dragon will give the hero no furthertrouble. Dr. Martin told mother to-day that Mr. Crewe's mind hadbroken down, and they had brought him out from New York. He gotup in a directors' meeting and tried to kill the president of thePacific Trust Company, with a chair. He went suddenly mad, Dr.Martin said."Marion put out her hands in an unconscious gesture."I am not surprised," she said. "That sort of temperament in thestrain of a great struggle is apt to break down and attempt togain its end by some act of direct violence."Then she added:"My grandfather says in his work on evidence that the human mindif dominated by a single idea will finally break out in somebizarre act. And he cites the case of the minister who, havingmaneuvered in vain to compass the death of the king by some sortof accident, finally undertook to kill him with an andiron."She reflected a moment."I am afraid," she continued, "that the harm is already done.Crewe has set the whole country on the watch. Clinton says theresimply must not be a slip anywhere now. The road must be safe;he must make it safe." She repeated her expression."An accident now that any sort of human foresight could preventwould ruin him.""Oh, dear, it's an awful strain on us . . . on him," shecorrected. "He simply can't be everywhere to see that everythingis right and everybody careful. And besides, there's thefinances of the road to keep in shape. He had to go to Montrealto-day to see about that."She leaned over toward me in her eager interest."I don't see how he can sleep with the thing on him. The bigtrains must go through on time, and every workman and every pieceof machinery mutt be right as a clock. I get in a panic. Iasked him to-day if he thought he could run a railroad like that,like a machine, everything in place on the second, and he said,`Sure, Mike!'"I laughed."`Sure, Mike,"' I said, "is the spirit in which the world isconquered."And then the strange attraction of these two persons for oneanother arose before me; this big, crude, virile, direct son ofthe hustling West, and this delicate, refined, intellectualdaughter of New England. The ancestors of the man had been thefighting and the building pioneer. And those of the girl,reflective people, ministers of the gospel and counselors at law.Marion's grandfather had been a writer on the law. Warfield onEvidence, had been the leading authority in this country. Andthis ambitious girl had taken a special course in college to fither to revise her grandfather's great work. There was nograndson to undertake this labor, and she had gone about the taskherself. She would not trust the great book to outside hands. AWarfield had written it, and a Warfield should keep the editionup. Her revision was now in the hands of a publisher in Boston,and it was sound and comprehensive, the critics said; the ablesttextbook on circumstantial evidence in America. I looked in asort of wonder at this girl, carried off her feet by a tawnybarbarian!Marion was absorbed in the thing; and I understood her anxiety.But the most pressing danger, she did not seem to realize.It lay, I thought, in the revenge of a discharged workman.Clinton Howard had to drop any number of incompetent persons, andthey wrote him all sorts of threatening letters, I had been told.With all the awful things that happen over the country some ofthese angry people might do anything. There are always somehalf-mad people.She went on."But Clinton says the public is as just as Daniel. If he has anaccident in the ordinary course of affairs the public will holdhim for it. But if anything should happen that he could nothelp, the public will not hold him responsible."I realized the force of that. What reasonable human care couldprevent he must answer for, but the outrage of a criminal wouldnot be taken in the public mind against him. On the contrary,the sympathy of the public would flow in. When the people feelthat a man is making every effort for their welfare, the criminalact of an outsider brings them over wholly to his support.Profound interest carried Marion off her feet."I was in a panic the other day, and Clinton said, `Don't letrotten luck get your goat. I'm done if an engineer runs by ablock, but nothing else can put it over on me'!"She laughed with me at the direct, virile, idiom of young Americain action.An event interrupted the discourse. The motor took a sharp curveand a young man running across the road suddenly flung himselfface, down in the grass beyond the curb."Is he hurt?" said Marion to the chauffeur."No, Miss, he's hiding, Miss," said the man, and we swept out ofsight.I thought it more likely that the creature was in liquor. Inspite of the great country-houses, it was not good hunting-groundfor the criminal class, during the season when everybody wasabout. The very number of servants, when a place is open, in arather effective way, police it. Besides the young man lookedlike a sort of workman. One gets such impressions at a glance.The motor descended the long hill toward the river and the flatvalley. It hummed into the curves and hollows, through thepockets of chill air, and out again into the soft Septembernight.Then finally it swept out into the flat valley, and stopped witha grind of the emergency brake that caused the wheels to skid,ripping up the dust and gravel. For a moment in the jar andconfusion we did not realize what had happened, then we saw agreat locomotive lying on its side, and a line of Pullmans, sunkto the axles in the soft earth.The whole "Montreal Express" was derailed, here in the flat landat the grade crossing. The thing had been done some time. Thefire had been drawn from the engine; there was only a sputteringof steam. The passengers had been removed. A wrecking-car hadcome up from down the line. A telegrapher was setting up alittle instrument on a box by the roadside. A lineman wasclimbing a pole to connect his wire. A track boss with a torchand a crew of men were coming up from an examination of the linelittered with its wreck.I hardly know what happened in the next few minutes. We were outof the motor and among the men almost before the car stopped.No one had been hurt. The passenger-coaches were not turnedover, and the engineer and fireman had jumped as the cab toppled.By the greatest good fortune the train had gone off the track inthis low flat land almost level with the grade. Several thingsjoined to avoid a terrible disaster; the flat ground that enabledthe whole train to plow along upright until it stopped, the tracklying flush with the highway where the engine went off, and thefact that trains must slow up for this grade crossing. Had therebeen an embankment, or a big ditch, or the train under its usualheadway the wreck would have been a horror, for every wheel, fromthe engine to the last coach, had left the rails.We were an excited group around the train's crew, when thetrackman came up with his torch. Everybody asked the samequestion as the man approached."What caused the accident?""Spread rails," he said. "These big brutes," he pointed to themammoth engine sprawling like a child's top on its side, thegigantic wheels in the air, "and these new steel coaches, areawful heavy. "There's an upgrade here. When they struck it,they just spread out the rails."And he pushed his closed hands out before him, slowly apart, inillustration.The man knew Marion, for he spoke directly to her in reply to ourconcerted query. Then he added "If you step down the track, MissWarfield, I'll show you exactly how it happened."We followed the big workman with his torch. Marion walked besidehim, and I a few steps behind. The girl had been plunged, on theinstant, headlong into the horror she feared, into the ruin thatshe had lain awake over - and yet she met it with no sign, exceptthat grim stiffening of the figure that disaster brings, topersons of courage. She gave no attention to her exquisite gown.It was torn to pieces that night; my own was a ruin. Thecrushing effect of this disaster swept out every trivial thing.In a moment we saw how the accident happened, the workmanlighting the sweep of track with his torch. Here were the plowmarks on the wooden cross ties, where the wheels had run afterthey left the rails. One saw instantly that the thing happenedprecisely as the workman explained it. When the heavy enginestruck the up-grade, the rails had spread, the wheels had gonedown on the cross-ties, and the whole train was derailed.I saw it with a sickening realization of the fact.Marion took the workman's torch and went over the short piece oftrack on which the thing had happened. All the evidences of theaccident were within a short distance. The track was not torn upWhen the thing began. There was only the displaced rail pushedaway, and the plow marks of the wheels on the ties. The spreadrails had merely switched the train off the track onto the levelof the highway roadbed into the flat field.Marion and the workman had gone a little way down the track. Iwas quite alone at the point of accident, when suddenly some onecaught my hand.I was so startled that I very nearly screamed. The thinghappened so swiftly, with no word.There behind me was a woman, an old foreign woman, a peasant fromsome land of southern Europe. She had my hand huddled up to hermouth.And she began to speak, bending her aged body, and with everyexpression of respect."Ah, Contessa, he is not do it, my Umberto. He is run away infear to hide in the Barrington quarry. It is accident. It isthe doing of the good God. Ah, Contessa," and her old lipsdabbed against my hand. "I beg him to not go, but he isdischarge; an' he make the threat like the great fool. Ah,Contessa, Contessa," and she went over the words with absurdrepetition, "believe it is by chance, believe it is the doing ofthe good God, I pray you." And so she ran on in her quaintold-world words.Instantly I remembered the man lying by the roadside, and thethreats of discharged workmen.I told her the thing was a clean accident, and tried to show herhow it came about. She was effusive in gratitude for my belief.But she seemed concerned about Marion and the others. She didnot go away; she went over and sat down beside the track.Presently the others returned. They were so engrossed that theydid not notice my adventure or the aged woman seated on theground.Marion was putting questions to the workman."There was no obstruction on the track?""No, Miss.""The engineer was watching?""Yes, Miss Warfield, he had to slow up and be careful about thecrossing. There is no curve on this grade, he could see everyfoot of the way. The track was clear and in place, and he waswatching it. There was nothing on it. - The rails simply spreadunder the weight of the engine."And he began to comment on the excessive size and weight of thehuge modern passenger engine."The brute drove the rails apart," he said, "that's all there isto it.""Was the track in repair?" said Marion."It was patrolled to-day, Miss, and it was all in shape."Then he repeated:"The big engine just pushed the rails out.""But the road is built for this type of engine," said Marion."Yes, Miss Warfield," replied the man, "it's supposed to be, butevery roadbed gets a spread rail sometimes."Then he added:"It has to be mighty solid to hold these hundred ton engines onthe rails at sixty miles an hour.""It does hold them," said Marion."Yes, Miss Warfield, usually," said the man."Then why should it fail here?"The man's big grimy face wrinkled into a sort of smile."Now, Miss Warfield," he said, "if we knew why an accident waslikely to happen at one place more than another we wouldn't haveany wrecks.""Precisely," replied Marion, "but isn't it peculiar that thetrack should spread at the synclinal of this grade with the trainrunning at a reduced speed, when it holds on the synclinal ofother grades with the train running at full speed?"The man's big face continued to smile."All accidents are peculiar, Miss Warfield; that's what makesthem accidents.""But," said Marion, "is not the aspect of these peculiaritiesindicatory of either a natural event or one designed by a humanintelligence?"The man fingered his torch."Mighty strange things happen, Miss Warfield. I've seen a traingo over into a canal and one coach lodge against a tree that wasstanding exactly in the right place to save it. And I've seen apassenger engine run by a signal and through a block and knock asingle car out of a passing freight-train, at a crossing, andthat car be the very one that the freight train's brakeman hadjust reached on his way to the caboose; just like somebody hadtimed it all, to the second, to kill him. And I've seen a wholewreck piled up, as high as a house, on top of a man, and the mannot scratched.""I do not mean the coincidence of accident," said Marion, "thatis a mystery beyond us; what I mean is that there must be anorganic difference in the indicatory signs of a thing as ithappens in the course of nature, and as it happens by humanarrangement."The trackman was a person accustomed to the reality and not thetheory of things."I don't see how the accident would have been any different," hesaid, "if somebody had put that tree in the right spot to catchthe coach; or timed the minute with a stop-watch to kill thatbrakeman; or piled that wreck on the man so it wouldn't hurt him.The result would have been just the same.""The result would have been the same," replied Marion, "but thearrangement of events would have been different.""Just what way different, Miss Warfield?" said the man."We cannot formulate an iron rule about that," replied Marion,"but as a general thing catastrophes in nature seem to lack amotive, and their contributing events are not forced."The big trackman was a person of sound practical sense. He knewwhat Marion was after, but he was confused by the unfamiliarterms in which the idea was stated."It's mighty hard to figure out," he said. "Of course, when youfind an obstruction on the track or a crowbar under a rail, orsome plain thing, you know."Then he added:"You've got to figure out a wreck from what seems likely.""There you have it exactly," said Marion. "You must begin yourinvestigation from what your common experience indicates islikely to happen. Now, your experience indicates that the railsof a track sometimes spread under these heavy engines.""Yes, Miss Warfield.""And your experience indicates that this is more likely to happenat the first rise of the synclinal on a grade than anywhere on astraight track.""Yes, Miss Warfield.""Good!" said Marion, "so far. But does not your experience alsoindicate that such an accident usually happens when the train isrunning at a high rate of speed?""Yes, Miss Warfield," said the man. "It's far more likely tohappen then, because the engine strikes the rails at the firstrise of the grade with more force. Naturally a thing hits harderwhen it's going . . . But it might happen with a slow train."Marion made a gesture as of one rejecting the man's finalsentence."When you turn that way," she said, "you at once leave the linesof greatest probability. Why should you follow the preponderanceof common experience on two features here, and turn aside from iton the third feature?""Because the thing happened," replied the man, with thedirectness of those practical persons who drive through to thefact."That is to say an unlikely thing happened!" Marion made adecisive gesture with her clenched fingers. "Thus, the inquiry,beginning with two consistent elements, now comes up against onethat is inconsistent.""But not impossible," said the man."Possible," said Marion, "but not likely. Not to be expected,not in line with the preponderance of common experience;therefore, not to be passed. We have got to stop here and try tofind out why this track spread under a slow train.""But we see it spread, Miss Warfield," said the trackman with aconclusive gesture."True," replied Marion, "we see that it did spread, under thiscondition, but why?"The old woman sitting beside the track seemed to realize what wasunder way; for she rose and came over to where I stood."Contessa," she whispered, in those quaint, old world words, "donot reveal, what I have tol'. I pray you!"And she followed me across the few steps to where the othersstood.I did not answer. I stood like one in some Hellenic drama,between two tragic figures. The love of woman lay in thesolution of this problem - in the beginning and at the end oflife.Marion and the big track boss continued with this woman lookingon.I feared to speak or move; the thing was like a sort of trap, setwith ghastly cunning, by some evil Fate. The ruin of a woman itwould have. And perhaps on the vast level plain where it evillydwelt, through its hard all-seeing eyes, the ruin and the sorroweither way would be precisely equal. How could I, then, lay afinger on the scale."Now," said Marion, "when the engine reached this point on thetrack, one of the rails gave way first."The big workman looked steadily at her."How do you know that, Miss Warfield?" he said."Because," replied Marion, "the marks of the wheels of thelocomotive on the ties are found, in the beginning, only on oneside of the track, showing that the rail on that side gave way,when the engine struck it, and the other rail for some distancebore the weight of the train."She illustrated with her hands."When the one rail was pushed out, the wheels on that side wentdown and continued on the ties, while the wheels on the otherside went ahead on the firm rail."The workman saw it."That's true, Miss Warfield," he said, "one rail sometimesspreads and the other holds solid."Marion was absorbed in the problem."But why should the one rail give way like this and its companionhold?""One of the rails might not be as solid as the other," said theman."But it should have been nearly as solid," replied "Marion."This piece of track, you tell me, was examined to-day; the tiesare equally sound on both sides, the rail is the same weight. Wehave the right to conclude then that each of these rails wasabout in the same condition. I do not say precisely, in the samecondition. Now, it is true that under these conditions one ofthe rails might have been pushed out of alignment before theother. We can grant a certain factor of difference, a certainreasonable factor of difference. But not a great factor ofdifference. We have a right to conclude that one rail would giveway before the other. But not that one would very readily giveway before the other. For some reason this particular rail didgive way, much more readily than it ought to have done."The trackman was listening with the greatest interest."Just how do you know that, Miss Warfield?" he said."Why," replied Marion, "don't you see, from the mark on the ties,that the engine wheels left the rail almost at the moment theystruck it. The marks of the wheels commence on the second tieahead of the beginning of the rail. Therefore, this rail, forsome reason, was more easily pushed out of alignment than itshould have been. What was the reason?"The track boss reflected."You see, Miss Warfield, this place is the beginning of anup-grade, the engine was coming down a long grade toward it, sowhen this train struck the first rails of the up-grade it struckit just like you'd drive in a wedge, and the hundred-ton brute ofan engine jammed this rail out of alignment. That's all there isto it. When the rail sprung the wheels went down on the ties onthat side and the train was ditched.""It was a clean accident, then, you think?" said Marion."Sure, Miss Warfield," replied the man. "If anybody had tried tomove that rail out of alignment, he would have to disconnect itat the other end, that is, take off the plate that joins it tothe next rail. That would leave the end of the rail clean, withno broken plate. But the end of the rail is bent and the plateis twisted off. We looked at that the first thing. Nobody couldtwist that plate off. The engine did it when it left the track."You see, Miss Warfield, the weight of the engine, like a wedge,simply forced one of these rails out of alignment. Don't youunderstand how a hundred ton wedge driven against the track, atthe start of an upgrade, could do it?"The old peasant woman stood behind the track boss. The thing wasa sort of awful game. She did not speak, but the vicissitudes ofthe inquiry advanced her, or retired her, with the effect ofpoints, won or lost."I understand perfectly," replied Marion, "how the impact of theheavy engine might drive both rails out of alignment, if theyoffered an equal resistance, or one of them out if it offered aless resistance. This is straight track. The wedge would go ineven. It should have spread the rails equally. That's theprobable thing. But instead it did the improbable thing; itspread one. I hold the improbable thing always in question.Human knowledge is built up on that postulate."True, a certain factor of difference in conditions must beallowed, as I have said, but an excessive factor cannot beallowed. We have got to find it, or discard human reason as animplement for getting at the truth."Again the big track boss smashed through the niceties of logic."These things happen all the time, Miss War. field. You can'tfigure it out.""One ought to be able to determine it,"' replied the girl.The track boss shook his head."We can't tell what made that rail give.""Of course, we can tell," said Marion. "It gave because it wasweakened.""But what weakened it?" replied the man. "You can't tell that?The rail's sound.""There could be only two causes," said Marion. "It was eitherweakened by a natural agency or a human agency."The track boss made an annoyed gesture, like a practical personvexed with the refinements of a theorist."But how are you going to tell?""Now," said Marion, "there is always a point as you follow athing down, where the human design in it must appear, if there isa human design in it. The human mind can falsify events within alimited area. But if one keeps moving out, as from a center, hewill find somewhere this point at which intelligence is no longerable to imitate the aspect of the result of natural forces . . .I think we have reached it."She paused and drove her query at the track boss."The spikes on the outside of this rail held it in place, didthey not?""Yes, Miss Warfield.""Did the impact of the engine force these spikes out of theties?""Yes, Miss Warfield, it forced them out.""How do you know it forced them out?""Well, Miss Warfield," said the man, pointing to the rail and thedenuded cross-ties, don't you see they're out?""I see that they are out," replied Marion, "but I do not yet seethat they have been forced out."She moved a step closer to the track boss and her voice hardened."If these spikes were forced out by the impact of the engine, weought to find torn spike holes inclining toward the end of thecrossties. . . . Look!"The big practical workman suddenly realized what the girl meant.He stooped over and began to flash his torch along the end of theties. We crowded against him. Every one of the spike holes, forthe entire length of the rail, was straight and clean. The manseized one of the spikes and scrutinized it under his torch.Then he stood up. For a moment he did not speak. He merelylooked at Marion. "It's the holy truth!" he said. "Somebodypulled these spikes with a clawbar. That weakened the rail, andshe bowed out when the engine struck her."Then he turned around, and shouted down the track to his crew."Hey, boys! Spread out along the right of way and see if youcan't find a claw-bar. The devils that do these tricks alwaysthrow away their tools."We stood together in a little tragic group. The old peasantwoman came over to where I stood, she walked with a dead, woodenstep. "Contessa," she whispered, her old lips against my hand."You will save him?"And suddenly with a wild human resentment, I longed to cut a wayout of the trap of this Fatality; to force its ruthless decreeinto a sort of equity, if I could do it."Yes," I said, "I will save him!"It was an impulse with no plan behind it. But the dabbing of thewithered mouth on my fingers was like actual physical contactwith a human heart.For a moment she looked at me as one among the damned might lookat Michael. Then she went slowly away, down through the woodedcopse of the meadow. And I turned about to meet Marion. I knewthat she was now after the identity of the wrecker, and I facedher to foul her lines."This is not the work of one with murder in his heart," she said"A criminal agent set on a ruthless destruction of property andlife would have drawn these spikes on a trestle or an embankment,at a point where the train would be running at high speed."She paused for a moment, then she went on speaking to me asthough she merely uttered her mental comment to herself."These spikes are drawn at a point where the train slows down fora crossing and precisely where the engine would go off onto thehard road-bed of the highway into a level meadow. That meanssome one planned this wreck to result in the least destruction oflife and property possible. Now, what class of persons could beafter the effect of a wreck, exclusive of a loss of life?"I saw where her relentless deductions would presently lead. Thiswas precisely the result that a discharged foreign workman wouldseek in his reprisal. This man would have hot blood, thesouthern Europe instinct for revenge, but with such a mother, nomere lust to kill. I tried to divert her from the fugitive."Train robbers," I said. "I wonder what was in the express-car?"She very nearly laughed. "This is New York," she said, "notArizona. And besides there was no express-car. This thing wasdone by somebody who wanted the effect of a wreck, and nothingelse, and it was done by some one who knew about railroads."Now, what class of persons who know about railroads could bemoved by that motive?"She was driving straight now at the boy I stood to cover. Atanother step she would name the class. Discharged workmen wouldknow about railroads; they would be interested to show how lessefficient the road was without them; and a desperate one mightplan such a wreck as a demonstration. If so, he would wish onlythe effect of the wreck, and not loss of life. Marion was goingdead ahead on the right line, in another moment she wouldremember the man we passed, and the "black band" letters. I madea final desperate effort to divert her."Come along!" I called, "the first thing to do now is to talkwith Clinton Howard. The nearest telephone will be at Crewe'shouse on the hill."And it won."Lisa!" she cried, "you're right I We must tell him at once."We hurried down the track to the motor-car. I had gained alittle time. But how could I keep my promise. And the nextmoment the problem became more difficult. The track boss came upwith a short iron bar that his men had found in the weeds alongthe right of way."There's the claw-bar, that the devil done it with," he said."You can tell it's just been handled by the way the rust's rubbedoff."It was conclusive evidence. Everybody could see how theworkman's hands, as he labored with the claw-bar to draw thespikes, had cleaned off the rust.I hurried the motor away. We raced up the long winding road toCrewe's country-house, sitting like a feudal castle on thesummit. And I wondered, at every moment, how I could keep mypromise. The boy was a criminal, deserving to be hanged, nodoubt, but the naked mother's heart that had dabbed against myfingers overwhelmed me.Almost in a flash, I thought, we were in the grounds and beforeCrewe's house. Then I noticed lights and a confusion of voices.No one came to meet us. And we got out of the motor and went inthrough the open door. We found a group of excited servants. Anold butler began to stammer to Marion."It was his heart, Miss . . . the doctor warned the attendants.But he got away to-night. It was overexertion, Miss. He felljust now as the attendants brought him in." And he flung openthe library door.On a leather couch illumined by the brilliant light, Crewe lay;his massive relentless face with the great bowed nose, like theiron cast of what Marion had called a Nietzsche creature,motionless in death; his arms straight beside him with the greatgloved hands open.And all at once, at the sight, with a heavenly inspiration, Ikept my promise."Look!" I cried. "Oh, everybody, how the palms of his gloves arecovered with rust!"
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