Marion took the workman's torch and went over the short piece of track
on which the thing had happened. All the evidences of the accident were
within a short distance. The track was not torn up when the thing began.
There was only the displaced rail pushed away, and the plow marks of the
wheels on the ties. The spread rails had merely switched the train off
the track onto the level of the highway roadbed into the flat field.
Marion and the workman had gone a little way down the track. I was quite
alone at the point of accident, when suddenly some one caught my hand.
I was so startled that I very nearly screamed. The thing happened so
swiftly, with no word.
There behind me was a woman, an old foreign woman, a peasant from some
land of southern Europe. She had my hand huddled up to her mouth.
And she began to speak, bending her aged body, and with every expression
of respect.
“Ah, Contessa, he is not do it, my Umberto. He is run away in fear to
hide in the Barrington quarry. It is accident. It is the doing of the
good God. Ah, Contessa,” and her old lips dabbed against my hand. “I
beg him to not go, but he is discharge; an' he make the threat like the
great fool. Ah, Contessa, Contessa,” and she went over the words with
absurd repetition, “believe it is by chance, believe it is the doing
of the good God, I pray you.” And so she ran on in her quaint old-world
words.
Instantly I remembered the man lying by the roadside, and the threats of
discharged workmen.
I told her the thing was a clean accident, and tried to show her how it
came about. She was effusive in gratitude for my belief. But she seemed
concerned about Marion and the others. She did not go away; she went
over and sat down beside the track.
Presently the others returned. They were so engrossed that they did not
notice my adventure or the aged woman seated on the ground.
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 the
crossing. There is no curve on this grade, he could see every foot of
the way. The track was clear and in place, and he was watching it. There
was nothing on it.--The rails simply spread under the weight of the
engine.”
And he began to comment on the excessive size and weight of the huge
modern passenger engine.
“The brute drove the rails apart,” he said, “that's all there is to 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, but every
roadbed gets a spread rail sometimes.”
Then he added:
“It has to be mighty solid to hold these hundred ton engines on the
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 was likely to
happen at one place more than another we wouldn't have any wrecks.”
“Precisely,” replied Marion, “but isn't it peculiar that the track
should spread at the synclinal of this grade with the train running at
a reduced speed, when it holds on the synclinal of other 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 makes them
accidents.”
“But,” said Marion, “is not the aspect of these peculiarities indicatory
of either a natural event or one designed by a human intelligence?”
The man fingered his torch.
“Mighty strange things happen, Miss Warfield. I've seen a train go
over into a canal and one coach lodge against a tree that was standing
exactly in the right place to save it. And I've seen a passenger engine
run by a signal and through a block and knock a single car out of a
passing freight-train, at a crossing, and that car be the very one that
the freight train's brakeman had just reached on his way to the caboose;
just like somebody had timed it all, to the second, to kill him. And
I've seen a whole wreck piled up, as high as a house, on top of a man,
and the man not scratched.”
“I do not mean the coincidence of accident,” said Marion, “that is
a mystery beyond us; what I mean is that there must be an organic
difference in the indicatory signs of a thing as it happens in the
course of nature, and as it happens by human arrangement.”
The trackman was a person accustomed to the reality and not the theory
of things.
“I don't see how the accident would have been any different,” he said,
“if somebody had put that tree in the right spot to catch the coach; or
timed the minute with a stop-watch to kill that brakeman; 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 the
arrangement 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 a motive, and their
contributing events are not forced.”
The big trackman was a person of sound practical sense. He knew what
Marion was after, but he was confused by the unfamiliar terms in which
the idea was stated.
“It's mighty hard to figure out,” he said. “Of course, when you find an
obstruction on the track or a crowbar under a rail, or some 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 your
investigation from what your common experience indicates is likely
to happen. Now, your experience indicates that the rails of a track
sometimes spread under these heavy engines.”
“Yes, Miss Warfield.”
“And your experience indicates that this is more likely to happen at
the first rise of the synclinal on a grade than anywhere on a straight
track.”
“Yes, Miss Warfield.”
“Good!” said Marion, “so far. But does not your experience also indicate
that such an accident usually happens when the train is running at a
high rate of speed?”
“Yes, Miss Warfield,” said the man. “It's far more likely to happen
then, because the engine strikes the rails at the first rise of the
grade with more force. Naturally a thing hits harder when it's going...
But it might happen with a slow train.”
Marion made a gesture as of one rejecting the man's final sentence.
“When you turn that way,” she said, “you at once leave the lines of
greatest probability. Why should you follow the preponderance of common
experience on two features here, and turn aside from it on the third
feature?”
“Because the thing happened,” replied the man, with the directness of
those practical persons who drive through to the fact.
“That is to say an unlikely thing happened!” Marion made a decisive
gesture with her clenched fingers. “Thus, the inquiry, beginning with
two consistent elements, now comes up against one that 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 to find out why this track
spread under a slow train.”
“But we see it spread, Miss Warfield,” said the trackman with a
conclusive gesture.
“True,” replied Marion, “we see that it did spread, under this
condition, but why?”
The old woman sitting beside the track seemed to realize what was
under way; for she rose and came over to where I stood. “Contessa,” she
whispered, in those quaint, old world words, “do not reveal, what I have
tol'. I pray you!”
And she followed me across the few steps to where the others stood.
I did not answer. I stood like one in some Hellenic drama, between
two tragic figures. The love of woman lay in the solution of this
problem--in the beginning and at the end of life.
Marion and the big track boss continued with this woman looking on.
I feared to speak or move; the thing was like a sort of trap, set with
ghastly cunning, by some evil Fate. The ruin of a woman it would have.
And perhaps on the vast level plain where it evilly dwelt, through
its hard all-seeing eyes, the ruin and the sorrow either way would be
precisely equal. How could I, then, lay a finger on the scale.
“Now,” said Marion, “when the engine reached this point on the track,
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 the locomotive
on the ties are found, in the beginning, only on one side of the track,
showing that the rail on that side gave way, when the engine struck it,
and the other rail for some distance bore the weight of the train.”
She illustrated with her hands.
“When the one rail was pushed out, the wheels on that side went down and
continued on the ties, while the wheels on the other side went ahead on
the firm rail.”
The workman saw it.
“That's true, Miss Warfield,” he said, “one rail sometimes spreads and
the other holds solid.”
Marion was absorbed in the problem.
“But why should the one rail give way like this and its companion hold?”
“One of the rails might not be as solid as the other,” said the man.
“But it should have been nearly as solid,” replied Marion. “This piece
of track, you tell me, was examined to-day; the ties are equally
sound on both sides, the rail is the same weight. We have the right to
conclude then that each of these rails was about in the same condition.
I do not say precisely in the same condition. Now, it is true that
under these conditions one of the rails might have been pushed out of
alignment before the other. We can grant a certain factor of difference,
a certain reasonable factor of difference. But not a great factor of
difference. We have a right to conclude that one rail would give way
before the other. But not that one would very readily give way before
the other. For some reason this particular rail did give 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 they struck it. The
marks of the wheels commence on the second tie ahead of the beginning of
the rail. Therefore, this rail, for some reason, was more easily pushed
out of alignment than it should have been. What was the reason?”
The track boss reflected.
“You see, Miss Warfield, this place is the beginning of an up-grade, the
engine was coming down a long grade toward it, so when this train struck
the first rails of the up-grade it struck it just like you'd drive in
a wedge, and the hundred-ton brute of an engine jammed this rail out of
alignment. That's all there is to it. When the rail sprung the wheels
went down on the ties on that 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 to move
that rail out of alignment, he would have to disconnect it at the other
end, that is, take off the plate that joins it to the next rail. That
would leave the end of the rail clean, with no broken plate. But the end
of the rail is bent and the plate is twisted off. We looked at that the
first thing. Nobody could twist 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 you understand how a
hundred ton wedge driven against the track, at the start of an upgrade,
could do it?”
The old peasant woman stood behind the track boss. The thing was a sort
of awful game. She did not speak, but the vicissitudes of the inquiry
advanced her, or retired her, with the effect of points, won or lost.
“I understand perfectly,” replied Marion, “how the impact of the heavy
engine might drive both rails out of alignment, if they offered an equal
resistance, or one of them out if it offered a less resistance. This is
straight track. The wedge would go in even. It should have spread
the rails equally. That's the probable thing. But instead it did the
improbable thing; it spread 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 be allowed, as
I have said, but an excessive factor cannot be allowed. We have got
to find it, or discard human reason as an implement for getting at the
truth.”
Again the big track boss smashed through the niceties of logic.
“These things happen all the time, Miss Warfield. You can't figure 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 was
weakened.”
“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 either weakened
by a natural agency or a human agency.”
The track boss made an annoyed gesture, like a practical person vexed
with the refinements of a theorist.
“But how are you going to tell?”
“Now,” said Marion, “there is always a point as you follow a thing down,
where the human design in it must appear, if there is a human design in
it. The human mind can falsify events within a limited area. But if one
keeps moving out, as from a center, he will find somewhere this point at
which intelligence is no longer able 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, did they not?”
“Yes, Miss Warfield.”
“Did the impact of the engine force these spikes out of the ties?”
“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 the
denuded cross-ties, don't you see they're out?”
“I see that they are out,” replied Marion, “but I do not yet see that
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, we ought to
find torn spike holes inclining toward the end of the crossties....
Look!”
The big practical workman suddenly realized what the girl meant.
He stooped over and began to flash his torch along the end of the ties.
We crowded against him. Every one of the spike holes, for the entire
length of the rail, was straight and clean. The man seized one of the
spikes and scrutinized it under his torch.
Then he stood up. For a moment he did not speak. He merely looked at
Marion. “It's the holy truth!” he said. “Somebody pulled these spikes
with a clawbar. That weakened the rail, and she 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 you can't find
a claw-bar. The devils that do these tricks always throw away their
tools.”
We stood together in a little tragic group. The old peasant woman came
over to where I stood, she walked with a dead, wooden step. “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 way out of
the trap of this Fatality; to force its ruthless decree into 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 the
withered mouth on my fingers was like actual physical contact with a
human heart.
For a moment she looked at me as one among the damned might look at
Michael. Then she went slowly away, down through the wooded copse of the
meadow. And I turned about to meet Marion. I knew that she was now after
the identity of the wrecker, and I faced her 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 and life 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 as though she
merely uttered her mental comment to herself.
“These spikes are drawn at a point where the train slows down for a
crossing and precisely where the engine would go off onto the hard
road-bed of the highway into a level meadow. That means some one planned
this wreck to result in the least destruction of life and property
possible. Now, what class of persons could be after the effect of a
wreck, exclusive of a loss of life?”
I saw where her relentless deductions would presently lead. This was
precisely the result that a discharged foreign workman would seek in his
reprisal. This man would have hot blood, the southern Europe instinct
for revenge, but with such a mother, no mere 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, “not Arizona. And
besides there was no express-car. This thing was done by somebody who
wanted the effect of a wreck, and nothing else, and it was done by some
one who knew about railroads.
“Now, what class of persons who know about railroads could be moved by
that motive?”
She was driving straight now at the boy I stood to cover. At another
step she would name the class. Discharged workmen would know about
railroads; they would be interested to show how less efficient the
road was without them; and a desperate one might plan such a wreck as
a demonstration. If so, he would wish only the effect of the wreck,
and not loss of life. Marion was going dead ahead on the right line,
in another moment she would remember the man we passed, and the “black
band” letters. I made a final desperate effort to divert her.
“Come along!” I called, “the first thing to do now is to talk with
Clinton Howard. The nearest telephone will be at Crewe's house 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 a little time.
But how could I keep my promise. And the next moment the problem became
more difficult. The track boss came up with a short iron bar that his
men had found in the weeds along the 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 rubbed off.”
It was conclusive evidence. Everybody could see how the workman's hands,
as he labored with the claw-bar to draw the spikes, had cleaned off the
rust.
I hurried the motor away. We raced up the long winding road to Crewe's
country-house, sitting like a feudal castle on the summit. And I
wondered, at every moment, how I could keep my promise. The boy was a
criminal, deserving to be hanged, no doubt, but the naked mother's heart
that had dabbed against my fingers overwhelmed me.
Almost in a flash, I thought, we were in the grounds and before Crewe'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 in through the open door.
We found a group of excited servants. An old 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 fell just now as the
attendants brought him in.” And he flung open the library door.
On a leather couch illumined by the brilliant light, Crewe lay; his
massive relentless face with the great bowed nose, like the iron cast
of what Marion had called a Nietzsche creature, motionless in death; his
arms straight beside him with the great gloved hands open.
And all at once, at the sight, with a heavenly inspiration, I kept my
promise.
“Look!” I cried. “Oh, everybody, how the palms of his gloves are covered
with rust!”