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"Ansel Magee."
The name struck a chord with Pitt but before he could tie it down, Magee turned and bellowed, "Annie, we got a visitor."
A woman came out of the kitchen. She carried herself languidly and stood tall. Her shape was pencil thin, the exact opposite of Magee. Pitt guessed she'd been a fashion model at one time. Her hair was salt and pepper and gracefully styled. She wore a tight-fitting red housecoat with a matching apron, and she held a dishtowel in one hand.
"My wife Annie." Magee made the appropriate gestures with his hand. "This is Mr. Pitt."
"How do you do?" Annie said warmly. "You look like you could use a cup of coffee."
"I'd love one," said Pitt. "Black, thank you."
Her eyes widened. "Did you know your hands were bleeding?"
Pitt looked at the skin abrasions on his palms. "I must have scraped them when I tripped over the rails outside. They're so numb from the cold I didn't notice."
"You just sit down here by the fire," said Annie, guiding him to a circular sofa. "I'll get them fixed up for you." She hurried into the kitchen and filled a bowl with warm water. Then she went to the bathroom for the antiseptic.
"I'll get the coffee," Magee volunteered.
The sheep dog stayed and stared blankly at Pitt. At least he thought the dog was staring at him. Its eyes were curtained by thick tufts of hair.
He regarded the interior of the living room. The furniture appeared to be individually designed along contemporary lines. Each piece, including the lamps and numerous art objects, was elegantly contoured in poly resin and painted either red or white. The room was a livable art gallery. Magee returned with a cup of steaming coffee.
In the light Pitt identified the kindly, elf like face. "You're Ansel Magee, the sculptor."
"I'm afraid there are certain art critics who would disagree with that label." Magee laughed goodnaturedly.
"You're modest," said Pitt. "I once stood in a block-long line waiting to view your exhibit at the National Art Gallery in Washington."
"Are you a modern-art connoisseur, Mr. Pitt?"
"I'd hardly qualify even as a dilettante. Actually, my love affair is with antique machinery. I collect old cars and airplanes." That part was true. "I also have a passion for steam locomotives." That part was another lie.
"Then we have a common meeting ground," said Magee. "I'm an old train buff myself." He reached over and turned off the television. "I noticed your private railroad."
"An Atlantic type four-four-two," Magee said as if reciting. "Rolled out of the Baldwin Works in nineteen oh-six. Pulled the Overland Limited from Chicago to Council Bluffs, Iowa. It was quite a speedster in its day."
"When was the last time it was operated?" Pitt sensed immediately that he'd used the wrong terminology by the sour expression on Magee's face.
"I stoked it up two summers ago after I laid in about a half mile of track. Ran the neighbors and their kids back and forth on my private line. Gave it up after my last heart attack. It's sat idle ever since."
Annie returned and began bathing his cuts. "Sorry, but all I could find was an old bottle of iodine. It'll sting."
She was wrong: Pitt's hands still hat no feeling. He watched silently while she tied the bandages. Then she sat back and appraised her handiwork.
"Won't win a medical award, but I guess it will do until you get home."
"It will do just fine," Pitt said.
Magee settled into a tulip-shaped chair. "Now then, Mr. Pitt. What's on your mind?"
Pitt came right to the point. "I'm accumulating data on the Manhattan Limited."
"I see," said Magee, but it was plain he didn't. "I assume your interest lies more in the nature of its last run rather than its track history."
"Yes," Pitt admitted. "There are several aspects of the disaster that have never been explained in depth.
I've gone over the old newspaper accounts, but they raise more questions than they answer."
