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“Harold Wing.”
“And you?”
“Louis Loh.”
“L-e-w Lewis or L-o-u Louis?”
“L-o-u.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Little wonder that unpleasant chap is hungry,” growled Arnold Bennett, who was standing first in line. “The breakfasting accommodation of this particular unit of the Overland Limited was not designed on the same scale as its bedroom accommodation.”
Isaac Bell winked at Louis and Harold, who looked bewildered by Bennett’s densely circuitous English. “Mr. Arnold means that there are more sleeping berths in the Pullmans than chairs in the diner.”
The students nodded with vague smiles.
“They had better open that dining car,” Bennett muttered. “Before it’s put to the sack by ravening hordes.”
“Did you sleep well?” Bell asked Harold and Louis. “Are you getting used to the motion?”
“Very well, sir,” said Louis.
“Despite,” said Bennett, “my warning about jerky trains.”
The dining car finally opened for breakfast, and Bell sat with them. The Chinese were silent as sphinxes no matter what Bell said to draw them into conversation while the writer was happy to talk nonstop about everything he saw, read, or overheard. Wing took a small Bible from his coat and read quietly. Loh stared out the window at a land growing green in the spring and speckled with cattle.
ISAAC BELL LAY IN WAIT for Louis Loh in the corridor outside Arnold Bennett’s staterooms.
West of Rawlins, Wyoming, the Overland Limited was increasing speed across the high plateau. The locomotive fireman was pouring on the coal, and at eighty miles an hour the train swayed hard. When Bell saw the Chinese divinity student coming down the corridor, he let the careening train throw him against the smaller man.
“Sorry!”
He steadied himself by holding Loh’s lapel. “Did they issue your pocket pistol at the seminary?”
“What?”
“This bulge is not a Bible.”
The Chinese student appeared to shrivel with embarrassment. “Oh, no, sir. You are right. It is a gun. It is just that I am afraid. In the West, there is much hatred of Chinese. You saw at the breakfasting car. They think we’re all opium addicts or tong gangsters.”
“Do you know how to use that thing?”
They were standing inches apart, Bell leaning close, still holding his lapel, the youth unable to back away. Louis lowered his dark eyes. “Not really, sir. I guess just point it and pull the trigger-but it is the threat that is important. I would never shoot it.”
“May I see it, please?” Bell asked, extending his open hand.
Louis looked around, confirmed they were still alone, and gingerly drew the pistol from his pocket. Bell took it. “Top-quality firearm,” he said, surprised that the student had found himself a Colt Pocket Hammerless that looked fresh out of the box. “Where did you get it?”
“I bought it in New York City.”
“You bought a good one. Where in New York City?”
“A shop near the police headquarters. Downtown.”
Bell made sure the manual safety was on and handed it back. “You can get hurt waving a gun around you don’t know how to use. You might shoot yourself by mistake. Or someone will take it away and do it for you-and get off by claiming self-defense. I would rest easier if you would promise to put it in your suitcase and leave it there.”
“Yes, sir, Misser Bell.”
