July 12, 1915. A meeting with the railroad engineers this morning. Although I consider my knowledge of English to be quite good, I still missed much of what was said. I was given a few simple tasks to begin with. I am to go to St. Louis via Peoria and check the condition of some small bridges en route. O’Hara will be accompanying me…
July 16, 1915. In St. Louis for the first time. Looked at the Eads Bridge over the Mississippi River. It was opened in 1874 and is over 6,000 feet long. As we were standing there looking at the bridge a C&NW train arrived and passed across it. Today is Matthías’s birthday; I shall write him a letter and send him a little something…
August 20, 1915. Completed my first design of a short switch at Burlington. We drank a toast with brandy at the office when Mr. Wolfert, the chief engineer, signed it off…
By the time they had finished reading the police reports on the death of Jacob Senior, it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening. Halldór, who was expected at home, asked Hrefna to go to Birkihlíd to fetch the old diaries; he wanted her to go through them to see if she could find any information that might provide a link to the present day. Since the same weapon had killed both father and son, it was highly likely that the same person had committed both murders, so Hrefna was to look for entries mentioning people who were still alive today and had some connection with the family.
She decided to take a police car to Birkihlíd. Hrefna rarely drove; she was unable to afford a car herself, and the detective division cars were supposed to be left at headquarters, unless exceptional circumstances demanded otherwise, and this was one such occasion, she decided. After all, she wouldn’t be able to manage the large box of diaries on the bus, and Halldór had asked her to begin reading tonight.
The front door at Birkihlíd had been sealed with wire strung between two small steel eyes screwed into the doorpost and the door, and then fastened with a lead seal. Hrefna simply cut the wire and entered the house. It was cold and rather dismal, but in spite of that she did not turn on any lights apart from the one in the office, where she quickly stacked the books she needed in a box she had brought along, and then hurried out, refixing the seal before driving home.
It was a lovely starry night, and the snow squeaked underfoot as she walked toward her house clutching the box. She was tired and the box was heavy, so she was relieved when Pétur opened the door for her. He lived on the top floor of her building and earned his rent by looking after the property for the owner: a bit of maintenance and cleaning, and then collecting the rent every month from the other tenants were his only duties. During the day he worked as a jackhammer operator. He was a burly fellow, with round cheeks and small eyes that were barely visible beneath his bushy eyebrows. There was certainly nothing wrong with his eyesight, though. Pétur was a curious—some would say nosy—soul.
“I heard on the evening news that a man had been shot,” he remarked by way of a greeting.
“Yes, apparently,” Hrefna replied, as she climbed the stairs followed by Pétur, carrying a bucket.
“Any idea what his name was?” he asked.
“No.”
“No, of course not. They spare you girls these nasty cases, of course.”
“Yes, yes,” Hrefna agreed, slipping into her apartment and shutting the door without saying good-bye. Her daughter was sitting cross-legged on the floor reading. Classical music was playing on the radio. “It’s a Stravinsky concert,” Elsa volunteered.
“That’s nice, darling,” Hrefna replied, half-listening. “Did you have anything to eat?”
“Yes, I made some porridge. There’s a bit left in the pan.”
“I came home in a car, so I can drive you to school tomorrow morning,” she said with a smile.
“Great!”
Hrefna reheated the porridge and dished some out in a large bowl, adding lots of cinnamon sugar and cold milk on top. This was one of her favorite meals, and she ate it heartily. After cleaning up, she turned to the diaries.
She took them from the box and laid them out on her small desk. She read well into the wee hours, and when she finally went to bed, she dreamed of nothing but trains the whole night long.
Diary IV
March 17, 1916. When I travel by rail between assignments, I usually go in the rearmost car; here it is called “caboose,” a word with maritime origins, meaning originally a ship’s galley. The caboose car is red in color and is where the conductor sits, also where he keeps his tools, lanterns, and flares. He can observe the whole train from a small tower that sticks up from the roof of the car. I chat with the conductor during the journey and think I have learnt more about railways from these fellows than throughout all my college years…Today I traveled with old Joe Benson. He told me that it had been one of C&NW’s conductors who had the idea for the tower, which is called “cupola,” back in 1863. By chance, an old railway car with a hole in the roof had been used as a caboose, and the conductor had stuck his head through the hole and seen how easy it was to monitor everything from this angle. He presented this idea to those who were building caboose cars for C&NW in Clinton. In Germany, this car is called “Güterzugpackwagen,” and is located behind the locomotive. It has, however, not got a tower…