The platform was filled with people saying goodbye to their family and friends. The air filled with the steam from the engine, the smells of coal, the sweat of the engineer and driver, and the flowery smells of the first class passengers as they were lead by their personal valets to the front carriages.
The front carriages was a tradition going back to the beginning of train travel, where the more influential sat close to the engine so as not to get covered in soot. Obviously standing on a platform for extended periods in a busy station was not part of those thoughts.
It was spring in New York, and with the spring weather came morning rains. Today had not been any different. The rains had come this morning, cold and heavy, washing away the detritus of life in Manhattan. Cold enough for overcoats, but not so cold as to need a muffler. That is how you could find me, leaning against one of the support posts on Platform C, leaving New York for a new job writing for the Chicago Tribune.
I had enjoyed working for the Times, but being a junior writer just wasn't my thing. This was my own weekly column. The crime blotter. I looked the part of a detective, other than instead of the felt fedora, I had a Dover hat, one with a narrow brim, and a center crease, not the fancy fedora style. Detectives and Private Dicks wore fedora. I was a paper man. Simple style, simple life.
At least it was simple until she walked into it. People were loading the train, I was going to get on myself. Pushing off the post, I shrugged my hands into my trench coat, feeling nothing but bits of lint in the linings of my pockets. The engine let off a bellow of steam. It was loud, sudden and startled anyone still on the platform. The conductors started herding the last of the passengers onto the train, and I was moving to the stairs myself when a staccato of heels striking the tile platform rung out over the sound of the soon straining engine.
They say that for some, that love at first sight is a matter of perspective. Obviously my perspective was just right. She was of average height, and had obvious curves exactly where they should be. Her dark skirt showed shapely stocking covered legs. Black and white heels, long grey coat and the hat on her salon styled hair. A short veil obscured her eyes, but there was no mistaking her ruby lips.
"All Aboard!" The conductor called and I was being once again pushed onto the train, and that was when I lost her as I climbed the first step into the car.
It didn't take long for the train to begin to pull out of Grand Central Station, headed north first toward Connecticut and the Hudson Valley, then west to Chicago. As I began to move my way through the train looking for my assigned compartment, I could see the skyline of Manhattan slowly beginning to pass by, As I reached the fifth car, the first of the cars with compartments, we were nearly out of the city.
The train was a long one, with four first class cars, and both a lounge car and dining car, then several general seating cars, and three pullman cars at the end, all with sleeper sections. I had seen very few passengers after leaving the general seating cars, the lesser dining car had a few seated about, but now it was myself and the stewards moving about. I moved carefully up the car as the train had begun to gain some speed as we left the city limits, and watched for the compartment number on my itinerary and ticket.
Finally only two cars from the first class lounge I found the right compartment number. I slid open the door and moved inside, turning as I did so to slide the door shut.
"Can I help you?" I hear from behind. Her voice was slightly husky, not annoyingly like some of those breathy dames in the village, and definitely not as heavy. It had no discernible accent, so she was obviously not from New York.
I turned toward her, an inquiring look on my face. Her hat was removed, and placed neatly in an open hatbox on the seat beside her. Her gloves and coat also folded neatly to the side. I could see now that she was wearing a navy suit dress. The skirt hugging her thighs to the knee with a four inch slit at the right side. The jacket was fitted, and five buttons to the collar. A blouse could not be seen at the sleeves nor at the collar. And finally as I moved up her body, the survey of an African explorer, I met her eyes. Green like Jade with a golden halo around the pupil. That along with her peach complexion made her a stunning beauty. One I would expect to see on Vogue magazine.
"I'm not sure" I replied. I felt my throat go dry, and my pulse began to quicken. I could almost feel beads of perspiration forming on my brow. "Compartment 3F right?" I fumbled for my ticket, my coat now on my arm, and my suit buttoned and hat in hand, slightly rumpled. She reached for a handbag, navy like her suit, the brass clasp clicking smartly as she opened it.
Delicate manicured hands and painted nails held the ticket. Through either fate or some other act of divine intervention, the two tickets placed together read identical numbers. My mind racing I looked first at the date and time of departure. Was it possible that there were two total strangers supposed to share a compartment on an overnight train to Chicago?
"It seems that we are both assigned to this compartment ma'am. There must be some mistake." And I turned back toward the door, thinking to find a porter or conductor to straighten this out. My hand had barely brushed the dull brass of the door pull when this angel spoke again.
"Maybe mistakes happen for a reason. My name is Isabelle." She was sat back on the bench, arms to either side but slightly behind her, and stretched out such that her chest was slightly pushed forward, her back slightly arched. Her legs crossed at the knee left over right. "Might as well get comfortable. It is a long overnight trip, and I wouldn't mind the company."
