Jane Urquhart
Copyright 1999 by Jane Urquhart
All rights reserved
Homage to Dame Agatha Christie, who was, in her own way, a great writer. I have stolen the name of this story, and also the plot, from one of her famous works. I hope that her shade will forgive me. Fortunately, titles and plots can't be copyrighted. Any resemblance between her work and this story is just my good luck, and the characters, of course, are all mere collections of electrons--J.U.
Murder on the Orient Express (Humor, no sex)by Jane Urquhart
Some train. Full of weird-looking people. Me shrinking into the hard plastic wall of the car, trying to hide and getting nowhere. Seats almost as bad as on an airplane.
"Shon!"
He was sitting next to me, so I didn't have to shout. I'd told him he had to sit next to me or I'd pull the brake cable. I could see him eyeing the dark one with the big tits. Also the skinny one with tits even smaller than mine. And the little brown-haired wren with glasses. I wished I knew who she was. Couple of superannuated linebacker types, too--might not be so bad after all. Probably lawyers. Still, this whole trip was against my will. My mother told me to avoid bad company, and I knew this had to be bad company like special. Shon made me come.
"Yeah?"
"The seat's too little."
"Deal with it."
So I reached over, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled him bodily across into my lap. I didn't have to pull very hard--he kind of scrunched along and helped, probably because it hurt a lot. He only yelled a little, and nobody paid any attention.
"Now talk to me. You said I could make the train go anywhere I wanted. It hasn't yet."
"I told you." He sounded exasperated. "You just have to tell the leprechaun where to take you."
"I don't just want to go somewhere--I want a better train. This one sucks."
"So tell him to make the train better. He can do that, too. What do you want, the fucking Orient Express?"
"Yeah."
"Then tell him."
"No, you tell him for me. My mother told me not to trust leprechauns--she knows about these things."
"Oh, for God's sake, Janey, don't be an ass. Go tell the guy what you want. Everybody else is doing it!"
"No. I'm shy. You tell him."
Shon struggled up and managed get out of the seat.
"Orient Express, yeah?"
"Sure. Why not?"
He swayed off down the aisle, headed for the locomotive.
* * *
Somewhere in Jugo-Slavia
January, 1939
The conductor found the body an hour after the train ran slowly into a huge snow bank and came to a sudden halt.
"M. Boucher!" The conductor, one Andre Dubois, knocked softly on the compartment door and spoke quietly in order to avoid waking the others in the sleeping car. "M. Boucher!"
The door opened suddenly.
"Well, what's wrong now? I just got back to sleep."
"Oh, Monsieur, please come with me! The man in Compartment 5 is dead! He has been stabbed!"
" Merde !" M. Boucher rubbed his eyes. "You must be mistaken!"
He wasn't.
M. Boucher, a director of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, spared no thought for the corpse nor the many loved ones who might be devastated.
"We have to keep this absolutely secret, Dubois. Think of the horrible publicity!" He thought a minute himself. "But that's impossible--of course we'll have those stupid Jugo-Slav police swarming all over the train when they finally get through to us." He paused, stroking his moustache. "I've got it! Awaken M. See-El. He's the most famous detective on two continents. I think he's an American, but we must not let prejudice sway us. Some of them are very clever, despite their lack of culture. Perhaps he can give us advice. Send him to my compartment."
Boucher had cause to worry. Being stuck in a snowdrift somewhere in the middle of Jugo-Slavia was bad enough, but murder will out, and a body in a sleeping car might well cost the Orient Express a great many customers. With so few people on the train, this untoward event was a monumental misfortune. Boucher was still puzzled at the fact that the one car--the Stamboul-Paris sleeper--was completely full, and not one of the other sleeping cars had even a single occupant. No accounting for the vagaries of the travelling public, however; it was his job to see that the Express and Wagons-Lits maintained their reputation for delivering most luxurious travel experience in the entire world, no matter what happened.
Hercule See-El, tall, strong, and handsome, wrapped in his red silk dressing gown, waited calmly as the perturbed director stammered out his tale of woe. When the torrent ceased, he spoke.
"And, who, Monsieur, is the victim of this dastardly crime?"
"I have his passport here, Monsieur. Apparently he is English. One Mr. A. T. Roll. An address in Surrey."
"Odd," said See-El, stroking his moustache (which was longer and much more fastidiously cared for than that of M. Boucher), "I seem to recognize the name. An international criminal of some sort. No matter--we will get to the bottom of this. I must examine the corpse in situ , and then we must interview all the passengers--obviously the killer is still aboard the train. No one could escape through this snow. And a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."
"But Monsieur, they are all asleep! Must we wake them?"
"Of course. Time is of the essence. Wake them one at a time, and send them to the dining car, which is conveniently located immediately ahead of us. We shall interrogate them there."
"Oh, Monsieur! We really can't do that! Lord Malinov, Lord Shon! Two noblemen! What a demeaning experience for them to be roused from their beds well after midnight!"
See-El was implacable. "Murder knows no class distinctions, M. Boucher. Perhaps you Europeans have not yet become aware of that. Let us take them first, since they are obviously such important people. Send them to the dining car, one at a time. But first, let me examine the body."
No angels surrounded the remains of Mr. Roll. His nightshirt was rucked up around his neck, and he lay almost naked. The wounds were obvious. Aside from the gaping dagger slits, only a pair of long, straight bruises marred the carcass. Mr. Roll should have been drenched in blood, but his pale body, now somehow shrunken, lay clean, as if it had been washed. See-El made his usual careful examination. He was no stranger to corpses, though most of his previous customers were considerably less tidy.
A quick search of the room produced a watch--broken. It read 12:50 a.m. A box of pills, unmarked, stood on the night stand. Otherwise, nothing but the usual accoutrements of the male traveller: toothbrush, toothpaste, pomade, a set of dirty underwear, etc.
No wounds marked the scalp, which shone through a few strands of greasy hair. Mr. Roll, obviously an insecure sort of man, had combed it over in a ludicrous attempt to conceal his badly waxed dome. Nor was there a mark on the undistinguished face. See-El could only conclude that the man had been drugged, killed in his sleep, or forcibly held still while the deed was done. The detective was glad to leave the compartment, where the heat was stifling. He did not speak and until he and Boucher had reached the dining car.
"He has been stabbed ten times, Monsieur Boucher. Some of the wounds are deep, obviously produced by an angry man. But a few are mere scratches, the kind of thing one would expect of a weaker vessel. Boucher, we have two murderers to apprehend! One is a powerful man, the other a woman!"
"Not a woman!" cried Boucher. "The fair sex is incapable of such foul deeds!"
"Your naiveté amazes me, Monsieur. Did the news of the infamous Miss Lizzie Borden fail to cross the water?"
"But surely, Monsieur, the women on this train are not of that type--they are all ladies--I have met them!"
"Ladies, eh! Boucher, you have much to learn. 'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'"
"Ah, yes. Shakespeare, no doubt."
"Actually not--Congreve. But that is beside the point. We must begin the interviews immediately. Dubois, fetch Lord Malinov, if you please."
* * *
"And what, prithee, brings me to this pass before dawn has even considered snapping her rosy fingers? Are you editors, that you haunt my sleep?"
Malinov, seated casually at a table in the dark-panelled dining car wearing a dressing gown of midnight blue, switched his gaze from the embarrassed M. Boucher to See-El, who sat silently, assessing this obviously noble Slav. As a rule, of course, Slavs were treacherous in the extreme, and not to be trusted, but this man seemed almost Western in his demeanor--perhaps he would be a pleasant surprise. A man so handsome, his wealth apparent, could afford to be civilized, even in one of those jury-rigged states spawned by President Wilson's unfortunate League of Nations.
"Your Lordship, we merely require that you give us a précis of your movements since the train stopped in Vincovci."
"Anything is possible, but some things are hard," said Malinov, tossing his ebony mane. "I fear, gentle sir, that I must refrain from satisfying your perfectly reasonable curiosity. I am far too vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune to chance a loss of honor."
"I don't suppose you'd like to tell us whether you were acquainted with Mr. A. T. Roll, either." See-El fixed him with a gimlet eye.
"But of course, Monsieur! I am not acquainted with the particular person to whom you refer, but I have known others like him. I take it that some trouble has befallen this unfortunate, but quite obnoxious, fellow."
"And how do you know what he was like?"
"I saw him board the train at Stamboul. I am sensitive, my friends, and one look told me volumes about his character."
"Very well, my lord," said See-El, "You may go. I am sorry that you had to be disturbed."
"No! No!" Boucher stammered. "We are *desolated* that you had to be disturbed, Your Lordship!"
"Think nothing of it, Monsieur. I have survived so much emotional trauma that a little interruption to my sleep is a mere bagatelle."
Malinov stood, bowed elaborately, and left the car.
"Interesting. What, Monsieur le directeur , do you think he has to hide?"
"It must be obvious to one of your great experience, M. See-El. A woman! Cherchez la femme !"
Typical, thought See-El. Sex on the brain. Probably not much where it ought to be. See-El distrusted cliches. Latin lovers. Nothing but blowhards and pantywaists, these Frenchmen.
"Arguably," said See-El, massaging his moustache. "But we shall see."
* * *
Dubois, the conductor, bade seek out and bring to the dining car the other nobleman, Lord Shon, found the passengers gathered around his station at the end of the car. Somehow the shocking news had leaked out, and the travellers, all now awake, clamored for further information.
Dubois, refusing to talk, singled out Lord Shon and led him toward the dining car. The others gazed at the two as they left, then broke into a babble of voices.
"It's been a really bad day," said Madame Virago Blue. "I think it just got worse."
"Now, now, Madam, I'm sure things will be better soon! Let's sit down, have some water, and relax for part two of the program." Jimmy Hat, so obviously a salesman that everybody tended to avoid him, believed in keeping his pecker up.
"I'm sorry you can't understand me." Miss Vickie Morgan once more apologized. "It's just that I'm English, and we speak differently."
"You think you have trouble!" The Mexican woman, clutching her serape, spoke with an almost impenetrable accent, but, in truth, she was easier to understand than Miss Morgan, who had learned the language in the satanic mills of Yorkshire.
In fact, no one had the slightest idea what was going on in the coach ahead, but that didn't keep them from speculating. The conversation was still going strong when Dubois shut the door of the dining car and indicated that Lord Shon should take a seat.
* * *
Lord Shon, having awakened when Malinov was called, had had time to don his usual garb--a black leather tunic with a high collar, a scarlet foulard, black leather trousers and high jackboots. His hair slicked back with Wildroot Cream Oil, he looked the picture of the con man he was. See-El had seen his ilk before. Noble, certainly--but a younger son, a remittance man. Trouble on the hoof.
"My lord, if you would be so kind as to tell us your movements since the train left Vincovci at 11 p.m. we should be pleasantly obliged."
"I got aboard and went to bed. Then your goon woke me up. Deal with it."
"Alone, my lord?"
"Nah. There was this twist."
"Perhaps you could tell us her name?"
"Her name?" Shon screwed up his face, obviously thinking hard. "Nope. Can't remember. First rate bags, though. Thirty-six-double-D at the very least." He leaned forward to speak confidentially. "You know how it is, Inspector--find 'em, fool 'em, fuck 'em and forget 'em. It works for me."
"I think that eliminates a number of the passengers, don't you, Boucher?" See-El, master of interrogation, spoke to Boucher, then returned Shon's evil smile. "Large or small?"
"Yeah."
See-El was fascinated.
"Could you elucidate on that just a bit?"
Shon concentrated once more; obviously he was not practiced at this sort of
thinking. "Elucidate? Yeah. Large tits, small snatch. Good combination."
"Thank you." See-El knew when to stop pressing. "Neither you nor she left
your compartment until the conductor woke you?""Nah, she had to take a piss or something one time."
"But you remained in the room?"
"Yeah. I had to take a leak later, but you know where it says " Nicht Hinauslehen " by the window? I figured that meant, "Piss here," so I just opened the window and stuck it out. Damn cold, though. Could've froze my balls off."
"Ah, yes. A dangerous procedure. But legal, as long as you didn't lean outside." See-El turned to Boucher. "I think we might postpone further questioning of Lord Shon, don't you, Monsieur?"
"By all means." Boucher said. "Dubois! Please escort Lord Shon back to his compartment!"
As the door closed, Boucher turned to See-El.
"Such depravity! I find it shocking. Difficult to believe. He is a *nobleman!* One does not expect . . . . Well, he's not our man--too involved in himself to bother, I should say."
See-El cut in. "Oh, yes, my dear directeur , one does indeed expect. A spoiled young man, much brighter than he seems. Insecure. Abandoned by the mother he loves, the father he cannot hope to emulate. Have you not read the writings of that great Austrian, Dr. Freud? Lord Shon is a naked Id, his Ego hiding behind a facade of irresponsibility, his Superego gnawing at his innards; he is suffering the tortures of Prometheus. But he is capable of much more than it would seem. He is still on our list of suspects."
"Id, Superego? You talk in riddles, sir. Surely you do not accept the rantings of that charlatan in Vienna!"
"Time marches on, my dear Boucher, and science is changing the world. Freud is merely another of the geniuses who are propelling us to new heights of progress. But let us have something in a lighter vein--perhaps we should talk to one of the ladies. Certainly none of them will give us cause to muse on such sordid matters."
"An excellent idea, my dear Inspector. And perhaps we should fortify ourselves with a glass of sherry, ne c'est pas ?"
"Yes, Monsieur, sherry would be welcome."
As they waited silently for their drinks, See-El thought of another genius he had known, now lamentably lost, his friend Eli, a connoisseur of liqueur without parallel. One must carry on, however, so he was ready when Dubois introduced Madame Virago Blue.
* * *
As soon as she was seated she wasted no words.
"You, there, the handsome one! I suppose you're that famous detective they're talking about. Well, I don't care who you are, I say this whole thing is a disgrace, and I'll have my lawyer on you as soon as I can get to a telegraph office. You have no jurisdiction here, and I won't answer any of your questions at all. And I'm suing the railroad, too, and Wagons-Lits, and anybody else I can think of! Have I forgotten anybody? Besides, I saw that big drunk come out of here, and I don't care what he told you, not a bit of it is true, he was so drunk I had to pour him into his compartment last night, and taking off those boots was difficult in the extreme, decent people don't wear such things, and I'll tell my husband the consul about this and we'll just see what happens."
See-El smiled. "But he was very complimentary, Madame."
"He was?"
"Thirty-six double-D at the very least, he said, and I'm sure that he is an expert."
"He is?"
"He is well-known in Europe, Madame. You should be proud that he chose you to perform those little services for him."
"Nobody serviced anybody, I'll have you know! I am a decent woman. I merely helped a gentleman in distress! If my husband hears about this he'll be appalled, and I can't answer for his actions!"
"I'm sure there will be no need for your husband to hear of any of these matters, Madame." See-El, speaking in his most soothing manner, watched calm return to those undeniably grand breasts. "All we ask of you, Madame, is this: When you repaired to the ladies' room last night, did you see anyone in the aisle?"
"Ladies do not see people in aisles, Inspector. We are taught from an early age to guard our gaze to avoid seeing anything that might be disturbing."
"Thank you, Madame. We deeply appreciate your good humor in enlightening us so fully."
Madame Blue smiled coquettishly. "Complimented me, did he? Well, I don't get nearly enough compliments, so I shall be pleased to accept that one!"
One more witness followed Dubois back to the sleeping car.
"She's the one, See-El. What a temper! How volatile! We need look no further for our woman accomplice. Which, of course, tends to incriminate the estimable Lord Shon."
"Not so fast, my good man. Haste makes waste." See-El paused for reflection. "One must consider--could it be that her bark is worse than her bite? Perhaps she tries to live up to her name? I think that we should keep our minds open to other possibilities. By the way, who is that abnormally tall woman in Compartment 6?"
"Her name is Urquhart, Monsieur. All I know of her is that she left a large tip for the dining car waiter yesterday, but offended him by calling him "Buster," an appellation with which I am not familiar."
See-El smiled. "I've heard it used. Let's have her in. I think she may have something of interest to tell us."
* * *
Jane Urquhart took her seat quietly and smiled demurely at the two interrogators. She wore a slightly ragged grey wool bathrobe that said "Army" on the back.
"Mrs. Urquhart, I am Inspector See-El, and I am helping M. Boucher in his attempt to solve this heinous crime with which we are faced."
"Heinous? Wha'd they do, draw and quarter the creep?"
"I'm sure you're cognizant of all the details by now. The passengers must be fully informed, wouldn't you say?"
"Me? I hardly ever know what's going on. I was just asleep in my bed, minding my own business."
"But your business put you in touch with Mr A. T. Roll, did it not?"
Ms. Urquhart favored him with a puzzled expression. She did puzzled very well.
"My business? I'm a mere housewife, Monsieur. My business puts me in touch with the milkman, the mailman, the laundry man--"
"But Mrs. Urquhart, you must realize that Interpol is aware of all your activities, and is it not true that Mr. Roll annoyed you several times?"
"Listen, if I knocked off everybody that annoyed me I'd leave carloads of corpses strewn about the streets. I just go with the flow. OK, you know about my little stories, but they have nothing to do with this whole thing."
"Perhaps, then, you could tell us what you carry in the violin case you brought with you to your compartment."
"I expect one of your minions has already checked, right? Nothing but my little two-by-four, which is good for all sorts of things. It's as useful as a Swiss Army knife."
"One final question. You retired after dinner. M. Dubois tells me he made up your bed at 10:30 p.m. Did you leave the compartment after that hour?"
"Of course. I went to the john sometime around 1 a.m." She looked at Boucher. "You do have good red wine on this train." Then, to See-El: "I saw the conductor coming out of the compartment next door. He looked a little upset. Otherwise, all was quiet."
"Thank you, Mrs. Urquhart," said See-El. "Dubois will escort you back to your compartment."
"Look, Your Honor, I think I can make it down the hall by myself, OK?"
Dubois insisted on following. She turned and spoke to him.
"You told me you had a big one, right? How big?"
"Oh, it must be at least five kilograms, Madame."
"Not the dictionary, you idiot!"
Then they crossed into the next car and their words were lost to the two inquisitors.
Boucher turned to See-El. "An enigma. Somehow she managed to irritate me, but I can't quite put my finger on the thing that bothered me. And what are the 'other activities' of which you spoke?"
"Ah, yes, Boucher, she does that." See-El smiled. "We have a full dossier on her. She is a writer, and one of our informers, a man named Naismith, stays close to her by reading her proofs and suggesting that she make her stories more risqué."
"A writer!" Boucher looked astonished. "How can a writer afford this train? Besides, she speaks with a terrible accent--I could barely understand her."
"Understanding Texans requires patience, my friend. They tend to be even more uncouth than most of my countrymen. Do not underrate them, however. Mrs. U. is only one of several reasonably literate Texans. But it is time for us to consider what we have learned. Only then will we be prepared to follow the trail to its end."
"What we have learned? I haven't learned anything! Have you? It's as if an occult hand had perpetrated this murder most foul!"
"Let us consider. I'm certain a search of the car will turn up the murder weapon, but it will surely be in some innocent's compartment--these things always work that way. We know the murder took place shortly before one a.m. We questioned two men, and each of them obviously was involved with one of the female passengers. Both refused to disgorge the name of the paramour. Mme. Blue virtually admitted being Shon's companion. Mrs. Urquhart, who obviously is one of the guilty parties, claims to have slept through the whole affair. And they all are writers!"
"What on earth makes you say that? And how do you know that one is guilty?"
"Unless someone borrowed her two-by-four, she used it on the obnoxious Mr. Roll. You didn't forget the parallel marks on the body?"
"Oh, yes, of course! But writers? What makes you think they are all writers? The despicable Lord Shon hardly seemed literate."
"He is well versed in subterfuge, and becoming a 'character' is second nature to him. And Malinov--those flowery phrases, that sensitive nature? He had no sketchbook, so what is left? Mme. Blue? Did you not see the corner of her leather notebook obtruding from her purse? Most important of all, it is a dark and stormy night--who but writers could they be?"
"Marvellous!" Boucher bowed. "I bow to your expertise. Your powers of observation are unbelievably acute!"
"You can observe a lot just by watching, M. Boucher." He turned to Dubois. "Another sherry, please, Dubois. And then please be so kind as to fetch Mr. Jimmy Hat."
"Bah! We'll get nothing from him but jokes! A salesman of shady novelties!"
"M. Boucher, once more I fear you may be jumping to conclusions."
* * *
Dubois brought Jimmy Hat in as he had the others.
"Hello, Jimmy," said See-El. "Long time no see."
Jimmy Hat wiped the jolly salesman's look off his face.
"OK, See-El, the jig's up. I didn't think you'd see through my disguise. Or did you remember me from somewhere?"
"It was the Chicago affair, of course." See-El smiled a wintry smile. "I was only in the background, but I watched you in action. Using the same disguise twice can get you in trouble. It worked on Navy Pier, but I pay attention. Jimmy the Knife. How could I forget you? What are you doing here? Not on your regular beat, I should think."
"Nah. J. Eddie said there had to be a G-man on the train to keep track of Roll, and I drew the short straw."
"Your agency was following him?"
"We were pretty sure we knew who he was, but nobody had caught him in the act, so we've been shadowing him everywhere for months."
"And what was his supposed crime?"
"Interfering in the affairs of a registered charity."
"Filthy. And Bronwen is your colleague, I suppose."
"Nah, she's just a piece of fluff I picked up in London. They wouldn't let Allison bring her opera records so she threw a fit in C sharp and resigned. I was lonely, and I met Bronwen through the charity--she's on the board."
"I shouldn't have thought she was your type, Jimmy. A bit long in the tooth for the likes of you, isn't she? And a shade too respectable?"
Jimmy guffawed.
"Oh, man, if you only knew! Fucks like a mink, she does. Plays me like a Strad. She's told me about her straight twin--that must be the one you're calling respectable. This one, who-ee! As long as I go around picking up after her, she eats out of my hand. I'm neat, and she's a mess. Perfect match. And I love her stories!"
"Another writer." See-El looked meaningfully at Boucher, who registered amazement at this new development. "You might as well come clean, Jimmy--did you decide to do the world a favor and dispose of Mr. Roll?"
"Come on, See-El, you know we don't operate that way. Mr. Hoover would climb out of his dress if he caught any of us pulling anything like that. Oh, well, there was the Dillinger thing, but some guys always get a little eager. Want their faces in the funny paper. Not me, though--I play it by the book."
"All right, Jimmy, just tell us what you were doing after the train left Vincovci and we'll let you alone."
"Well, after supper I went and cleaned up Bronwen's compartment. I don't know how one woman can make such a mess so fast, but she manages. Anyhow, we got to fooling around and she was asking about the big gal and that Yorkshire woman and next thing you know we were both asleep in her bed. I woke up when the train stopped, but I saw from the window that nobody was going to go anywhere, so I went back to sleep. Pretty fagged out, I was."
"Neither of you left the compartment?"
"No, we didn't. Some things make you sleep really good."
"OK. Jimmy, we'll let you go. By the way, how's the novel coming?"
"Oh, shit, I never get any time--" Jimmy grinned sheepishly at See-El. "Clever bastard, aren't you? Nailed again. It's not against the law, OK? Just my memoirs, like."
Dubois accompanied Jimmy back to the sleeper and looked around for Bronwen. Unable to locate her, he knocked on the door of the toilet. No answer. Then he noticed Vickie Morgan, who was chatting with Malinov, and beckoned her toward the dining car.
* * *
"Couldn't locate Mme. Bronwen, Monsieur, so I brought Miss Morgan along. Is that all right, sir?"
"Certainly, Dubois," said See-El. "I've been looking forward to meeting her." As he watched her approach, a vision of a milk white thigh flitted across his mind.
"I can't think what you wanted with me, Mr. See-El. Nobody in the whole world is more innocent than I am. Why, where I live everybody is just nice, all the time. I couldn't even write stories about bad things happening until just recently."
"Well, my dear." See-El put on his most avuncular air. "Perish the thought that anyone should think ill of you. We merely want to ask if you saw anything untoward during the night."
"Oh, no, I was asleep the whole time!"
"And what brought you to Stamboul, Miss Morgan?"
"I'll go anywhere, Mr. See-El. I have a terrible itchy foot. Just can't stay in one place. Of course nobody understands me outside of England--I put all those Us in everything--but I don't care, I just love to travel. So when I heard about the charity tour I just couldn't say no. It upset my partner no end, but he really understands, he doesn't mind. I just can't stay put."
"The charity tour?"
"Didn't you know, Mr. See-El? We all got a half-price fare. It's wonderful! I never thought I'd get to Stamboul--I just yearned to catch the bus and go to the Lake Country or someplace like that."
"Just what is this charity, Miss Morgan?"
"Oh, you must have heard of us--the Association for the Spread of Seminal Discourse? We all write educational things and see that they get distributed to deserving people. There's a terrible shortage of real literature out there, and we help, we really do!"
"A truly noble organization, my dear," said See-El. "I have been aware of it for some time now."
"Oh, there's one other thing, Mr. See-El. I picked up my bag this morning and found this funny-looking knife under it." She pawed through her voluminous bag and pulled out a beautifully ornamented kris. "See? I wondered where it came from. If you find out who it belongs to, would you please let me know? I'd like to make sure it gets back to its rightful owner."
See-El whipped a sparkling white handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his robe and used it to take the dagger from Miss Morgan. He examined it carefully. The blade was clean, still highly polished.
"I believe, Miss Morgan, that you have found the murder weapon."
The young woman stared at the knife and put a hand to her breast. Then her eyes rolled up into her head and she fainted.
"Dubois! The smelling salts!" M. Boucher was cradling her head in his arms.
Meanwhile, See-El, who was an expert on women's wiles as well as most other things, had some difficulty keeping a straight face. He couldn't be fooled: Miss Vickie's faint was clearly a fake. Still, he suspected it was meant for something a little more ambitious than merely putting on a good act for her questioners; he was quite sure that it was, in fact, meant to snare him in what appeared to be a quite attractive web.
The conductor appeared instantly, a small bottle in his hand. He unscrewed the top and waved it under a delightfully shaped little nose. Miss Morgan stirred, then opened her eyes.
"Oh, please, Mr. See-El! I found it in my compartment! I am innocent!"
"Of course you are, my dear," said See-El, taking her hand and gently rubbing it with his thumb. "It goes without saying--the murder weapon is always found in the rooms of an innocent person. Its appearance in your compartment is a virtual guarantee of your harmlessness."
"Oh, thank you, sir! I was so frightened! I believe you understand me, even though I'm English!" She appeared reluctant to let go of his hand. "It's so wonderful to find a man who understands me!" She smiled a tremulous smile. "But I think I'd better go back to my compartment--I feel another fit of the vapours coming on!"
"Thank you so much, Miss Morgan," See-El said, smiling, still holding her hand. "You have helped us a great deal. Perhaps I shall drop in on you a little later to check on your condition. I am a doctor, you know, despite my involvement in more mundane affairs."
"Oh, I'm so glad, Mr. See-El! If there's anything I can do--"
"No, no, Miss Morgan. Dubois will escort you to your compartment. And I will surely see you later."
Looking back at See-El, fluttering her eyelids as she went, smiling even more tremulously, Miss Morgan shakily followed Dubois out of the dining car.
" Sacre bleu !" M. Boucher raised his eyebrows. "Such a charming young woman! So sensitive! And English, at that! Perhaps her parents are from sunnier climes. English women, as everyone knows, are boorish and uncouth, always wearing--I believe they call them gumboots. And carrying umbrellas. And, of course, they wear the pants--that explains why Englishmen are so effeminate."
"I believe she is from Yorkshire, Monsieur, and I assure you that few places produce more delectable morsels. She is not one of those hard-bitten Londoners. I must admit I found her attractive myself."
Boucher leered.
"I am certain that she will need your medical attention very soon, Monsieur l'Inspecteur . She clearly is very delicate."
"I shall certainly take care to see that all her needs are met, I assure you. Meanwhile, we have two more witnesses to see, two more members of this estimable eleemosynary group, I suspect."
"Ah, yes! Birds of a feather flock together."
"The plot thickens, M. Boucher. A remarkable coincidence that they were all here when Mr. Roll met his demise."
"How so?"
"You'll recall the testimony of Mr. Hat. Roll was alleged to have committed misfeasance in connection with a charity, and here we have--a charity! Or at least several members of the organization."
M. Boucher slapped his cheek.
"Of course--how could I have forgotten! Still, they cannot all be guilty. The mills of the gods must grind exceeding fine if we are to sieve out the true malefactors."
"I take your point, Monsieur. Let us see, then, what happens when we gather them all together. But first we must have a little chat with that Mexican spitfire."
"Understanding her is going to be difficult," M. Boucher said doubtfully.
"Certainly not. Should we encounter a problem, we shall conduct the interview in Spanish."
"Ah . . . yes, of course. But I am not fluent--"
"Fear not! Dubois, bring her in."
* * *
Señora Maria Gonzales flounced into the car ahead of Dubois, carrying a very large round hat and her guitar in one hand, her valise in the other. Her mantilla had slipped slightly to one side.
"Please make yourself comfortable, Señora. If you should prefer, we may speak in Spanish."
"No! We speak in English. You will understand me, no?"
"Certainly, Señora. You do have a charming accent, but we are well-versed in deciphering the utterances of any witnesses we may find. If you would feel more comfortable, you might place your belongings on another chair."
"Bueno." Señora Gonzales carefully set down her valise and hung her guitar by its strap around the back of the chair. Her hat she hung on yet another chair.
"If I may inquire, Señora, why did you bring all your luggage with you?"
"I do not trust these gringos, Senor."
"You are wise, Señora. Nothing is as it seems on this train. Now, perhaps you could tell us why you are travelling from Stamboul to Paris."
"Because I am on my way to California, Señor. My husband has gone ahead in an aeroplane--he is to proceed on what they call a flying boat. Me, I travel on the ground. I do not trust those gringo pilots."
"But your husband is an American, isn't he?"
"He is my husband. Some gringos I trust a little."
"I take it that you, too, are a member of the charity group?"
"I must work hard to learn English, Señor, and I have already begun to write so that I may learn faster. I love to help people, so I write for the charity. And the members of the charity help me--I ask them how to write things, and they tell me. Of course most of them are gringos, but I am careful. And there is lagniappe--that is a word I learned just recently. I have made friends."
"Would you kindly tell us, Senora, what you did after we left Vincovci this evening?"
"Si. I went to bed. I slept."
"Alone?"
Señora Gonzales appeared to swell until she was twice her original size.
"You ask me, a Mexican woman, a question like that? You are as bad as the rest of the gringos. I will tell you mañana ."
"Oh, please, Señora, forgive me! It is just that we must account for everyone, and some of the passengers have not been entirely forthcoming."
Señora Gonzales deflated to her original size.
"I will tell you mañana . But first, I need to ask you something. What is the meaning of ' zdravo, drugaritsa '?"
"Ah! You are learning Croatian as well as English?"
"Croatian? I thought that it was some English thing I had not heard before."
"Well, Señora, it means something like 'C iao, bella .' Or, perhaps, 'Hi, beautiful!'"
The señora smiled. "I thought perhaps it was something like that. He seemed to be a very nice man."
"And which man was that, Señora?"
"The one who said that to me as we boarded the train in Stamboul."
"And he was . . . ?"
" Mañana . Maybe."
"You are not entirely forthcoming, either, Señora. I know the meaning of ' mañana .'"
"I will tell you tomorrow, maybe!" The señora began once again to swell, but See-El quickly raised his hand.
"I think we can do without your further testimony, Señora. We do appreciate your generosity in seeing us."
"Then I may go?"
"Yes, Señora. M. Dubois will escort you back to your compartment."
The señora arose and gathered her belongings. She spoke once more.
" Arrivederci , señores. No, that is wrong. Au revoir ?"
" Buenas noches , Señora." Boucher chimed in. " Au 'voir , Señora."
Dubois led her toward the door and they left the dining car.
"Puzzling," said Boucher. "Who could have spoken to her in Croatian--we aren't even in Croatia yet."
"You have hit the bullseye, M. le directeur . But it is obvious, is it not? She is as silent as Lord Malinov."
"Ah," said Boucher. "The Slav nobleman."
"Correct. I think we may dispense with the testimony of Madame Bronwen. Let us see what happens when we call all the passengers together."
* * *
Dubois had no difficulty collecting the passengers, all of whom were standing near the conductor's station once more, still discussing the case. They filed into the dining car and took seats at adjoining tables. The conductor seemed particularly solicitous of Mrs. Urquhart, hovering near her as if to protect her from the despicable Lord Shon, the handsome Lord Malinov, smiling salesman Jimmy Hat, even the redoubtable See-El. And Boucher--a Frenchman! Everybody knows about Frenchmen!
"You are probably wondering why I have gathered you all together," See-El began.
"Not bloody likely," said Bronwen, who had mysteriously reappeared. "It's always that way--the detective gets us together and we find out who the murderer is. But he didn't talk to me yet."
"Madame, you are quite mistaken. I merely want to conjecture a little, and to have your help."
"Smarmy little creep," Bronwen muttered to Jimmy Hat, who sat beside her.
"He's a big creep," Jimmy whispered back. "Don't cross him." Bronwen merely narrowed her eyes and glared at See-El. The other passengers were restive. Señora Gonzales moved close to Lord Malinov. The conductor inched nearer to Mrs. Urquhart.
" I have two theories concerning this unfortunate incident," See-El began. "First, we must understand that it is entirely possible that Mr. A. T. Roll was murdered while the train was still in the station at Vincovci. The murderer could easily have entered the train stealthily, done his foul deed, and then hastened away as he had come."
"But I heard there was a woman involved," Bronwen said. "Besides, what about the broken watch?"
"You are remarkably well informed, Madame, and there is no doubt that your comments are cogent. Nonetheless, I ask you to keep that solution in mind. We may need it."
Boucher pursed his lips, waiting for some further explanation--the theory clearly was fallacious.
"Then there is the other possibility."
The passengers collectively held their breath.
"All of you had the opportunity to kill Mr. Roll, and every one of you had a motive. Is that not true, Monsieur Dubois?"
"Oh, sir, I can't imagine why you should ask me. I am merely an humble employee of the railroad."
"Perhaps if you removed that moustache we might judge your statement more fairly," See-El said. "And please take off your hat and remove that high collar."
Dubois blanched, but did as he was bade. There stood before them not a middle-aged conductor, but a young, handsome man with a shock of blond hair. He handed the moustache, cap, and collar to Mrs. Urquhart.
"Perhaps you might tell us your real name."
"Denny Wheeler," the erstwhile conductor said. "But I didn't do anything!"
"Your key would be useful for entering a locked compartment, would it not?"
"All right, all right! Please note how that's spelled. Two Ls and a space. I had to knock out old Dubois in Stamboul to take over his job, but he's fine--just a little short on clothes. I'd heard there was to be a serious attack on the English language on this train, and I had to be here. I am a fanatic, and fanatics don't allow such things!"
"But you unlocked Roll's door, did you not?"
"Oh, sure. I had to remind him to take his sleeping pills--he asked me to."
"And then you failed to lock that door, correct?" See-El bore in on the nervous young man.
"I might have. Everybody makes mistakes."
"And some people make mistakes on purpose. Meanwhile, each of you had the motive--Roll was a menace to the charity that is so dear to your hearts, correct?"
The passengers glanced at each other.
"Nah, he was just a mosquito. Not a serious matter." Mrs. Urquhart peered at the moustache in her hand, then stuck it on her upper lip, donned the conductor's cap and smiled at Wheeler. She had changed clothes, and was wearing a sweatshirt marked Property of the Boston College Athletic Department .
"But I think you swatted him with a two-by-four, nonetheless."
"Me? I was just minding my own business. Besides, there's no blood on my board."
"And none on the knife, either, but it's clear that you all passed it around so that each could get in a stroke. The lack of blood is of no consequence, since Mr. Roll had no blood. I noticed as soon as I entered the dead man's compartment that the body was clean, and the room was full of hot air. All you did was let out the hot air that had filled his veins."
Vickie Morgan promptly fainted. See-El held out his hand to Wheeler, who slapped into it the smelling salts, and See-El soon brought her around. She fluttered her eyelids and clutched his hand, but, smiling at her, he gently escaped her grasp and returned to his post in front of the group.
"Clearly," said Lord Malinov, "your first theory was correct. The murder took place at Vincovci. Our merry band is incapable of such an exploit--it would require agreement among us all." The señora gave him a sultry glance and nodded her head vigorously.
Boucher coughed.
"Inspector, I believe that milord Malinov must be correct. After all, the door was always open while we were in the Vincovci station, and to charge all these people with conspiracy to murder would produce a public relations catastrophe for Wagons-Lits. I am certain no one would want that. If you explained what actually happened to the Jugo-Slav police when they arrive I am confident that they would be mightily relieved not to have to take so many prisoners. In fact, I think they have hired a new consultant, an Admiral Cartwright, who surely will listen to reason. He has just recently, I hear, learned about the efficacy of small gifts. But I do still worry about the watch."
"Elementary, my dear Boucher. The murderer cleverly set the watch ahead before he smashed it, hoping to implicate others in his work."
"How nice!" said Mme. Blue. "I won't have to sue anybody at all." She turned to Shon and smiled.
"I believe this meeting is finished," See-El said. "Justice will be served." Then, holding out his hand, he said, "I must return Miss Morgan to her chamber and give her a thorough physical examination. One must never neglect such serious matters."
---The End--
Note : I do apologize to the estimable members of the Association for the Spread of Seminal Discourse for my failure to include them all in this dramatic story. Ars longa, vita brevis . This ars was getting too damn longa .--J.U.
Copyright 1999 by Jane Urquhart
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