ACROSS THE AISLE
No solution offering itself, I went back to my berth. The snorer across
had apparently strangled, or turned over, and so after a time I dropped
asleep, to be awakened by the morning sunlight across my face.
I felt for my watch, yawning prodigiously. I reached under the pillow
and failed to find it, but something scratched the back of my hand. I
sat up irritably and nursed the wound, which was bleeding a little.
Still drowsy, I felt more cautiously for what I supposed had been my
scarf pin, but there was nothing there. Wide awake now, I reached for
my traveling-bag, on the chance that I had put my watch in there. I had
drawn the satchel to me and had my hand on the lock before I realized
that it was not my own!
Mine was of alligator hide. I had killed the beast in Florida, after
the expenditure of enough money to have bought a house and enough
energy to have built one. The bag I held in my hand was a black one,
sealskin, I think. The staggering thought of what the loss of my bag
meant to me put my finger on the bell and kept it there until the
porter came.
“Did you ring, sir?” he asked, poking his head through the curtains
obsequiously. McKnight objects that nobody can poke his head through a
curtain and be obsequious. But Pullman porters can and do.
“No,” I snapped. “It rang itself. What in thunder do you mean by
exchanging my valise for this one? You’ll have to find it if you waken
the entire car to do it. There are important papers in that grip.”
“Porter,” called a feminine voice from an upper berth near-by. “Porter,
am I to dangle here all day?”
“Let her dangle,” I said savagely. “You find that bag of mine.”
The porter frowned. Then he looked at me with injured dignity. “I
brought in your overcoat, sir. You carried your own valise.”
The fellow was right! In an excess of caution I had refused to
relinquish my alligator bag, and had turned over my other traps to the
porter. It was clear enough then. I was simply a victim of the usual
sleeping-car robbery. I was in a lather of perspiration by that time:
the lady down the car was still dangling and talking about it: still
nearer a feminine voice was giving quick orders in French, presumably
to a maid. The porter was on his knees, looking under the berth.
“Not there, sir,” he said, dusting his knees. He was visibly more
cheerful, having been absolved of responsibility. “Reckon it was taken
while you was wanderin’ around the car last night.”
“I’ll give you fifty dollars if you find it,” I said. “A hundred. Reach
up my shoes and I’ll—”
I stopped abruptly. My eyes were fixed in stupefied amazement on a coat
that hung from a hook at the foot of my berth. From the coat they
traveled, dazed, to the soft-bosomed shirt beside it, and from there to
the collar and cravat in the net hammock across the windows.
“A hundred!” the porter repeated, showing his teeth. But I caught him
by the arm and pointed to the foot of the berth.
“What—what color’s that coat?” I asked unsteadily.
“Gray, sir.” His tone was one of gentle reproof.
“And—the trousers?”
He reached over and held up one creased leg. “Gray, too,” he grinned.
“Gray!” I could not believe even his corroboration of my own eyes. “But
my clothes were blue!” The porter was amused: he dived under the
curtains and brought up a pair of shoes. “Your shoes, sir,” he said
with a flourish. “Reckon you’ve been dreaming, sir.”
Now, there are two things I always avoid in my dress—possibly an
idiosyncrasy of my bachelor existence. These tabooed articles are red
neckties and tan shoes. And not only were the shoes the porter lifted
from the floor of a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf which was
run through the turned over collar was a gaudy red. It took a full
minute for the real import of things to penetrate my dazed
intelligence. Then I gave a vindictive kick at the offending ensemble.
“They’re not mine, any of them,” I snarled. “They are some other
fellow’s. I’ll sit here until I take root before I put them on.”
“They’re nice lookin’ clothes,” the porter put in, eying the red tie
with appreciation. “Ain’t everybody would have left you anything.”
“Call the conductor,” I said shortly. Then a possible explanation
occurred to me. “Oh, porter—what’s the number of this berth?”
“Seven, sir. If you cain’t wear those shoes—”
“Seven!” In my relief I almost shouted it. “Why, then, it’s simple
enough. I’m in the wrong berth, that’s all. My berth is nine.
Only—where the deuce is the man who belongs here?”
“Likely in nine, sir.” The darky was enjoying himself. “You and the
other gentleman just got mixed in the night. That’s all, sir.” It was
clear that he thought I had been drinking.
I drew a long breath. Of course, that was the explanation. This was
number seven’s berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella, his
coat, his bag. My rage turned to irritation at myself.
The porter went to the next berth and I could hear his softly
insinuating voice. “Time to get up, sir. Are you awake? Time to get
up.”
There was no response from number nine. I guessed that he had opened
the curtains and was looking in. Then he came back.
“Number nine’s empty,” he said.
“Empty! Do you mean my clothes aren’t there?” I demanded. “My valise?
Why don’t you answer me?”
“You doan’ give me time,” he retorted. “There ain’t nothin’ there. But
it’s been slept in.”
The disappointment was the greater for my few moments of hope. I sat up
in a white fury and put on the clothes that had been left me. Then,
still raging, I sat on the edge of the berth and put on the obnoxious
tan shoes. The porter, called to his duties, made little excursions
back to me, to offer assistance and to chuckle at my discomfiture. He
stood by, outwardly decorous, but with little irritating grins of
amusement around his mouth, when I finally emerged with the red tie in
my hand.
“Bet the owner of those clothes didn’t become them any more than you
do,” he said, as he plied the ubiquitous whisk broom.
“When I get the owner of these clothes,” I retorted grimly, “he will
need a shroud. Where’s the conductor?”
The conductor was coming, he assured me; also that there was no bag
answering the description of mine on the car. I slammed my way to the
dressing-room, washed, choked my fifteen and a half neck into a fifteen
collar, and was back again in less than five minutes. The car, as well
as its occupants, was gradually taking on a daylight appearance. I
hobbled in, for one of the shoes was abominably tight, and found myself
facing a young woman in blue with an unforgettable face. (“Three women
already.” McKnight says: “That’s going some, even if you don’t count
the Gilmore nurse.”) She stood, half-turned toward me, one hand idly
drooping, the other steadying her as she gazed out at the flying
landscape. I had an instant impression that I had met her somewhere,
under different circumstances, more cheerful ones, I thought, for the
girl’s dejection now was evident. Beside her, sitting down, a small
dark woman, considerably older, was talking in a rapid undertone. The
girl nodded indifferently now and then. I fancied, although I was not
sure, that my appearance brought a startled look into the young woman’s
face. I sat down and, hands thrust deep into the other man’s pockets,
stared ruefully at the other man’s shoes.
The stage was set. In a moment the curtain was going up on the first
act of the play. And for a while we would all say our little speeches
and sing our little songs, and I, the villain, would hold center stage
while the gallery hissed.
The porter was standing beside lower ten. He had reached in and was
knocking valiantly. But his efforts met with no response. He winked at
me over his shoulder; then he unfastened the curtains and bent forward.
Behind him, I saw him stiffen, heard his muttered exclamation, saw the
bluish pallor that spread over his face and neck. As he retreated a
step the interior of lower ten lay open to the day.
The man in it was on his back, the early morning sun striking full on
his upturned face. But the light did not disturb him. A small stain of
red dyed the front of his night clothes and trailed across the sheet;
his half-open eyes were fixed, without seeing, on the shining wood
above.
I grasped the porter’s shaking shoulders and stared down to where the
train imparted to the body a grisly suggestion of motion. “Good Lord,”
I gasped. “The man’s been murdered!”