THE WOMAN IN THE NEXT CAR
With the departure of the conductor and the doctor, the group around
lower ten broke up, to re-form in smaller knots through the car. The
porter remained on guard. With something of relief I sank into a seat.
I wanted to think, to try to remember the details of the previous
night. But my inquisitive acquaintance had other intentions. He came up
and sat down beside me. Like the conductor, he had taken notes of the
dead man’s belongings, his name, address, clothing and the general
circumstances of the crime. Now with his little note-book open before
him, he prepared to enjoy the minor sensation of the robbery.
“And now for the second victim,” he began cheerfully. “What is your
name and address, please?” I eyed him with suspicion.
“I have lost everything but my name and address,” I parried. “What do
you want them for? Publication?”
“Oh, no; dear, no!” he said, shocked at my misapprehension. “Merely for
my own enlightenment. I like to gather data of this kind and draw my
own conclusions. Most interesting and engrossing. Once or twice I have
forestalled the results of police investigation—but entirely for my own
amusement.”
I nodded tolerantly. Most of us have hobbies; I knew a man once who
carried his handkerchief up his sleeve and had a mania for old colored
prints cut out of Godey’s _Lady’s Book_.
“I use that inductive method originated by Poe and followed since with
such success by Conan Doyle. Have you ever read _Gaboriau?_ Ah, you
have missed a treat, indeed. And now, to get down to business, what is
the name of our escaped thief and probable murderer?”
“How on earth do I know?” I demanded impatiently. “He didn’t write it
in blood anywhere, did he?”
The little man looked hurt and disappointed.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that the pockets of those clothes are
entirely empty?” The pockets! In the excitement I had forgotten
entirely the sealskin grip which the porter now sat at my feet, and I
had not investigated the pockets at all. With the inquisitive man’s
pencil taking note of everything that I found, I emptied them on the
opposite seat.
Upper left-hand waist-coat, two lead pencils and a fountain pen; lower
right waist-coat, match-box and a small stamp book; right-hand pocket
coat, pair of gray suede gloves, new, size seven and a half; left-hand
pocket, gun-metal cigarette case studded with pearls, half-full of
Egyptian cigarettes. The trousers pockets contained a gold penknife, a
small amount of money in bills and change, and a handkerchief with the
initial “S” on it.
Further search through the coat discovered a card-case with cards
bearing the name Henry Pinckney Sullivan, and a leather flask with gold
mountings, filled with what seemed to be very fair whisky, and
monogrammed H. P. S.
“His name evidently is Henry Pinckney Sullivan,” said the cheerful
follower of Poe, as he wrote it down. “Address as yet unknown. Blond,
probably. Have you noticed that it is almost always the blond men who
affect a very light gray, with a touch of red in the scarf? Fact, I
assure you. I kept a record once of the summer attire of men, and
ninety per cent, followed my rule. Dark men like you affect navy blue,
or brown.”
In spite of myself I was amused at the man’s shrewdness.
“Yes; the suit he took was dark—a blue,” I said. He rubbed his hands
and smiled at me delightedly. “Then you wore black shoes, not tan,” he
said, with a glance at the aggressive yellow ones I wore.
“Right again,” I acknowledged. “Black low shoes and black embroidered
hose. If you keep on you’ll have a motive for the crime, and the
murderer’s present place of hiding. And if you come back to the smoker
with me, I’ll give you an opportunity to judge if he knew good whisky
from bad.”
I put the articles from the pockets back again and got up. “I wonder if
there is a diner on?” I said. “I need something sustaining after all
this.”
I was conscious then of some one at my elbow. I turned to see the young
woman whose face was so vaguely familiar. In the very act of speaking
she drew back suddenly and colored.
“Oh,—I beg your pardon,” she said hurriedly, “I—thought you were—some
one else.” She was looking in a puzzled fashion at my coat. I felt all
the cringing guilt of a man who has accidentally picked up the wrong
umbrella: my borrowed collar sat tight on my neck.
“I’m sorry,” I said idiotically. “I’m sorry, but—I’m not.” I have
learned since that she has bright brown hair, with a loose wave in it
that drops over her ears, and dark blue eyes with black lashes and—but
what does it matter? One enjoys a picture as a whole: not as the sum of
its parts.
She saw the flask then, and her errand came back to her. “One of the
ladies at the end of car has fainted,” she explained. “I thought
perhaps a stimulant—”
I picked up the flask at once and followed my guide down the aisle. Two
or three women were working over the woman who had fainted. They had
opened her collar and taken out her hairpins, whatever good that might
do. The stout woman was vigorously rubbing her wrists, with the idea,
no doubt, of working up her pulse! The unconscious woman was the one
for whom I had secured lower eleven at the station.
I poured a little liquor in a bungling masculine fashion between her
lips as she leaned back, with closed eyes. She choked, coughed, and
rallied somewhat.
“Poor thing,” said the stout lady. “As she lies back that way I could
almost think it was my mother; she used to faint so much.”
“It would make anybody faint,” chimed in another. “Murder and robbery
in one night and on one car. I’m thankful I always wear my rings in a
bag around my neck—even if they do get under me and keep me awake.”
The girl in blue was looking at us with wide, startled eyes. I saw her
pale a little, saw the quick, apprehensive glance which she threw at
her traveling companion, the small woman I had noticed before. There
was an exchange—almost a clash—of glances. The small woman frowned.
That was all. I turned my attention again to my patient.
She had revived somewhat, and now she asked to have the window opened.
The train had stopped again and the car was oppressively hot. People
around were looking at their watches and grumbling over the delay. The
doctor bustled in with a remark about its being his busy day. The
amateur detective and the porter together mounted guard over lower ten.
Outside the heat rose in shimmering waves from the tracks: the very
wood of the car was hot to touch. A Camberwell Beauty darted through
the open door and made its way, in erratic plunges, great wings waving,
down the sunny aisle. All around lay the peace of harvested fields, the
quiet of the country.