My friend offered me a chair. The white form relapsed into immobility; and silence, a deadened silence through which flitted indefinable thoughts, fell upon us.
I could think of nothing to say. These two had been man and wife for some months. They had been in love for years before they were free to marry. And this was how I found them now!
My friend broke the silence with a hesitating inquiry as to my health, and his thought seemed far from the words that fell from his lips.
“Fine,” I replied, and speaking lower, I added, “You are happy?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
His wife coughed slightly and rose.
“Forgive me, Monsieur, but I am a little tired. You will excuse me, I am sure. . . . Please do not go.”
She crossed the dining-room, presented her forehead to her husband, and left us.
My friend got up and paced the floor with long strides, gnawing his mustache, then, stopping abruptly before me, put his hand on my shoulder.
“I said I was happy. That’s a lie!”
I looked at him in mute astonishment.
“No doubt you think I am out of my mind,” he continued. “Not yet, but I’m likely to be before long. . . . Don’t you feel some sinister influence brooding over this house?”
“Your wife and you appear to be under some cloud, certainly. Some worry, no doubt, the importance of which you exaggerate.”
“No! No! No! There’s a horror hanging to these walls . . . there’s a terror creeping about these floors. Between my wife and me there’s the shadow of Crime . . . of Crime!
“As you know, she who today is my wife was for long months my mistress. You know how desperately I loved her . . . or rather you do not know . . . no one can know. . . . I worshipped her, that creature, worshipped her to the point of devotion . . . of frenzy. From the day she came into my life, there was no other life for me. She became a need in my nature, a flaw in my sanity, a vice in my blood.
“I thought of running away with her, of challenging the voice of scandal. But neither of us had any means. I had only my profession to support me. And our being together openly in Paris was not to be thought of . . . so I put aside honor, every moral scruple. To see her more frequently, I obtained an introduction to the husband. I cultivated his acquaintance, I came to be his constant guest, his intimate friend.
“I made that despicable third in a household who, under the shelter of its welcome, steals in cold blood from its master his peace and happiness.
“I spent my holidays with them. He was a great sportsman; while he was out in the woods and fields I passed my time with her.
“One day we two were startled by loud cries. I ran downstairs, and found the terrified servants gathered around the husband.
“Stretched upon a couch, he was fighting for breath with quick, short gasps, as he clutched at a wound in his abdomen.
“ ‘Ah, Monsieur,’ faltered the man who carried his game-bag, ‘how suddenly it happened! Monsieur had just shot a woodcock . . . it fell in the rushes, he ran toward the spot, and all in a moment, I don’t know how it happened, but I heard a report—a cry—and I saw Monsieur fall forward. . . . I brought him here.’
“I cut away the clothes and examined his injuries. The charge had plowed through his side. Blood flowed in jets from a terrible wound extending from above the hip to the thigh.
“Years of training made me regard him solely as a patient. I examined him as if it had been a hospital case. I even gave a sigh of satisfaction as I learned that his injuries were really superficial. The intestines did not appear to be involved, but on the wound’s internal surface a small artery was spurting freely.
“Hearing footsteps, I looked up, and saw Her standing in the doorway. A strange and unaccountable agony gripped my heart. It was with a great effort that I said, ‘Don’t come here. . . . Go away.’
“ ‘No,’ she said, and drew nearer.
“I could not take my eyes from hers—she had fascinated them. My finger still pressing upon the artery, the sufferer full in her view, I watched that look of hers as a man watches a dagger pointed at his throat, a wavering dagger, the gleam of which hypnotizes him.
“She drew still nearer, and a cloudy impotence fell upon my will. That look spoke things of terrible import. It seized upon my soul, that look; it spoke—no need of words to make me understand what it asked of me. It said:
“ ‘You can have me for your own. . . . You can take me and keep me. . . . I shall thrill to no other joy, faint under no other fondness . . . if only you will—’
“Once more I faltered: ‘You must not stay here. . . . Go away.’
“But the look spoke again:
“ ‘Soul without resolution . . . heart that dares not . . . what have you always longed for? . . . Look! . . . Chance changes your dream to reality.’
“The artery pulsed under my finger and, little by little, strive as I would to maintain it, the pressure diminished.
“She was close to me. She bent above me. Her breath played in my hair; the emanation from her body stole into every fiber of my being, impregnated my hands, my lips—that exhalation was madness to me.
“All conception of time, of danger, of duty, fled from my mind.
“Suddenly the door opened, and a servant appeared with my surgical case. The stupor was dispelled.
“ ‘Quick! Give it to me!’ I shouted rather than called.
“But then . . . I saw that my finger had deserted its post . . . that there was now no pulsation under it . . . that the stricken man’s lip was drawn upward into the mocking semblance of a smile . . . and . . . that it was all over.
“Our eyes met. And in that moment a shadow fell between us, a shadow with a mocking smile—the shadow of the dead man. . . .
“I thought at first that this nightmare would fade away. I strove to assure myself that the fatal issue was an accident, unavoidable. But since she became my wife, that shadow is between us, always, everywhere. Neither speaks of it, but it comes between our meeting eyes.
“I—I see once more her eyes, the look, saying, ‘Take me. Let us be free.’ She—she sees once more my hand, as, by slow degrees, it lets the life of her husband ebb away. And hatred has come, a silent hatred, the hatred of two murderers who are in the bonds of a mutual fear.
“We remain for hours as you have seen us tonight. Words rush up within us, smite asunder the clenched teeth, half open the lips—and we keep silence.”
He took a dagger from the table, tried the edge with his finger.
“Cowards . . . both of us!”
He flung the weapon, clanging, to the table, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears.
The Horror on the Night Express
THE TRAIN hurtled through the black night toward the Swiss frontier. My three companions in the compartment, an elderly gentleman and a young couple, were not asleep. From time to time, the young woman, almost a girl, spoke a few words to the young man, who answered with a nod or a gesture. Then all would be silent again.
I suppose it is impossible for a man to get away from his profession. I was going to Switzerland on a much-needed vacation. Aside from my private practice as a physician, my services had been called for several times during the preceding months as medical expert for the Paris Police. Upon concluding my work on the last case, some hours before, I had thrown a few belongings into a bag and started off. Yet I found myself speculating as to the identities, background, and professions of those forced into almost intimate contact with me for the duration of the voyage, due to the division of a railroad car into compartments prevailing on European lines.
I dismissed the elderly gentleman very soon as an ordinary type; the sort of well-to-do old chap, retired from active business, that one might expect to find traveling for his pleasure in a first-class compartment. The girl was pretty, sweet, but obviously without individuality, for the present at least, for she was engrossed in her husband. I assumed that they were on a wedding trip.
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br /> The young man held my attention longer. He was a handsome fellow, perhaps thirty years old, solid yet dapper, with a fine, energetic face, soft eyes and an expression of gentleness that increased when he glanced at his beautiful companion. Thus far, beyond the banal words of politeness when adjusting baggage or shifting positions on the seats, there had been no conversation.
It was about two o’clock; the train passed by a small station without slowing. The lights flickered swiftly, darted through the windows, as our car jostled over turning plates. This jarring, this noise, aroused the girl, who had been drowsing. At her slight movement, the young man smiled, wiped the plate glass with the fingers of his gloved hand, leaned to peer out. But the station clock, the lamps, the name of the depot had flashed out of sight.
“Where are we, Jacques?” the young woman asked in a weary voice.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Pontarlier is the next stop.”
“We’re not there yet,” the old gentleman said. He had been waiting for a chance to talk, to while away the minutes, and took the slight opportunity:
“We have not passed through the tunnel yet.”
“This trip is endless,” the girl sighed. “I can’t sleep. If only you had thought of buying papers or magazines—”
“Allow me?” the old gentleman said eagerly, holding out several newspapers.
She accepted with a grateful smile. Her husband drew a blanket over her knees, adjusted the lamp so that the light would be easier on her eyes. She opened one of the papers and soon was absorbed in what she was reading. The young man drew a cigarette case, which he snapped open and held out to his neighbor: “A cigarette, Monsieur?”
“With pleasure—”
“Really, I’m much obliged to you, sir. This trip is long and hard, especially for my wife who is not used to traveling at night.”
“Especially as day breaks so late at this season,” the old gentleman replied courteously. “So late it will be dark when we reach Vallorbe, where we must go through the customs. I take it you’re going to Italy?”
“My wife is not well, and the doctors have advised mountain air, so we’re going to Switzerland. However, if it is too cold up there, we shall go down to the lakes. She needs care, rest, and as for myself I’ve been so occupied in the past few weeks that I need a vacation.”
I refrained from smiling. There is something about travel in a compartment that renders men loquacious. Enough to give to an absolute stranger, whom one is not likely to meet again, information withheld from all but the most intimate friends at home. I knew it was inevitable that I should be drawn into the conversation, and wondered just how that would be effected.
Within a few minutes, the young woman dropped the paper.
“Nothing in all that,” she said with visible disappointment, adding in rapid apology to the kind old man, “I mean nothing on what I’m interested in. You see, I’m following that crime as one follows a fiction story—a mystery serial—”
“The murder in Pergolese Street?” the old gentleman asked, unwilling to drop the conversation.
“Yes, Monsieur. Isn’t it fascinating?”
“Extremely fascinating, yes—”
“I don’t see what’s so intriguing about it,” the husband said with a shrug.
“What’s intriguing?” she exclaimed. “Why, everything about it! The skull of the murderer, the mystery—the—well, everything—”
“I dare say.” The young man picked up a newspaper. He opened it and spoke without lifting his eyes: “But I don’t know anything about it, darling.”
“You don’t know? You read about it as I did. Remember, between the acts at the theatre, the other night? This morning, before we left—”
“Come!” He dropped the paper and looked at her in amazement. “Are you losing your mind? As long as I tell you I didn’t read it, it means I didn’t read it!”
I noted that this man, who appeared so soft and tender, was not patient and could not bear contradiction, for he uttered the words in a hard voice, almost harshly. His eyes, so caressing a moment before, suddenly turned to a sharp, blue glitter which embarrassed me. I thought I guessed his motive; his wife was nervous and he did not like to have her discuss such a gruesome subject with strangers. I could have told him that the best course would have been to humor her. He must have noticed my surprise, my instinct to give advice, for he resumed in a lighter tone:
“Of course I saw something of it in the papers. Who didn’t? Some lady of easy virtue stabbed in the middle of the night—”
“In broad daylight,” his wife corrected him.
“In broad daylight, as you wish. Money, jewels stolen—such crimes occur every day—”
“It’s very mysterious,” she insisted.
“Ah!” he sighed, “how you do love mystery!”
And he resumed reading Le Temps. His wife addressed the other traveler, eager to prove her point:
“To think that someone rang the poor woman’s door while she was being killed!”
“Eh? What makes you think that?” the old gentleman asked.
“That’s probable,” she declared. “Not a jewel missing, yet they were right there, within reach. Two magnificent rings were found on her dressing-table, with a gold purse and a diamond pin. Not a single one of the precious trinkets on the shelves was touched or taken. Only the money. There was no disorder. The murderer must have been frightened away by some noise, for he fled without taking time to collect all the loot. The crime did not earn him much!”
“Oh, yes, Madame, it did!” The old man nodded in selfapproval. “It was one of the most profitable crimes committed in recent years. And the assassin took his time, believe me.”
“Then why did he leave the jewels?”
“Simply because he was an intelligent man who reasoned that the coin and banknotes he stole could not be identified, while jewels, whether you keep them or sell them, lead to eventual discovery and arrest. The telegraph, telephone, radio, have complicated the task of the criminal. Just remember that he can be reported at once to ships at sea, arrested, and held before having a chance to land in a country refusing extradition.”
“And this murderer,” the wife resumed, “figured out this job in advance so thoroughly that he will not be found for a long time?”
“He—” the old gentleman paused, smiled quietly—”will never be caught.”
I had been amused by my companions’ eagerness to talk. I had expected to be drawn in by a question, a glance. To my own astonishment, I spoke without thought, unguardedly. Perhaps I can stand isolation no better than the next man, perhaps lingering vanity, the pride of having something new, authentic to bring into the discussion, prompted me.
“That’s not so certain as it was yesterday,” I declared.
They had not expected me to speak. The young woman started, the old man turned toward me suddenly, and the young man’s eyes met mine above the newspaper.
“Yet,” insisted the old man, “I’ve read everything concerning this case, followed it with great attention in a dozen newspapers and failed to see anything to make me believe that—”
“Because the clue of which I speak is most recent,” I replied. “It will not be in the papers until tomorrow.”
“Are you a reporter, Monsieur?” the young woman asked me with quick curiosity.
“No, Madame. But I’m well informed, nevertheless. I was called in as medical expert. During the first inspection of the premises, only one fact was evident, for the room in which the woman was killed happened to be quite dark, and that was that the victim had been slain with a single stabbing blow in the chest.
“But when the corpse was brought to me for autopsy at the morgue, I discovered a rather large stain under the left breast, a reddish spot that appeared to be shaped like a hand. I took a photograph of this stain, treated the negative to make it sharper, clearer, and when I obtained a print, I saw that it was indeed the design of a human hand, of a lo
ng, slim hand, so precise that not a detail, not a crease, not a line, not a single fingerprint was lacking.”
“Perhaps one of the policemen who lifted the body touched it,” the old gentleman said slowly. “Such people wear no gloves. I grant that it may be the trace of a dirty hand, but admit it may be that of an innocent hand.”
At this, the young man who was reading laughed. I did not take offense, aware that it was customary to laugh at the theories of physicians in general and of medical experts in particular. Moreover, I was sure of my facts, so I continued my demonstration.
“Where the human eye might be mistaken, chemistry makes no error. That stain was made by blood. It is very faint, I admit, but it is a bloodstain nevertheless. Naturally, I immediately ascertained that it did not match the hand of any of the persons who had entered the room since the discovery of the crime.
“Also, a moist towel was found on the washstand, very soiled, and it did not take much imagination to reconstruct that part of the crime. The murderer killed with a single, clean stab, that is true, but he found his right hand covered with blood. He wiped it on the towel. When about to leave, he wished to make sure that his victim was quite dead, ready to dispatch her with another blow.
“He laid his hand over her heart. When he did not feel the slightest beat, he left as he had come, noiselessly. Unfortunately for him, he had forgotten that blood sticks to skin tenaciously, and that, without knowing it, he had placed on his work the least questionable of signatures.”
“Extraordinary,” the young woman breathed.
“Very curious, as a matter of fact,” her husband added.
As for the old gentleman, he murmured: “Bah! Unless the killer’s fingerprints are on record in the police files, that’s a worthless clue. If I were the assassin, I would sleep in peace!”
“Tonight, perhaps!” I resumed. “But not tomorrow. For all the newspapers will reproduce the picture I took in the morning. Throughout France tomorrow, throughout Europe within two days, that hand will be known and sought for. And the murderer will be betrayed by his right hand, unless he decides to wear gloves all his life, or, showing heroism in his own fashion, he strikes it off himself at the wrist.
Thirty Hours with a Corpse Page 20