CHAPTER III. ACROSS THE AISLE
No solution offering itself, I went back to my berth. The snorer acrosshad apparently strangled, or turned over, and so after a time I droppedasleep, to be awakened by the morning sunlight across my face.
I felt for my watch, yawning prodigiously. I reached under the pillowand 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 myscarf pin, but there was nothing there. Wide awake now, I reached formy traveling-bag, on the chance that I had put my watch in there. I haddrawn the satchel to me and had my hand on the lock before I realizedthat it was not my own!
Mine was of alligator hide. I had killed the beast in Florida, after theexpenditure of enough money to have bought a house and enough energy tohave built one. The bag I held in my hand was a black one, sealskin, Ithink. The staggering thought of what the loss of my bag meant to me putmy finger on the bell and kept it there until the porter came.
"Did you ring, sir?" he asked, poking his head through the curtainsobsequiously. McKnight objects that nobody can poke his head through acurtain and be obsequious. But Pullman porters can and do.
"No," I snapped. "It rang itself. What in thunder do you mean byexchanging my valise for this one? You'll have to find it if you wakenthe 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. "Ibrought in your overcoat, sir. You carried your own valise."
The fellow was right! In an excess of caution I had refused torelinquish my alligator bag, and had turned over my other traps to theporter. It was clear enough then. I was simply a victim of the usualsleeping-car robbery. I was in a lather of perspiration by that time:the lady down the car was still dangling and talking about it: stillnearer a feminine voice was giving quick orders in French, presumably toa maid. The porter was on his knees, looking under the berth.
"Not there, sir," he said, dusting his knees. He was visibly morecheerful, having been absolved of responsibility. "Reckon it was takenwhile you was wanderin' around the car last night."
"I'll give you fifty dollars if you find it," I said. "A hundred. Reachup my shoes and I'll--"
I stopped abruptly. My eyes were fixed in stupefied amazement on acoat that hung from a hook at the foot of my berth. From the coat theytraveled, dazed, to the soft-bosomed shirt beside it, and from there tothe collar and cravat in the net hammock across the windows.
"A hundred!" the porter repeated, showing his teeth. But I caught him bythe 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 thecurtains and brought up a pair of shoes. "Your shoes, sir," he said witha flourish. "Reckon you've been dreaming, sir."
Now, there are two things I always avoid in my dress--possibly anidiosyncrasy of my bachelor existence. These tabooed articles are redneckties and tan shoes. And not only were the shoes the porter liftedfrom the floor of a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf which wasrun through the turned over collar was a gaudy red. It took a fullminute 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 otherfellow'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 tiewith appreciation. "Ain't everybody would have left you anything."
"Call the conductor," I said shortly. Then a possible explanationoccurred 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 simpleenough. 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 theother gentleman just got mixed in the night. That's all, sir." It wasclear that he thought I had been drinking.
I drew a long breath. Of course, that was the explanation. This wasnumber seven's berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella, hiscoat, his bag. My rage turned to irritation at myself.
The porter went to the next berth and I could hear his softlyinsinuating 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 thecurtains 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. Butit's been slept in."
The disappointment was the greater for my few moments of hope. I satup 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 obnoxioustan shoes. The porter, called to his duties, made little excursions backto me, to offer assistance and to chuckle at my discomfiture. He stoodby, outwardly decorous, but with little irritating grins of amusementaround 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 youdo," he said, as he plied the ubiquitous whisk broom.
"When I get the owner of these clothes," I retorted grimly, "he willneed a shroud. Where's the conductor?"
The conductor was coming, he assured me; also that there was no baganswering the description of mine on the car. I slammed my way to thedressing-room, washed, choked my fifteen and a half neck into a fifteencollar, and was back again in less than five minutes. The car, as wellas its occupants, was gradually taking on a daylight appearance. Ihobbled in, for one of the shoes was abominably tight, and found myselffacing a young woman in blue with an unforgettable face. ("Three womenalready." McKnight says: "That's going some, even if you don't countthe Gilmore nurse.") She stood, half-turned toward me, one hand idlydrooping, the other steadying her as she gazed out at the flyinglandscape. I had an instant impression that I had met her somewhere,under different circumstances, more cheerful ones, I thought, for thegirl's dejection now was evident. Beside her, sitting down, a small darkwoman, considerably older, was talking in a rapid undertone. The girlnodded 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, staredruefully at the other man's shoes.
The stage was set. In a moment the curtain was going up on the first actof the play. And for a while we would all say our little speeches andsing our little songs, and I, the villain, would hold center stage whilethe gallery hissed.
The porter was standing beside lower ten. He had reached in and wasknocking valiantly. But his efforts met with no response. He winked atme over his shoulder; then he unfastened the curtains and bent forward.Behind him, I saw him stiffen, heard his muttered exclamation, saw thebluish pallor that spread over his face and neck. As he retreated a stepthe interior of lower ten lay open to the day.
The man in it was on his back, the early morning sun striking full onhis upturned face. But the light did not disturb him. A small stain ofred dyed the front of his night clothes and trailed across the sheet;his half-open eyes were fixed, without seeing, on the shining woodabove.
I grasped the porter's shaking shoulders and stared down to where thetrain imparted to the body a grisly suggestion
of motion. "Good Lord," Igasped. "The man's been murdered!"
The Man in Lower Ten Page 3