The Man in Lower Ten

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER VI. THE GIRL IN BLUE

  I was growing more and more irritable. The thought of what the loss ofthe notes meant was fast crowding the murder to the back of my mind. Theforced inaction was intolerable.

  The porter had reported no bag answering the description of mine on thetrain, but I was disposed to make my own investigation. I made a tourof the cars, scrutinizing every variety of hand luggage, ranging fromluxurious English bags with gold mountings to the wicker nondescripts ofthe day coach at the rear. I was not alone in my quest, for the girl inblue was just ahead of me. Car by car she preceded me through the train,unconscious that I was behind her, looking at each passenger as shepassed. I fancied the proceeding was distasteful, but that she haddetermined on a course and was carrying it through. We reached the endof the train almost together--empty-handed, both of us.

  The girl went out to the platform. When she saw me she moved aside, andI stepped out beside her. Behind us the track curved sharply; the earlysunshine threw the train, in long black shadow, over the hot earth.Forward somewhere they were hammering. The girl said nothing, but herprofile was strained and anxious.

  "I--if you have lost anything," I began, "I wish you would let me try tohelp. Not that my own success is anything to boast of."

  She hardly glanced at me. It was not flattering. "I have notbeen robbed, if that is what you mean," she replied quietly. "Iam--perplexed. That is all."

  There was nothing to say to that. I lifted my hat--the other fellow'shat--and turned to go back to my car. Two or three members of the traincrew, including the conductor, were standing in the shadow talking.And at that moment, from a farm-house near came the swift clang of thebreakfast bell, calling in the hands from barn and pasture. I turnedback to the girl.

  "We may be here for an hour," I said, "and there is no buffet car on. IfI remember my youth, that bell means ham and eggs and country butter andcoffee. If you care to run the risk--"

  "I am not hungry," she said, "but perhaps a cup of coffee--dear me, Ibelieve I am hungry," she finished. "Only--" She glanced back of her.

  "I can bring your companion," I suggested, without enthusiasm. But theyoung woman shook her head.

  "She is not hungry," she objected, "and she is very--well, I know shewouldn't come. Do you suppose we could make it if we run?"

  "I haven't any idea," I said cheerfully. "Any old train would be betterthan this one, if it does leave us behind."

  "Yes. Any train would be better than this one," she repeated gravely.I found myself watching her changing expression. I had spoken two dozenwords to her and already I felt that I knew the lights and shades inher voice,--I, who had always known how a woman rode to hounds, and whonever could have told the color of her hair.

  I stepped down on the ties and turned to assist her, and together wewalked back to where the conductor and the porter from our car were inclose conversation. Instinctively my hand went to my cigarette pocketand came out empty. She saw the gesture.

  "If you want to smoke, you may," she said. "I have a big cousin whosmokes all the time. He says I am 'kippered.'"

  I drew out the gun-metal cigarette case and opened it. But this mostcommonplace action had an extraordinary result: the girl beside mestopped dead still and stood staring at it with fascinated eyes.

  "Is--where did you get that?" she demanded, with a catch in her voice;her gaze still fixed on the cigarette case.

  "Then you haven't heard the rest of the tragedy?" I asked, holding outthe case. "It's frightfully bad luck for me, but it makes a good story.You see--"

  At that moment the conductor and porter ceased their colloquy. Theconductor came directly toward me, tugging as he came at his bristlinggray mustache.

  "I would like to talk to you in the car," he said to me, with a curiousglance at the young lady.

  "Can't it wait?" I objected. "We are on our way to a cup of coffee and aslice of bacon. Be merciful, as you are powerful."

  "I'm afraid the breakfast will have to wait," he replied. "I won't keepyou long." There was a note of authority in his voice which I resented;but, after all, the circumstances were unusual.

  "We'll have to defer that cup of coffee for a while," I said to thegirl; "but don't despair; there's breakfast somewhere."

  As we entered the car, she stood aside, but I felt rather than saw thatshe followed us. I was surprised to see a half dozen men gathered aroundthe berth in which I had wakened, number seven. It had not yet been madeup.

  As we passed along the aisle, I was conscious of a new expression on thefaces of the passengers. The tall woman who had fainted was searchingmy face with narrowed eyes, while the stout woman of the kindly heartavoided my gaze, and pretended to look out the window.

  As we pushed our way through the group, I fancied that it closed aroundme ominously. The conductor said nothing, but led the way withoutceremony to the side of the berth.

  "What's the matter?" I inquired. I was puzzled, but not apprehensive."Have you some of my things? I'd be thankful even for my shoes; theseare confoundedly tight."

  Nobody spoke, and I fell silent, too. For one of the pillows had beenturned over, and the under side of the white case was streaked withbrownish stains. I think it was a perceptible time before I realizedthat the stains were blood, and that the faces around were filled withsuspicion and distrust.

  "Why, it--that looks like blood," I said vacuously. There was anincessant pounding in my ears, and the conductor's voice came from faroff.

  "It is blood," he asserted grimly.

  I looked around with a dizzy attempt at nonchalance. "Even if it is,"I remonstrated, "surely you don't suppose for a moment that I knowanything about it!"

  The amateur detective elbowed his way in. He had a scrap of transparentpaper in his hand, and a pencil.

  "I would like permission to trace the stains," he began eagerly."Also"--to me--"if you will kindly jab your finger with apin--needle--anything--"

  "If you don't keep out of this," the conductor said savagely, "I willdo some jabbing myself. As for you, sir--" he turned to me. I wasabsolutely innocent, but I knew that I presented a typical picture ofguilt; I was covered with cold sweat, and the pounding in my ears keptup dizzily. "As for you, sir--"

  The irrepressible amateur detective made a quick pounce at the pillowand pushed back the cover. Before our incredulous eyes he drew out anarrow steel dirk which had been buried to the small cross that servedas a head.

  There was a chorus of voices around, a quick surging forward of thecrowd. So that was what had scratched my hand! I buried the wound in mycoat pocket.

  "Well," I said, trying to speak naturally, "doesn't that prove what Ihave been telling you? The man who committed the murder belonged to thisberth, and made an exchange in some way after the crime. How do you knowhe didn't change the tags so I would come back to this berth?" This wasan inspiration; I was pleased with it. "That's what he did, he changedthe tags," I reiterated.

  There was a murmur of assent around. The doctor, who was standing besideme, put his hand on my arm. "If this gentleman committed this crime, andI for one feel sure he did not, then who is the fellow who got away? Andwhy did he go?"

  "We have only one man's word for that," the conductor snarled. "I'vetraveled some in these cars myself, and no one ever changed berths withme."

  Somebody on the edge of the group asserted that hereafter he wouldtravel by daylight. I glanced up and caught the eye of the girl in blue.

  "They are all mad," she said. Her tone was low, but I heard herdistinctly. "Don't take them seriously enough to defend yourself."

  "I am glad you think I didn't do it," I observed meekly, over the crowd."Nothing else is of any importance."

  The conductor had pulled out his note-book again. "Your name, please,"he said gruffly.

  "Lawrence Blakeley, Washington."

  "Your occupation?"

  "Attorney. A member of the firm of Blakeley and McKnight."

  "Mr. Blakeley, you say you have occupied the wrong berth and have
beenrobbed. Do you know anything of the man who did it?"

  "Only from what he left behind," I answered. "These clothes--"

  "They fit you," he said with quick suspicion. "Isn't that rather acoincidence? You are a large man."

  "Good Heavens," I retorted, stung into fury, "do I look like a man whowould wear this kind of a necktie? Do you suppose I carry purple andgreen barred silk handkerchiefs? Would any man in his senses wear a pairof shoes a full size too small?"

  The conductor was inclined to hedge. "You will have to grant that Iam in a peculiar position," he said. "I have only your word as to theexchange of berths, and you understand I am merely doing my duty. Arethere any clues in the pockets?"

  For the second time I emptied them of their contents, which he noted."Is that all?" he finished. "There was nothing else?"

  "Nothing."

  "That's not all, sir," broke in the porter, stepping forward. "There wasa small black satchel."

  "That's so," I exclaimed. "I forgot the bag. I don't even know where itis."

  The easily swayed crowd looked suspicious again. I've grown soaccustomed to reading the faces of a jury, seeing them swing fromdoubt to belief, and back again to doubt, that I instinctively watchexpressions. I saw that my forgetfulness had done me harm--thatsuspicion was roused again.

  The bag was found a couple of seats away, under somebody'sraincoat--another dubious circumstance. Was I hiding it? It was broughtto the berth and placed beside the conductor, who opened it at once.

  It contained the usual traveling impedimenta--change of linen, collars,handkerchiefs, a bronze-green scarf, and a safety razor. But theattention of the crowd riveted itself on a flat, Russia leather wallet,around which a heavy gum band was wrapped, and which bore in giltletters the name "Simon Harrington."