Compartment K

by Helen Reilly

  Her glance touched Rose’s reddened eyes, lingered. She said that Daniel was asleep, he’d had a bad night with his head. “You’re not going riding with us, are you? You might go over and see Dan later, cheer him up.”

  Rose marveled at her. Last night might never have been. Candy had been badly frightened when she was forced to admit her visit to Davidson in his compartment on the train minutes before he died, angry and resentful when she had had to produce the ring Davidson had given her. There wasn't the slightest trace of it now. Her resilience was amazing. Or was it resilience? Was her mind a china plate of the finest porcelain from which things slid off without trace, on which nothing made any real impression?

  Nils’s glance wove between the two of them, as though he was amused and deeply interested in an impersonal fashion, as he would have been at a play. At it, boys, and may the best man win.

  Rose said, “Daniel needs rest, Candy, I know you’d stay with him if he wanted company,” and left them and mounted steps to the porch outside her own room. Nils and Candy had moved off, were out of sight. She dropped into a lounge chair and looked at the walls of the guest cottage where Daniel was, half-hidden behind glossy banks of mountain laurel and small firs, her heart heavy. Poor Daniel. She thought, inconsequentially, that everything about the place had been allowed to go a little to seed, the shrubberies weren’t trimmed, the patches of lawn were overgrown. The place was different this year, as Elizabeth was different. ... At moments she had a fined down, dedicated look that was almost ethereal. Someone about to enter the religious life might look like that. . . . Had Nils and Candy gone? Rose thought of them side by side on their horses, laughing together, looking into each other’s eyes, and got angrily out of the chair and went inside. What was it to her?

  Nils and Candy didn’t go riding, then. The riding party was put off. A few minutes later they were all on the terrace at the front with the exception of Daniel—Loretta Pilgrim and Candy, the Beldings, Elizabeth, Eden, Rose and Nils—when Todhunter arrived. He introduced himself. He was attached to the New York Homicide Squad, he produced his credentials, and went on talking. He spoke of the Frenchwoman’s death, and got no reaction but the conventional one, he passed to Gilbert Davidson, and the jewel robbery Davidson had pulled off in New York in January of that year.

  Sensation. Loretta Pilgrim gave a muted scream. “I don’t believe it ... I can’t believe it. Not Gilbert Davidson . . . there must be some mistake. There must be.” She was shocked and incredulous, rocked back on her heels. Candy was equally shocked, but voiceless.

  Sunk in a chair, her slender jodhpured legs crosscd, she stared whitefaced at gaimtlcted hands linked around a knee.

  I li/aheth wasn’t surprised. She said so, thoughtfully. “Gil was a clever man. He was always like that—never quite straight. Robbing a wealthy and gullible woman would mean no more to him than a chess problem—except for the money. He needed money to live the wav he wanted to . .

  Todhunter said that Davidson had gotten away with the theft, except where Madame Flavelle was concerned. She had evidently been spying on her mistress and Davidson, perhaps with a spot of blackmail in view. The lady had a husband. The stolen gems were a richer haul. Immediately after the robbery Davidson put the jewels in a safe-deposit box where they were out of the Frenchwoman’s reach, but sooner or later he would have to remove them if he was to cash in on his theft. Madame Flavelle meant to be there to see. She stuck to him like glue. The day before he left New York for the journey to Amethyst Lake, Davidson removed the jewels from his bank. The Frenchwoman was fully aware of his every move. She took the same train. The most valuable single item in Davidson’s booty was the ring valued at $84,000. The camera case was on the seat beside his dead body. The ring was not in the camera case. After Madame Flavelle gave the alarm on board the train, she continued to watch, and work.

  Loretta Pilgrim interrupted him. “Did she, that woman, search our compartments on the train?”

  Todhunter shrugged. “Presumably, Mrs. Pilgrim, just as she searched Miss O’Hara’s room last night after her fruitless attack on Mr. Font.”

  Colonel Eden had been following the detective narrowly, with close attention. At that point he asked a blunt question.

  “Did this Madame Flavelle kill Davidson?”

  Todhunter shook his head sadly. “We don’t think so, Colonel.”

  One of the horses whinnied. A bridle jingled. Out on the lake someone laughed. Harry Belding was also deeply engrossed. He fumbled absently for a cigarette, his eyes on Todhunter.

  “Why not?” Eden demanded sharply.

  Todhunter had examined the dead woman. One look at the throat and neck were enough.

  “Madame Flavelle wasn’t alive when she went into the water. Before her body was thrown into the lake she was strangled.”

  They turned to stone, all of them.

  It’s coming closer, Rose thought with a deep inward shudder. The little detective’s murmuring voice went on and on. He described the visit he and Duvette had paid to the Frenchwoman’s cottage the night before. They left at around half-past eleven, after a vain search for the missing gems. Sometime later Madame Flavelle had gone out. Her discarded nightdress was on the floor beside the bed where she had stepped out of it. When she went out she had on a heavy black silk kimono and black slippers. They had been found in the water near her nude body. The slippers and kimono had helped in tracing her movements, established the spot where she had been killed.

  The little man coughed and glanced sideways under the awning. There was no one in sight. He went on talking.

  Madame Flavelle had been killed close to her cottage, on her return to it. A little promontory below and to the right of the path jutted out over the lake. A pine tree stood at the edge of it. Madame Flavelle had struggled. Threads from the kimono and slivers of fingernails were caught in the bark.

  Todhunter took a wallet out of his pocket, took a folded sheet of paper from the wallet and lifted the flap. Lying on the white paper were three tiny and separate bundles of ragged black silk threads.

  Todhunter said that Madame Flavelle left her cottage to contact the murderer, probably in the small hours of the morning. She had contacted him. No doubt she had offered silence in exchange for the jewels. A walk and a talk—and sudden death. The Frenchwoman had asked for it. There was nothing else for Davidson’s murderer to do but eliminate her.

  Todhunter touched the first of the three little bundles with the tip of a forefinger.

  “These are threads from the pine tree Madame Flavelle clung to before she was thrown into the water. These,” he touched a second bundle, “are from a thorn bush on the edge of the path a good hundred feet from her cottage. And these,” his fingertip came to rest on the third bundle, “were on the fence, on the lower-rail of the fence that divides your property, Mrs. Questing, from the Amethyst Chalet grounds.”

  The threads were caught on the inside of the rail, where Madame Flavelle stooped to climb through the fence on her way back to her cottage—which she hadn’t reached.

  Horror had them all in its grip. Harry Belding was the one who spoke. Rose realized with a little shock that it was the first time she had heard him do any talking since they had reached Amethyst. He had sunk into the part almost of an upper servant, respectful, vigilant, carrying out Elizabeth’s orders, attentive to the comfort of her guests, there when you wanted something, not there when you didn’t. He said quietly, “I’m afraid I don’t see the significance of Madame Flavelle’s having been inside our fence last night, Mr. Todhunter. People often do stray over here. It's nothing unusual."

  “You're right, Mr. Belding," Todhunter agreed. “Madame Fla-velle’s having been inside the fence, on these grounds, wouldn’t mean too much except—" he refolded the paper, put it in his wallet, put the wallet back in his pocket, “—well, you have to add it to other things. Whoever killed Mr. Davidson was a passenger on the Canadian Pacific Commonwealth and the only people here at Amethyst Lake last night when
Madame Flavelle was strangled to death and who were also passengers on the Commonwealth are—you, yourselves."

  It struck them head on. It was a knock-down blow. The logic of it was irrefutable. Amethyst Lake up here in the mountains in the wilds of British Columbia wasn't a spot where anyone could drop in casually, and fade away. White faces, blank eyes, exploring, calculating, adding and subtracting. The little man from New York Homicide hadn’t finished. He said, “There's one exception to that. Last night there was a man in these grounds who isn’t staying here but who was also on board the Commonwealth. I believe he's staying at the Y in Field. I expect him any moment. Constable Duvette is bringing him. Ah," Todhunter turned his head. “Flere he is now."

  The pines, the lake, the gaiety of banked flowers against it, a blue mountain beyond—two men came out of the gloom of the pines and started up the path through sunlight and shadow. One of them was Constable Duvette. The other man, in a grey flannel suit and a dark blue shirt, was shorter and stockier. Fie had thick wavy blond hair. Fie put up a hand to smooth his hair back, and Rose saw that he had lost a finger on his right hand.

  They all stared at the newcomer.

  Loretta Pilgrim sat up with a small sigh. She said in a voice that had nothing in it but surprise and a mild pleasure:

  “Why, it’s—it is. It’s George.”

  ELEVEN

  A comedy of manners, strictly twentieth century, all it needed was Daniel to round it off. No savagery, no embarrassment. The man with a finger missing was George Langley, Candy’s ex-husband. Everything was casual, civilized. From Candy a languid, “Hello, George.” By Langley, “How’s yourself, pet? And you, Lorry? Good, fine. You’re both looking well.”

  George Langley then wrent to Elizabeth and bowed over her hand. Candy’s former husband had an ugly humorous face. At one time or another his nose had been broken. He was completely at ease. Rose watched from her chair. Todhunter and Duvette watched from the far end of the terrace fifty feet away. Duvette had gotten a statement from Langley, for what it was worth. It was confined principally to negatives. Langley had never met Davidson, hadn’t once entered the Pullman section of the Canadian Pacific Commonwealth, he didn’t know Madame Flavelle from a hole in the wall. He had been at the lake last night, yes. He hired a car and drove up rather late, but everybody seemed to be in bed, so after a while he had gone back to Field.

  “It was Langley Mrs. Pilgrim and her daughter saw in the crowd at Calgary?” Duvette asked, and Todhunter nodded. Duvette frowned. “Mrs. Pilgrim doesn’t seem upset now.”

  “Mrs. Pilgrim,” Todhunter said, “is a well-controlled lady. That goes for her daughter, too. They’ve had time to prepare themsel ~s and know they’re under observation.”

  The inspector for the district was on his way to Amethyst Lake. Duvette had to go and meet him. He left. The others were leaving too. Candy Font was on her feet. “Are we going for that ride, Nils?” Except for her color, which was rather high, she showed no signs of discomposure. Langley was chatting with the Colonel and Mrs.

  Questing, who had an amused look in her eyes. Mrs. Pilgrim came towards Todhunter with her hand out, spoke with her usual air of frankness.

  “Will it be all right if we go, Mr. Todhunter? Do you want us any more?”

  She was a lady, anxious to be helpful to inferiors, recognizing authority when it was vested in them. Ladies didn’t commit murder, put the very thought of such a disagreeable thing out of their minds.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Pilgrim.” Todhunter used raised eyebrows and a gesture to convey that he had no power to hold her and that, in fact, nothing was further from his mind.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a pleasant smile and bustled off after a word to Elizabeth Questing who called after her, “Have a nice ride, all of you.”

  Loretta Pilgrim said fervently over her shoulder, “Oh, we will. There are so many of the old places I want to see, and it’s such a lovely day.”

  They mounted their horses and rode off. The Colonel, w*ho was to have accompanied them, remained behind. The Beldings went then, Gertrude wanted to check the cottages, and Harry Belding had work to do. Rose, Eden, Elizabeth Questing and Langley remained.

  Todhunter walked over to them, stood fingering his hat brim. “Just a few questions, Mr. Langley,” he said, and, as Langley made a move towards the living room, “no, here will do.”

  There were more than a few questions. Some of them were idle. Hidden among them was the directive, an arrow pointing to a woman murdered in the courtyard of the Questing house on Murray Hill, a nameless faceless woman whose existence, and sudden lack of it, had never been so much as mentioned aloud.

  Langley was a jaunty fellow, full of beans. His suit was well cut, it had seen better days. He was evidently not in the money. He had been in New York on August the tenth, he lived in New York. He gave his address. He had picked up the Canadian Pacific Commonwealth for Vancouver at Montreal, to which he had flown. Had he chosen that particular train to travel on because his ex-wife was on board?

  Langley paused. Some of the bounce went out of him. He looked at Mrs. Questing, sitting quietly smoking and listening. Her flicker of amusement was gone. The weariness was back in her, the watchfulness, inner strain.

  “Shall I. Elizabeth?” Langley asked.

  “Shall you what, George?”

  “Shall I tell him about the letter?”

  She shrugged.

  “Why not?”

  Elizabeth Questing was a truly generous woman. For the last three years, since Langley’s divorce from Candy Font, she had been paying him an allowance. He was a musician, a composer. Selling bonds, at which he had been very successful until after his marriage to Candy, was merely an avocation. “Candy's a sweet kid,” he said, lines from nose to mouth suddenly grooving themselves, “if you like that kind of sugar—and can support it. She had forty-seven hats ... I went to the closet to prove it to a friend one night, and the fiftieth hat fell out on my head.” Langley had over-extended himself financially while he and Candy were married. He lost his job, couldn't s:et another that was satisfactory, “So I got the heave-ho.”

  Elizabeth had come to his rescue. Then, in July, he had had a letter from her, telling him that his allowance was to be discontinued.

  The starch had entirely gone out of him now. He said humbly, “I was working. Elizabeth. I really was. I’ve got two songs done, and a third almost finished . . .”

  Elizabeth Questing nodded. “I’m sure you worked, George.”

  She spoke gentlv. He turned a look of bewilderment on her. “Then—"

  Elizabeth Questing didn’t answer. Her face imperturbable, she deposited ash in a tray, exactly as though George Langley hadn’t spoken.

  It was Colonel Eden who said drily, addressing his remark to Todhunter, “People do get tired, you know—and Mrs. Questing has so manv demands on her.”

  Elizabeth Questing neither denied nor affirmed this. There was no yes, there was no no. She was a complete puzzle. She hadn’t been on board the Commonwealth when Davidson was killed. She was a woman of great charm and integrity. And yet Todhunter was convinced that she was at the bottom of everything that had happened. She was a shadow behind the woman struck down in New York, behind Davidson shot to death in his compartment, behind the Frenchwoman brutally strangled here at Amethyst Lake last night and flung into the water. Todhunter sighed inaudibly and came back to the present. Little by little was the way to get to it.

  lit* said, "This letter from Mrs. Questing you speak of, Mr. Langley?"

  Langley produced it from a shabby wallet. Todhunter read it in silence, and then, musingly, aloud.

  " ‘Dear George. I don’t like writing this and you won't like getting it. I’ve been glad to help you out, very glad. And I'm sure you’re going to succeed. But from the date of this, and the enclosed, there won’t be any more. I have only one thing to say. Consult Loretta. She always liked you. Yours, Elizabeth Questing.'"

  Rose O’Hara staring at her cousin
her eyes as big as saucers, lovely eyes; you might as well hope to read cuneiform. Todhunter said practically, in his neat voice, “Did you go to see Mrs. Pilgrim after you got this, Mr. Langley?" He tapped the sheet of monogram med paper.

  “I did. I went to the apartment the day before Loretta left New York to come out here, but she wasn’t in. She lives with Candy and the new chap you know, in quite a flossy duplex on East Thirty-second Street. I went again the next morning. Only the cleaning woman was there. She’s a good egg, we used to have a drink together in the kitchen sometimes when I was married to Candy. She told me that Loretta and Candy and Font had just left on the Montrealer to come out here to Amethyst Lake to visit Elizabeth. I—" Langley shrugged, looked down, “I decided I’d tag along to see what gave. And here I am."

  Dead silence, a silence that was really dead. The life on the great luxuriously-furnished terrace seemed to have come to an end, temporarily at least. Nobody had anything more to say. Todhunter blundered around in crowding thoughts. The Fonts and Loretta Pilgrim lived in an apartment in New York within walking distance of Elizabeth Questing’s house on Murray Hill. Langley had been there on the afternoon of the day on which the woman had been killed in the Questing courtyard. Davidson had also been at the Font apartment that same afternoon. So had the Beldings ... It was fining down now. Check from the other end. Have someone talk to that cleaning woman . . . He was interrupted by a burst of melody. Langley had gone into the living room to the baby grand in a distant corner. Music streamed out on the quiet air from under his fingers. It was light, gay, with an undercurrent of melancholy. Todhunter found himself beating time with his foot.

  Suddenly Elizabeth Questing was out of her chair. She was very white. Eden got up hastily, and so did Rose O’Hara. Mrs. Questing didn’t look at them, she looked at the little detective.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Todhunter, but I’m afraid I’m tired. I’d like to rest for a while. All this has been—rather exhausting. I’m giving a little party tonight. It’s the eve of my birthday. I hope you’ll be my guest. Any other questions you want to ask I’ll answer then. About nine o’clock.”