Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said, “what with restaurant cars, snack bars, carriages, a corridor, not to mention a black crew member, railway staff, and rest rooms.”

  “Yes, but it must appear natural,” Duncan said, sounding as if he were in deep thought.

  My heart sank as I noticed Christabel’s empty plate being whisked away, despite the fact that Duncan and I had hardly begun our main courses.

  “The chapter ends with the train suddenly coming to a halt about halfway through the tunnel,” said Duncan, staring into the distance.

  “But how? And why?” I asked.

  “That’s the whole point. It’s a false alarm. Quite innocent. The youngest child of the American family—his name’s Ben—pulls the communication cord while he’s sitting on the lavatory. It’s such a hi-tech lavatory that he mistakes it for the chain.”

  I was considering if this was plausible when a breast of quail on fondant potatoes with a garnish of smoked bacon was placed in front of Christabel. She wasted no time in attacking the fowl.

  Duncan paused to take a sip of wine. Now, I felt, I had to let him know, but before I had a chance to say anything he was off again. “Right,” he said. “Chapter eight. The train has come to a halt several miles inside the tunnel, but not quite halfway.”

  “Is that significant?” I asked feebly.

  “Sure is,” said Duncan. “The French and British have agreed the exact point inside the tunnel where French jurisdiction begins and British ends. As you’ll discover, this becomes relevant later in the plot.”

  The waiter began moving round the table, refilling our glasses once again with claret. I placed a hand over mine—not because the wine wasn’t pure nectar, but simply because I didn’t wish to give Christabel the opportunity to order another bottle. She made no attempt to exercise the same restraint, but drank her wine in generous gulps, while toying with her quail. Duncan continued with his story.

  “So, the holdup,” said Duncan, “turns out to be nothing more than a diversion, and it’s sorted out fairly quickly. Child in tears, family apologizes, explanation given by the guard over the train’s intercom, which relieves any anxieties the passengers might have had. A few minutes later the train starts up again, and this time it does cross the halfway point.”

  Three waiters removed our empty plates. Christabel touched the side of her lips with a napkin, and gave me a huge grin.

  “So then what happens?” I asked, avoiding her eye.

  “When the train stopped, the terrorists were afraid that there might be a rival group on board, with the same purpose as them. But as soon as they find out what has actually happened, they take advantage of the commotion caused by young Ben to get themselves into the cabin next to the driver’s.”

  “Would you care for anything from the dessert trolley, madame?” the maître d’ asked Christabel. I looked on aghast as she was helped to what looked like a large spoonful of everything on offer.

  “It’s gripping, isn’t it?” said Duncan, misunderstanding my expression for one of deep concern for those on the train. “But there’s still more to come.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “I’m full, thank you,” I told the maître. “Perhaps a coffee later.”

  “No, nothing, thank you,” said Duncan, trying not to lose his thread. “By the start of chapter nine the terrorists have got themselves into the driver’s cabin. At gunpoint they force the chef de train and his co-driver to bring the engine to a halt for a second time. But what they don’t realize is that they are now on French territory. The passengers are told by the loner over the train’s intercom that this time it’s not a false alarm, but the train has been taken over by whichever gang I settle on, and is going to be blown up in fifteen minutes. He tells them to get themselves off the train, into the tunnel, and as far away as they possibly can before the explosion. Naturally, some of the passengers begin to panic. Several of them leap out into the dimly lit tunnel. Many are looking frantically for their husbands, wives, children, whatever, while others begin running toward the British or French side, according to their nationality.”

  I became distracted when the maître d’ began wheeling yet another trolley toward our table. He paused, bowed to Christabel, and then lit a small burner. He poured some brandy into a shallow copper-bottomed pan and set about preparing crêpes suzette.

  “This is the point in the story, probably chapter ten, where the father of the American family decides to remain on the train,” said Duncan, becoming more excited than ever. “He tells the rest of his tribe to jump off and get the hell out of it. The only other passengers who stay on board are the millionaire, his wife, and the young newly married man. All will have strong personal reasons for wanting to remain behind, which will have been set up earlier in the plot.”

  The maître d’ struck a match and set light to the crêpes. A blue flame licked around the pan and shot into the air. He scooped his pièce de résistance onto a warm platter in one movement, and placed it in front of Christabel.

  I feared we had now passed the point at which I could tell Duncan the truth.

  “Right, now I have three terrorists in the cab with the chef de train. They’ve killed the co-driver, and there are just four passengers still left on the train, plus the black ticket collector—who may turn out to be SAS in disguise, I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Coffee, madame?” the maître d’ asked when Duncan paused for a moment.

  “Irish,” said Christabel.

  “Regular, please,” I said.

  “Decaf for me,” said Duncan.

  “Any liqueurs or cigars?”

  Only Christabel reacted.

  “So, at the start of chapter eleven the terrorists open negotiations with the British police. But they say they can’t deal with them because the train is no longer under their jurisdiction. This throws the terrorists completely, because none of them speaks French, and in any case their quarrel is with the British government. One of them searches the train for someone who can speak French, and comes across the Greek millionaire’s wife.

  “Meanwhile, the police on either side of the Channel stop all the trains going in either direction. So, our train is now stranded in the tunnel on its own—there would normally be twenty trains traveling in either direction between London and Paris at any one time.” He paused to sip his coffee.

  “Is that so?” I asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

  “It certainly is,” Duncan said. “I’ve done my research thoroughly.”

  A glass of deep red port was being poured for Christabel. I glanced at the label: Taylor’s 55. This was something I had never had the privilege of tasting. Christabel indicated that the bottle should be left on the table. The waiter nodded, and Christabel immediately poured me a glass, without asking if I wanted it. Meanwhile, the maître clipped a cigar for Duncan that he hadn’t requested.

  “In chapter twelve we discover the terrorists’ purpose,” continued Duncan. “Namely, blowing up the train as a publicity stunt, guaranteed to get their cause onto every front page in the world. But the passengers who have remained on the train, led by the American father, are planning a counteroffensive.”

  The maître lit a match and Duncan automatically picked up the cigar and put it in his mouth. It silenced him …

  “The self-made millionaire might feel he’s the natural leader,” I suggested.

  … but only for a moment. “He’s a Greek. If I’m going to make any money out of this project, it’s the American market I have to aim for. And don’t forget the film rights,” Duncan said, jabbing the air with his cigar.

  I couldn’t fault his logic.

  “Can I have the check?” Duncan asked as the maître d’ passed by our table.

  “Certainly, sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.

  “Now, my trouble is going to be the ending—” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat unsteadily, rose from her chair.

  She turned to face me
and said, “I’m afraid the time has come for me to leave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, although I have a feeling we won’t be seeing each other again. I’d just like to say how much I enjoyed your latest novel. Such an original idea. It deserved to be number one.”

  I stood, kissed her hand, and thanked her, feeling more guilty than ever.

  “Goodbye, Duncan,” she said, turning to face her former lover, but he didn’t even bother to look up. “Don’t worry yourself,” she added. “I’ll be out of the apartment by the time you get back.”

  She proceeded to negotiate a rather wobbly route across the restaurant, eventually reaching the door that led out onto the street. The maître held it open for her and bowed low.

  “I can’t pretend I’m sorry to see her go,” said Duncan, puffing away on his cigar. “Fantastic body, great between the sheets, but she’s totally lacking in imagination.”

  The maître d’ reappeared by Duncan’s side, this time to place a small black leather folder in front of him.

  “Well, the critics were certainly right about this place,” I commented. Duncan nodded his agreement.

  The maître bowed, but not quite as low as before. “Now, my trouble, as I was trying to explain before Christabel decided to make her exit,” continued Duncan, “is that I’ve done the outline, completed the research, but I still don’t have an ending. Any ideas?” he asked, as a middle-aged woman rose from a nearby table and began walking determinedly toward us.

  Duncan flicked open the leather cover, and stared in disbelief at the bill.

  The woman came to a halt beside our table. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book,” she said in a loud voice.

  Other diners turned around to see what was going on.

  “Thank you,” I said somewhat curtly, hoping to prevent her from adding to my discomfort.

  Duncan’s eyes were still fixed on the bill.

  “And the ending,” she said. “So clever! I would never have guessed how you were going to get the American family out of the tunnel alive …”

  DOUGIE MORTIMER’S RIGHT ARM

  Robert Henry Kefford III, known to his friends as Bob, was in bed with a girl called Helen when he first heard about Dougie Mortimer’s right arm.

  Bob was sorry to be leaving Cambridge. He had spent three glorious years at St. John’s, and although he hadn’t read as many books as he had done for his undergraduate degree at the University of Chicago, he had strived every bit as hard to come in head of the river.

  It wasn’t unusual for an American to win a rowing blue in the early 1970s, but to have stroked a victorious Cambridge eight for three years in a row was acknowledged as a first.

  Bob’s father, Robert Henry Kefford II, known to his friends as Robert, had traveled over to England to watch his son take part in all three races from Putney to Mortlake. After Bob had stroked Cambridge to victory for the third time, his father told him that he must not return to his native Illinois without having presented a memento to the University Boat Club that they would remember him by.

  “And don’t forget, my boy,” declared Robert Henry Kefford II, “the gift must not be ostentatious. Better to show that you have made an effort to present them with an object of historic value than give them something that obviously cost a great deal of money. The British appreciate that sort of thing.”

  Bob spent many hours pondering his father’s words, but completely failed to come up with any worthwhile ideas. After all, the Cambridge University Boat Club had more silver cups and trophies than they could possibly display.

  It was on a Sunday morning that Helen first mentioned the name of Dougie Mortimer. She and Bob were lying in each other’s arms, when she started poking his biceps.

  “Is this some form of ancient British foreplay that I ought to know about?” Bob asked, placing his free arm around Helen’s shoulder.

  “Certainly not,” Helen replied. “I was simply trying to discover if your biceps are as big as Dougie Mortimer’s.”

  Since Bob had never known a girl who talked about another man while he was in bed with her, he was unable to think of an immediate response.

  “And are they?” he eventually inquired, flexing his muscles.

  “Hard to tell,” Helen replied. “I’ve never actually touched Dougie’s arm, only seen it at a distance.”

  “And where did you come across this magnificent specimen of manhood?”

  “It hangs over the bar at my dad’s local, in Hull.”

  “Doesn’t Dougie Mortimer find that a little painful?” asked Bob, laughing.

  “Doubt if he cares that much,” said Helen. “After all, he’s been dead for over sixty years.”

  “And his arm still hangs above a bar?” asked Bob in disbelief. “Hasn’t it begun to smell a bit by now?”

  This time it was Helen’s turn to laugh. “No, you Yankee fool. It’s a bronze cast of his arm. In those days, if you were in the university crew for three years in a row, they made a cast of your arm to hang in the clubhouse. Not to mention a card with your picture on it in every pack of Player’s cigarettes. I’ve never seen your picture in a cigarette pack, come to think of it,” said Helen as she pulled the sheet over his head.

  “Did he row for Oxford or Cambridge?” asked Bob.

  “No idea.”

  “So what’s the name of this pub in Hull?”

  “The King William,” Helen replied, as Bob took his arm from around her shoulder.

  “Is this American foreplay?” she asked after a few moments.

  Later that morning, after Helen had left for Newnham, Bob began searching his shelves for a book with a blue cover. He dug out his much-thumbed History of the Boat Race and flicked through the index, to discover that there were seven Mortimers listed. Five had rowed for Oxford, two for Cambridge. He began to pray as he checked their initials. Mortimer, A. J. (Westminster and Wadham, Oxon.), Mortimer, C. K. (Uppingham and Oriel, Oxon.), Mortimer, D. J. T (Harrow and St. Catharine’s, Cantab.), Mortimer, E. L.

  (Oundle and Magdalen, Oxon.). Bob turned his attention to Mortimer, D. J. T., biography page 129, and flicked the pages backward until he reached the entry he sought. “Douglas John Townsend Mortimer (St. Catharine’s), Cambridge 1907, –08, –09, stroke.” He then read the short summary of Mortimer’s rowing career.

  Dougie Mortimer stroked the Cambridge boat to victory in 1907, a feat which he repeated in 1908. But in 1909, when the experts considered Cambridge to have one of the finest crews for years, the light blues lost to an Oxford boat that was regarded as the rank outsider. Although many explanations were suggested by the press at the time, the result of the race remains a mystery to this day. Mortimer died in 1914.

  Bob closed the book and returned it to the shelf, assuming that the great oarsman must have been killed in the First World War. He perched on the end of the bed, considering the information he now possessed. If he could bring Dougie Mortimer’s right arm back to Cambridge and present it to the club at the annual Blues’ Dinner, it would surely be a prize that met his father’s demanding criterion.

  He dressed quickly and went downstairs to the pay phone in the corridor. Once directory inquiries had given him the four numbers he required, he set about trying to remove the next obstacle.

  The first calls he made were to the King William—or, to be precise, the King Williams, because the directory had supplied him with the numbers of three pubs in Hull that bore that name. When he was put through to the first, he asked, “Does Dougie Mortimer’s right arm hang above your counter?” He couldn’t quite make out every word of the broad northern accent that replied, but he was left in no doubt that it didn’t.

  The second call was answered by a girl who said, “Do you mean that thing that’s nailed to the wall above the bar?”

  “Yes, I guess that will be it,” said Bob.

  “Well then, this is the pub you’re looking for.”

  After Bob had taken down the address and checked the pub’s opening hours, he
made a third call. “Yes, that’s possible,” he was told. “You can take the 3:17 to Peterborough, where you’ll have to change and catch the 4:09 for Doncaster, then change again. You’ll arrive in Hull at 6:32.”

  “What about the last train back?” asked Bob.

  “That’d be the 8:52, change at Doncaster and Peterborough. You should be back in Cambridge just after midnight.”

  “Thank you,” said Bob. He strolled off to his college for lunch and took a place at the large center table, but proved unusually poor company for those around him.

  He boarded the train to Peterborough later that afternoon, still thinking about how he could possibly relieve the pub owners of their prize possession. At Peterborough he jumped out, walked across to a waiting train on platform three, and climbed aboard, still deep in thought. When his train pulled into Hull a couple of hours later he was no nearer to solving the problem. He asked the first taxi on the rank to take him to the King William.

  “Market Place, Harold’s Corner, or Percy Street?” asked the cabbie.

  “Percy. Street, please,” replied Bob.

  “They don’t open until seven, lad,” the cabbie told him once he had dropped Bob outside the front door.

  Bob checked the time. Twenty minutes to kill. He walked down a side street at the back of the pub, and stopped to watch some young lads playing football. They were using the front walls of two houses on either side of the street as goals, and showed amazing accuracy in never hitting any of the windows. Bob wondered if the game would ever catch on in America.

  He became so captivated by the youngsters’ skill that they stopped to ask him if he wanted to join in. He said, “No thank you,” confident that if he did play with them, he would be the one person who ended up breaking a window.

  He arrived back outside the King William a few minutes after seven and strolled into the empty pub, hoping no one would pay much attention to him. But at six feet four inches, and dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer, gray flannels, a blue shirt and college tie, the three people behind the bar might well have wondered if he had dropped in from another planet. He stopped himself from looking above the bar, as a young blond barmaid stepped forward and asked him what he would like.