The inquisitive man looked at me from between narrowed eyelids, ferret-like.
“Did any one on the train suspect you of having valuable papers?” he inquired. The crowd was listening intently.
“No one,” I answered promptly and positively. The doctor was investigating the murdered man’s effects. The pockets of his trousers contained the usual miscellany of keys and small change, while in his hip pocket was found a small pearl-handled revolver of the type women usually keep around. A gold watch with a Masonic charm had slid down between the mattress and the window, while a showy diamond stud was still fastened in the bosom of his shirt. Taken as a whole, the personal belongings were those of a man of some means, but without any particular degree of breeding. The doctor heaped them together.
“Either robbery was not the motive,” he reflected, “or the thief overlooked these things in his hurry.”
The latter hypothesis seemed the more tenable, when, after a thorough search, we found no pocketbook and less than a dollar in small change.
The suitcase gave no clue. It contained one empty leather-covered flask and a pint bottle, also empty, a change of linen and some collars with the laundry mark, S. H. In the leather tag on the handle was a card with the name Simon Harrington, Pittsburg. The conductor sat down on my unmade berth, across, and made an entry of the name and address. Then, on an old envelope, he wrote a few words and gave it to the porter, who disappeared.
“I guess that’s all I can do,” he said. “I’ve had enough trouble this trip to last for a year. They don’t need a conductor on these trains any more; what they ought to have is a sheriff and a posse.”
The porter from the next car came in and whispered to him. The conductor rose unhappily.
“Next car’s caught the disease,” he grumbled. “Doctor, a woman back there has got mumps or bubonic plague, or something. Will you come back?”
The strange porter stood aside.
“Lady about the middle of the car,” he said, “in black, sir, with queer-looking hair - sort of copper color, I think, sir.”
CHAPTER V
THE WOMAN IN THE NEXT CAR
With the departure of the conductor and the doctor, the group around lower ten broke up, to re-form in smaller knots through the car. The porter remained on guard. With something of relief I sank into a seat. I wanted to think, to try to remember the details of the previous night. But my inquisitive acquaintance had other intentions. He came up and sat down beside me. Like the conductor, he had taken notes of the dead man’s belongings, his name, address, clothing and the general circumstances of the crime. Now with his little notebook open before him, he prepared to enjoy the minor sensation of the robbery.
“And now for the second victim,” he began cheerfully. “What is your name and address, please?” I eyed him with suspicion.
“I have lost everything but my name and address,” I parried. “What do you want them for? Publication?”
“Oh, no; dear, no!” he said, shocked at my misapprehension. “Merely for my own enlightenment. I like to gather data of this kind and draw my own conclusions. Most interesting and engrossing. Once or twice I have forestalled the results of police investigation - but entirely for my own amusement.”
I nodded tolerantly. Most of us have hobbies; I knew a man once who carried his handkerchief up his sleeve and had a mania for old colored prints cut out of Godey’s Lady’s Book.
“I use that inductive method originated by Poe and followed since with such success by Conan Doyle. Have you ever read Gaboriau? Ah, you have missed a treat, indeed. And now, to get down to business, what is the name of our escaped thief and probable murderer?”
“How on earth do I know?” I demanded impatiently. “He didn’t write it in blood anywhere, did he?”
The little man looked hurt and disappointed.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that the pockets of those clothes are entirely empty?” The pockets! In the excitement I had forgotten entirely the sealskin grip which the porter now sat at my feet, and I had not investigated the pockets at all. With the inquisitive man’s pencil taking note of everything that I found, I emptied them on the opposite seat.
Upper left-hand waist-coat, two lead pencils and a fountain pen; lower right waist-coat, match-box and a small stamp book; right-hand pocket coat, pair of gray suede gloves, new, size seven and a half; left-hand pocket, gun-metal cigarette case studded with pearls, half-full of Egyptian cigarettes. The trousers pockets contained a gold penknife, a small amount of money in bills and change, and a handkerchief with the initial “S” on it.
Further search through the coat discovered a card-case with cards bearing the name Henry Pinckney Sullivan, and a leather flask with gold mountings, filled with what seemed to be very fair whisky, and monogrammed H. P. S.
“His name evidently is Henry Pinckney Sullivan,” said the cheerful follower of Poe, as he wrote it down. “Address as yet unknown. Blond, probably. Have you noticed that it is almost always the blond men who affect a very light gray, with a touch of red in the scarf? Fact, I assure you. I kept a record once of the summer attire of men, and ninety per cent, followed my rule. Dark men like you affect navy blue, or brown.”
In spite of myself I was amused at the man’s shrewdness.
“Yes; the suit he took was dark - a blue,” I said. He rubbed his hands and smiled at me delightedly. “Then you wore black shoes, not tan,” he said, with a glance at the aggressive yellow ones I wore.
“Right again,” I acknowledged. “Black low shoes and black embroidered hose. If you keep on you’ll have a motive for the crime, and the murderer’s present place of hiding. And if you come back to the smoker with me, I’ll give you an opportunity to judge if he knew good whisky from bad.”
I put the articles from the pockets back again and got up. “I wonder if there is a diner on?” I said. “I need something sustaining after all this.”
I was conscious then of some one at my elbow. I turned to see the young woman whose face was so vaguely familiar. In the very act of speaking she drew back suddenly and colored.
“Oh, - I beg your pardon,” she said hurriedly, “I - thought you were - some one else.” She was looking in a puzzled fashion at my coat. I felt all the cringing guilt of a man who has accidentally picked up the wrong umbrella: my borrowed collar sat tight on my neck.
“I’m sorry,” I said idiotically. “I’m sorry, but - I’m not.” I have learned since that she has bright brown hair, with a loose wave in it that drops over her ears, and dark blue eyes with black lashes and - but what does it matter? One enjoys a picture as a whole: not as the sum of its parts.
She saw the flask then, and her errand came back to her. “One of the ladies at the end of car has fainted,” she explained. “I thought perhaps a stimulant - ”
I picked up the flask at once and followed my guide down the aisle. Two or three women were working over the woman who had fainted. They had opened her collar and taken out her hairpins, whatever good that might do. The stout woman was vigorously rubbing her wrists, with the idea, no doubt, of working up her pulse! The unconscious woman was the one for whom I had secured lower eleven at the station.
I poured a little liquor in a bungling masculine fashion between her lips as she leaned back, with closed eyes. She choked, coughed, and rallied somewhat.
“Poor thing,” said the stout lady. “As she lies back that way I could almost think it was my mother; she used to faint so much.”
“It would make anybody faint,” chimed in another. “Murder and robbery in one night and on one car. I’m thankful I always wear my rings in a bag around my neck - even if they do get under me and keep me awake.”