Erle Gardner - The Blonde in Lower Six

I preferred to wait in the fresh air out on the platform — air which had no sign of a breeze, yet into which almost imperceptibly was beginning to creep that before-dawn freshness that gives tired mortals the courage to face another scorching summer day.

The block signed changed. I heard the distant “who-o-o-o” of the train. Then, a few minutes later, the long, weary line of cars rumbled tiredly into the station.

The conductor looked at my reservation, turned me over to a porter, and a few minutes later, I was walking down the green-curtained Pullman aisle.

I sat down on the edge of lower seven and looked across at the buttoned green curtains of berth six. In all probability, the girl would sleep late in the morning, but I couldn’t take any chances. I needed to be on deck as soon as she was stirring.

I slipped out of my clothes, relaxing already in the cool, air-conditioned train. By the time the long line of coaches creaked into protesting motion once more, I was sliding down between the sheets. I raised the curtain on the windows so that I would be sure to waken at daylight.

It seemed that I had no more than closed my eyes when light stung them awake. It was just about sunrise and the desert clicking past the window was a disorderly procession of saguaro, ocotillo, cholla cactus and the lacy branches of smoke trees.

There was only one other man in the washroom. He looked me over speculatively, laughed, and said, “I don’t know what your hurry is. We’re not going anywhere — at least we’re not getting anywhere.”

I sized him up — a man in his forties, jelly-jiggling fat, good-natured, moonfaced and bald. In the nineties, he would have been a drummer with a fund of naughty stories and an air of worldly wisdom. As it was, I couldn’t place him. A fat man who liked the creature comforts of food, drink and sleep. Yet he was up in the early morning, shaved, dressed, and waiting. For what?

“Lost more time?” I asked.

“Another forty-five minutes during the night.”

I said, “I hate crowded washrooms.”

“Same here. I can’t shave with other people jabbing me with elbows, jostling me with bags and suitcases. Going to Los Angeles?”

I nodded.

I let him see that I was too occupied with my shaving to care about engaging in further conversation.

He was still sitting there as I left.

There was no sign of motion in lower six when I checked.

The dining car wouldn’t be open for more than an hour, so I walked out to the vestibule for a couple of cigarettes. The porter found me, expressed surprise that I was up so early, tactfully mentioned that he couldn’t make up the berth until the person in the upper berth got up, and then went straggling off in the direction of the dining car.

I stood in the vestibule until my legs got tired. I went back to the smoking room. A couple of other early risers were there, also the man with whom I had spoken earlier. He was engaged in some sort of an argument with one of the men. He looked up, saw me and, for a moment, his voice seemed to undergo a change of pace. Then he was back in his verbal stride, hardly giving me a second glance.

I went back to stand in the swaying vestibule.

The man who had slept in the upper over my berth rang for the porter. As the porter brought the ladder for him to use in getting down. I saw the curtains billow into motion on lower five. An attractive young woman with unruly golden blonde hair pulled a robe around her and scurried for the washroom. Still no sign of motion from lower six.

I waited fifteen minutes, then strolled through to the men’s room. It was now a crowded mass of humanity. I went back to my station in the vestibule.

Some ten minutes later, the car door opened. I glanced around casually. The unruly blonde hair had now been carefully combed and brushed. Wide, frank blue eyes regarded me with just the right twinkle of good nature. The girl who had slept in lower five said, “I came out here for a before-breakfast cigarette. The dressing room is a mess. I hope you’re not going to object to smoke.”

“I’ll join you,” I said. “Or perhaps you’ll have one of mine.”

She took one of mine.

“Beastly, isn’t it,” she said as I held a match for her.

“It could be worse.”

“Not without concentrating on it.”

The sun was now beginning to pack a wallop. We moved over to the shady side, stood there smoking.

“Do you know if the dining car is open?” she asked.

“The waiter just started through for the first call.”

“Ouch! I suppose that means I’ll have to stand in line for coffee.”

I took a glance back into the aisle of the car. The porter was making up berths. There was still no sign of life from lower six.

I decided I’d have time for a quick cup of coffee before she could possibly get up. I felt that coffee would just about save my life.

“I’m going up,” I told the girl from lower five. “Want to trail along as I open doors?”

She nodded.

It was a long, interminable journey but there was a pleasant surprise at the end of it. The dining car wasn’t as yet completely filled. The steward saw me coming, held up two fingers and motioned us to a single table.

“This,” I said, “is luck.”

“A gift from the gods,” she announced. “You’ve really no idea what coffee does to my disposition.”

She was watching her figure. Grapefruit, black coffee, dry toast, fresh strawberries with a bare sprinkle of sugar and just a touch of cream.

With the train so crowded, I knew I could count on quick service. I had a rush order of ham and eggs, toast and coffee, and was ready to go back by the time she had finished her light breakfast. The strain of the heat and the grime of dust and travel seemed to have eased. I felt much better. The blonde’s name was Hazel Deering. She was from the South and going to San Francisco. She led me to believe, in a vague way, that she was going to San Francisco to be near a boy friend who had been stationed at the Presidio. It was nothing definite that she said, merely a casual impression I derived from a lot of little things.

Lower six was still sleeping.

My section had been made up, so Miss Deering settled down with me when we returned. The man who had the upper was in at breakfast.

We talked about the desert, about the South, about the war, about politics. She had a quick mind, a way of making herself thoroughly at ease, and, as became a traveling acquaintance, was completely casual in her manner.

It was eight-thirty when the porter came and tugged at the green curtains of lower six.

“Eight-thirty, ma’am,” he said.

He stood by the curtained berth, waiting for a few seconds. Then he reached his hand down between the curtains, caught the blankets and started jerking them. “Eight-thirty, ma’am.”

Hazel Deering and I were both watching him. He flashed white teeth at us, shook the mattress violently. “You wanted to be called at eight-thirty, ma’am,” he said, raising his voice.

There was no answer.

The porter hesitated, glanced at us, apparently to see if we were the type that would disapprove, then having reassured himself, parted the curtains and peered very discreetly through the opening. A moment later, he was clawing the curtains apart, then, with a face the color of raw liver, trying to get them back together again.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake! Call de conductor. She’s daid!” he screamed.

The conductor was sympathetic, overworked, and immersed in so many troubles that the death was merely one more straw on an overloaded camel’s back. They found a vacant drawing room into which they could move the body temporarily and then, some time later, unloaded it at Indio.