William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“I assure you it is not nerve. Now, where are you seated in relation to the dead woman?”

“You are not the law, and I do not have to answer your questions.”

Smiling, Smoke produced his badge folder. “Oh, but I am. Deputy U.S. Marshal. First, let me say that your evasions and bluster make you sound more like the guilty party than a mere fellow passenger. With that in mind, let me ask again: Where are you seated?”

Testily, Hermione Struthers answered. Smoke asked if she had seen or heard anything unusual during the night. Her face took on the expression of a dog passing a peach pit when she snapped her answer in the negative. Smoke tried another tack.

“Well, now, I might be just a hick lawman from the high lonesome, but I do have some smarts about me. From where you would have been in your bunk, it is impossible not to have heard any sounds of struggle. And believe me, from the looks of that Pullman berth, there was considerable struggle. Even the window shade is torn.”

“I am a sound sleeper.”

Smoke could not resist the barb. “A little too much claret, eh?”

Indignation rose to balloon the face of Hermione Struthers. “I am a teetotaler, I’ll have you know.”

Smoke considered her stubbornness. She knew something, of that he was sure. Yet, he could not use force to learn it. And right now, his guile was wearing thin. “So, you heard nothing. Did you see anything, anyone around there?”

“I am not in the habit of spying on others.”

I’ll bet you’re not, Smoke thought silently. “Hmm. We’ll let that pass for the moment. If you heard nothing and saw nothing during the night, what about early this morning, when people began to rise for the day?”

“Again, nothing. Not the least thing.”

“Very well. You may go, ma’am. But I may want to talk to you again.”

Hermione turned to the door and spoke over her shoulder. “Do as you will. You will get nothing from me.” With a smug, tight expression she opened the portal and stepped across the threshold.

That’s when Smoke Jensen launched his final arrow. “Oh, so there is . . . something?”

Outside in the vestibule between the smoking car and the rearmost Pullman, Hermione Struthers unloaded her bile on Marsh Stoddard, her voice loud and cawing. “Mr. Conductor, there is something you should know about that so-called marshal in there. To my certain knowledge, he is the last person to have seen the late Miss Larkin alive. They were carrying on scandalously in the dining car.”

4

For two blistering minutes, Hermione Struthers belabored Marsh Stoddard with a highly fanciful account of an imagined torrid liaison between Smoke Jensen and Winnefred Larkin. What she lacked in imagination, she made up for in viciousness. She concluded with a demand, hot with vehemence.

“I insist that you put this train in motion at once and proceed on our way. I’ll have you know that my husband is an associate of the president of the line and well known to the board of directors. I intend to bring your dereliction to the attention of Mr. Struthers. Your future employment may depend upon your prompt obedience.”

Stoddard tipped the billed cap to her and spoke softly. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“What did you say?” Hermione demanded.

“I said, I don’t doubt that.”

“As well you shouldn’t. I shall return to my car, and I want immediate entrance.” She started for the vestibule steps.

Stoddard hurried to intervene. “I wouldn’t do that, ma’am. One of the crew might take a potshot at you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Marshal’s orders, ma’am. All vestibule doors are to be kept locked, and no one is to leave the train until the killer is unmasked.”

Hermione’s face drained of color. “But I have already told you. He is the murderer. That false marshal in there.”

Stoddard kept a tight rein on his expression. “Very well, ma’am, I’ll take care of it right away. First, come with me and I will see you to your car.”

* * *

Stoddard came back and entered the smoking car. “That damned woman. Claims you are the killer. Once she’s got her steam up, she’ll blow it off to everyone who will listen, and a good many who won’t.”

Smoke considered that a moment. “That could complicate matters a little.”

“D’you have any more of an idea of who it might be?”

“None, so far. But I am convinced that officious old hen knows something she’s not telling. I think I’ll have her back in here after I’ve gone through all the others. Bring the next one, if you will, please.”

During the next three-quarters of an hour, Smoke interviewed the train’s porters and every one of the passengers, with the exception of four people. Those who had come from the car that housed Hermione Struthers cast nervous, suspicious glances at Smoke when they thought he was not watching them. So much for the old bag. Finally, one of that group blurted out his apprehension.

“Mrs. Struthers says she has positive proof that you are the killer.”

“Well, Mr. Paddington, tell me this. When’s the last time you saw a Poland China sail past overhead?”

Paddington looked confused a moment, then angry. “That’s all stuff and nonsense. Ain’t never been a Poland China that could fly.”

“That’s my point. You can believe whatever that woman says the day pigs start to fly. Now, would you tell me if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary during the night?”

“Uh—uh well, nothing you’d call unusual, all considered.”

“Meaning what?”

“Ain’t unusual for young folks to do some sparkin’ on a train at night. They think it’s romantic.”

That grabbed Smoke’s attention at once. “And you saw something like that?”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t see ’em actually clingin’ to one another like soul mates, but I reckon that had come right before.” Again, Paddington paused irritatingly.

“Before what?” Smoke pressed.

“Jist before I saw this young man leave our car. He come from down the direction of that poor young woman’s berth.”

“Could you recognize him?”

For once, Paddington did not hesitate. “Not for certain. His head was all in shadows. An’ he seemed in a hurry. I was gettin’ up to visit the slop jar an’ he like to knocked me back into my bunk.”

Smoke listed physical characteristics in an attempt to spark memory. “Was he tall? Short? Heavy? Thin? What did he wear?”

Paddington mused on it. “He was about my height, five-nine, slightly built, I’d say, and had a suit on. Seemed to me the shirt was of two colors, dark and light.”

“Could that have been black and white?”

Surprise wrathed Paddington’s face. “Say, yer right, marshal. It sure could have been.”

“Are you aware that in very low lamplight, or moonlight, blood looks black?” There had been a lot of blood.

“Ohmygod! If only I’d seen his face.”

Yes, if only, Smoke thought with disappointment.

That had been fifteen minutes earlier, and Smoke was now ready to start on the last four. He ruled out the first to enter at sight of the man. He was short, fat and wore spectacles that would rival the bottom of a wine bottle. Smoke questioned him anyway.

No. No one had passed through the chair car where he had been trying to sleep. He had heard nothing. At least not until some woman screamed bloody murder early in the morning. Could hear her clear up in his coach. Smoke excused him and asked Stoddard to bring in the next.

A slender man in his early twenties entered the smoking car. He had shifty eyes, and his palms were notably wet and unexpectedly cold when Smoke shook his hand. Smoke let him sweat in silence for two minutes after giving his name.