Читать книгу The Basle Express - Cyril Henry Coles - Страница 3

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The Anglo-Swiss Express, loaded as its name suggests with the travelling English, leaves Calais at twenty minutes to seven in the evening and rumbles through the night, with only five stops on the way, to reach Basle at six in the morning. One dines, one sleeps, one wakes in the morning and there is Switzerland. At least, that is the general idea, and most people carry it out more or less.

Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon intended to do so. He had dined and found somebody to talk to over his coffee, fine, and cigarette. The time was getting on; there would be an early rise in the morning and he was getting sleepy. He decided to return to the sleeper which he shared with another man about whom he knew nothing except that he was an elderly man who wrote for the Press, intended to retire shortly and thereafter pursue a recently acquired enthusiam for making model ships.

When Hambledon reached his sleeper he found his companion for the night already in pyjamas and bed, sitting up smoking cigarettes and browsing happily through the pages of a book which he had already recommended to Hambledon’s attention, How to Make Old-Time Ship Models by one E. W. Hobbs.

“Still studying your bible?” asked Hambledon pleasantly.

The man looked up with a smile. He had dark wiry hair going silver at the temples and thin on the crown, his fingers were stained with nicotine, and his face was deeply lined and wore a habitually sardonic expression. He spoke fluent English but with a perceptible foreign accent.

“That is so. I find it pleasant to study it and to say to myself, some day I will build that, and that.”

“Tell me,” said Hambledon, proceeding with his undressing, “what does one do with ship models when they are finished?”

“The usual procedure is to set them upon the tops of bookcases where they either become wreathed in dust and cobwebs or else receive daily damage from daily cleaning. Or else they are put in glass cases.”

“Or given to nephews.”

“I have no nephews. No. I do not purpose to follow any of these courses. I propose that my ships shall sail. Sir, you look surprised, but why should they not if properly ballasted? Their prototypes did.”

“Certainly,” said Hambledon amiably, “indeed they did. Drake went round the world in the Golden Hind, though I don’t know that I should have cared to accompany him.”

“There is an illustration here,” said the stranger, “of a model of the Golden Hind, look.”

“She looks a bit top-heavy,” said Hambledon. He began to turn over the pages of the book, but its owner took it from him.

“Excuse me, there are some folded plans interleaved; if they fall out and become unfolded it is a nuisance. Yes, she looks top-heavy but with proper ballasting—sir, what could be more delightful than to see with one’s own eyes these famous vessels ploughing the water again as they did four hundred years ago?”

Hambledon paused in the act of getting into his bunk.

“You know, I do see your point there. Like looking back at history through the wrong end of a telescope. Yes, I should like to see that myself.” He climbed into bed and switched out his reading lamp.

“I hope you sleep well,” said the stranger. “Sir, with simple pride I assure you that I do not snore.”

“I have never been accused of that either,” laughed Hambledon, “though I understand that one cannot tell with regard to one’s self.”

“You are not married then? Nor I. It is better so,” said the other man, putting How to Make Old-Time Ship Models on the little flap table under the window and switching out his light. “One can change one’s housekeeper.”

The compartment was lighted only by a small blue lamp in the roof and blinds were drawn over the windows at both ends. The train stopped at Mézières and, after a long pause, moved on again. Hambledon grew drowsy, listening to the various train noises which merged more and more remotely into a mere background of sound as he fell asleep.

He woke suddenly from a dream in which some man was trying to tell him something terribly urgent but was speaking so quietly that his voice was inaudible. The dream vanished but the voice went on, addressing not Hambledon but the occupant of the other bunk; the language used was French.

“Keep your voice down,” it said; “there is no need to awaken that other. You will hand over those papers at once and without fuss, Monsieur Bastien.”

“My good idiot,” said Bastien yawning audibly, “I have no idea what you are talking about. There is the London Times on the rack, also today’s Temps and the latest New Yorker if you want something to read.”

The newcomer said, “Stop this fooling at once. Those papers you got by a trick at Basle last night. Give them to me.”

“But——”

“Look. This is a gun. Do you want to die?”

“Not particularly,” drawled Bastien.

“Then you’d better hand over. Where are they? Where——”

“In my despatch case——”

“Let me get up.”

“Certainly not. What for?”

“Because I’m lying on it, fool. Do you suppose I’d leave it about where any cheap train thief could sneak it?”

The intruder, who had been bending over Bastien, moved back. Hambledon, through half-closed eyes, could see him plainly, gun and all, so bright did the dim blue light appear to eyes accustomed to it. Hambledon was the victim of extreme indecision; he had no weapon himself, and few postures are more impeding to action than being under bedclothes well tucked in. Besides, it might be true that Bastien had stolen whatever it was the other man wanted; if Bastien were prepared to hand it back presumably the intruder would depart satisfied and all would be well.

Bastien swung his legs out of bed and stood up; the train rocked and bumped over points and both men staggered.

“Be quick,” said the intruder, “be quick. This is Metz and I get off here.”

Bastien began to feel among the bedclothes and under the mattress; it was plain that he was putting off time, and the train began to slow down.

“Hurry! Name of ten thousand devils—I will kill you in ten seconds from now——”

“I forgot,” said Bastien calmly, “it is on the rack, after all.” He pointed at the luggage rack above his bunk and the man looked up towards it and the light. There was a despatch case on the rack.

“I thought I knew your voice,” said Bastien, “Pierre——”

“Unlucky for you,” snarled Pierre, and shot him through the head. Before Bastien’s body had slid to the floor Pierre had snatched the despatch case from the rack, flung the door open, and was in the corridor before Hambledon was out of bed. There was a startled exclamation outside, an angry snarl and a cry of pain. Hambledon shot out into the corridor just in time to provide the staggering conducteur with someone to cling to. The train slowed abruptly and platform lights slid past the windows. Pierre had gone.

“Stop that man——” began Hambledon.

“My head—one has struck me on the head——”

The passing lights became slower and slower yet; from the end of the corridor there came a gust of cold air as somebody opened a door.

“He’ll get away,” said Hambledon, vainly trying to disconnect himself from the conducteur whose knees were giving way. A door slammed at the end of the next coach and Hambledon saw a figure he recognized running to a stop beside the still moving train. The next moment Pierre turned away and disappeared.

“Well, I’m not going to chase him in pyjamas and bare feet,” said Hambledon irritably. “Hold up, man. Pull yourself together; there’s been murder done—I think.”

“Murder?” said the man dazedly. “Oh, no. I am hurt but I am not dead. Indeed, not.”

“I rejoice,” said Hambledon. “Nevertheless a gentleman has been shot in my compartment. Should we not go and see whether he lives or not?”

The conducteur removed his arms from round Hambledon’s neck, drew himself up and said, “Lead on, monsieur,” in a solemn leaden voice. “Which compartment?”

Bastien was not quite dead when they picked him up and laid him on the bed. The conducteur bent over him.

“Monsieur, can you speak? Monsieur, who did this?”

Bastien’s eyes opened for a moment, and it is possible that he saw Hambledon.

“Albert,” he murmured, “Albert.” He died at once.

“Albert,” repeated the conducteur. “Might that perhaps be your name, monsieur?”

“Certainly not,” said Hambledon coldly.

“Then it is that of his assassin.”

Hambledon opened his mouth, shut it again and finally said, “You must summon the police. At once. This train must be held here.”

“Impossible——”

“Go,” said Hambledon, pushing him out into the corridor, “go and call the police. Instantly.” He slid the doors together behind the conducteur and began hastily to dress.

The doors slid open and one of the railway police came in. His eyes widened as he saw Bastien’s body on the left-hand bunk. Hambledon asked if there were any objection to his staying in the compartment for as long as it would take him to dress himself. “Pyjamas,” he said affably, “and bare feet are not suitable wear for these tragic occasions. They lower the morale.”

“Undoubtedly, monsieur. I am not, myself, in charge of this case. I am merely here until the civil police arrive, but I cannot see any objection to monsieur dressing himself. Even in the highly inconceivable event of the civil police arresting monsieur, he would still be allowed to dress before being taken to the police station.”

“Eh? I didn’t shoot this poor man.”

“I did not say that monsieur did. On the contrary, I said that the idea was inconceivable.”

“Then why conceive it?”

“Precisely, monsieur,” said the policeman, and twirled his moustache. The door slid open again and a gendarme beckoned the first man out.

“I’ll take over now,” said the gendarme. “You run along and count parcels. Good evening, monsieur. This is a nasty business. Our head office is sending down detectives and so on, and they said would you be so good as to stay here till they come.”

“Certainly,” said Hambledon, knotting his tie and putting on his waistcoat.

“All these clothes on the floor,” said the gendarme in an enquiring voice.

“They are his, not mine. Mine were still hanging up as I left them.”

“Then we’d best not touch them. These detectives, they become as tigers if the smallest alteration is made.”

“Very true,” said Hambledon, putting his coat on and sitting down on his bunk. “Do you think your superiors would mind if I had a cigarette? Good. Will you join me?”

“I thank monsieur, not at the moment.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Here is Monsieur Virolet.” He retired modestly into the corridor and came to attention.

A thin dark man with a drooping black moustache came to stand in the doorway and survey the scene. He nodded to Hambledon—“Just a moment, monsieur”—leaned against the doorpost, took a crumpled packet of Gaulois Bleu cigarettes from his pocket, and absent-mindedly put one in his mouth. Instantly a hand holding a petrol lighter came round the detective’s shoulder, applied a flame to his cigarette, and vanished again. Virolet took not the slightest notice of this and slowly but thoroughly let his eyes travel all over the compartment. When he had finished his survey he turned to Hambledon and introduced himself.

“My name is Virolet,” he said, and added his rank which was equivalent to Detective-Inspector. Hambledon said that the meeting would have been a pleasure if the circumstances had been less fortunate, and gave Virolet one of his official cards.

“Monsieur Hambledon of British Intelligence? But this is a pleasure. I have heard of you from an old friend, Letord of the Sûreté, do you remember? A case about some forged currency in Brussels, yes. We will talk about him later. In the meantime this is my miserable downtrodden assistant, Detective Sergeant Arnoux. He does all the work while I stand about and find fault.”

Virolet moved out of the doorway to disclose the presence of Arnoux who was, Hambledon thought, quite the smallest policeman he had ever seen. The French do not seem to have any size qualifications for entry into their police forces; so long as a man is intelligent and fit and of a certain educational standard he may serve. Perhaps the smaller ones take courses in jujitsu to level things up. Arnoux may have been an inch over five feet but no more. He had a round cheerful face and a compact figure with small hands and feet. He must have been stronger than he looked, for he was carrying the “murder bag,” a large leather bag of the Gladstone type from which he drew a big old-fashioned wooden camera. The unusually large pockets in his raincoat were dragged down by the weight of dark slides.

“One from the doorway, Arnoux, and then some close-ups,” said Virolet, turning on every available light.

“I’ll come out in the corridor,” said Hambledon. “I am in your way.”

“Impossible, monsieur,” said Arnoux politely, but stood back to let him pass. The sergeant was plainly used to handling his big camera, for he swung it up without effort and took a couple of exposures from the doorway; he was so quick at handling his dark slides that the process was but little slower than winding on a film. He advanced into the compartment to take close-up shots of the unfortunate Bastien; the double-extension bellows was racked out till it looked like the trunk of an inquisitive elephant.

“He’ll never hold that thing steady,” said Hambledon.

“Oh yes he will,” said Virolet. “He generally does. Who is the victim, did you know him?”

“Never met him till tonight,” answered Hambledon. “He told me that he wrote for the Press and his assailant called him Monsieur Bastien.”

“I seem to have heard that name. Those are his clothes on the floor, are they? One of the clothes on the floor, Arnoux. I suppose he didn’t have the kindness to name his assailant, did he?”

“He said: ‘I thought I knew your voice, Pierre—’ and then Pierre shot him.”

“It would be Pierre,” said the detective in a resigned voice. “It is the name of twenty-five per cent of the male population of France. It is even my own. Why could not his parents have christened him Heliogabalus or Cincinnatus? Finished, Arnoux? Come out of the way while I look at these clothes.”

Arnoux wriggled round his superior officer into the corridor and handed the dark slides he had used out of the window to someone outside who had apparently been waiting there for that purpose, for he set off at a run. Hambledon, who did not wish to appear inquisitive, left Virolet examining the clothes and leaned out of the window. One would think that most of the police force of Metz were there upon the platform discouraging any who wished to draw near that coach; there were policemen at the doors and stationed in the corridor while, even as Hambledon looked out, there approached a small group of sturdy men carrying a stretcher. Another man carrying a small black bag hurried through the police cordon and proved to be what he looked, a doctor. Hambledon felt a touch on his arm and looked round.

“Those clothes had been thoroughly searched,” said Virolet, “even to slitting the seams.”

“That would be before I woke,” said Hambledon. “It was the sound of talking which roused me though they were almost whispering.”

“We will tell the chef de train to find us an empty compartment, and you shall tell me what you know. Arnoux——” But the little man had already darted away. “The motive was not robbery,” went on Virolet, “here is his wallet with plenty of money in it. Here is his passport, too, he was Edouard Gilles Bastien with an address in Basle; profession, Press Correspondent. He left Basle last night, here is the exit stamp.”

“Pierre said that Bastien was in Basle last night,” said Hambledon. “He said that Bastien had got some papers by a trick and Pierre wanted them back. He said he would shoot Bastien if he didn’t hand them over, and Bastien said they were in his despatch case on the rack. Pierre looked up, the light from that blue night lamp fell on his face, and Bastien recognized him and was rash enough to say so.”

“And that is why he was shot, no doubt, since he was giving up the papers. Here come the rest of my gang, though I don’t suppose it will be the slightest use fingerprinting in here.” Hambledon prepared to withdraw and Virolet said, “I wonder if the chef de train has a spare—there he is. Arnoux——”

“If Monsieur Hambledon would have the goodness to come this way, there is an empty compartment; it is a day coach, but——”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Hambledon. “My things——There is only a rucksack, a coat, and some magazines.”

“I will send a man along with them in a moment and come myself as soon as I can,” said Virolet. “Here, doctor.”

Hambledon effaced himself but not before he had heard a wail coming in through the open corridor window.

“Monsieur Virolet! Cannot the train go on? I am the stationmaster. I implore you to allow——”

Virolet said something inaudible, and the stationmaster’s high voice rose again.

“But one does not hold the Anglo-Swiss Express! One——”

Hambledon was conducted to a vacant compartment in the next coach. A suitcase, an overcoat, and two brown paper parcels were being removed by a porter.

“Someone has been turned out to make room for us?”

“Certainly, monsieur,” said the chef de train.

“He—or she—did not object?”

“Monsieur, we said that it was an anxious parent with a sick and weeping child; would the passenger permit that they share his compartment which was otherwise empty. Monsieur, he begged to be allowed to resign the entire compartment to the prior claims of maternal solicitude.”

“Magnificent,” said Hambledon.

“Not at all,” said the chef de train modestly. “All part of the service, monsieur.”

He went away; a moment later the doors reopened to admit a policeman with Hambledon’s rucksack, overcoat, and roll of magazines. The man put the things down, asked if that were all or was there anything more, and went away reassured. Hambledon got up to hang his coat upon a hook and a book slipped to the floor from under it—How to Make Old-Time Ship Models.

“Poor old chap,” said Tommy, and tossed the book on the opposite seat.