No solution offering itself, I went back to my berth. The snorer across had
apparently strangled, or turned over, and so after a time I dropped asleep, to
be awakened by the morning sunlight across my face.
I felt for my watch, yawning prodigiously. I reached under the pillow and
failed to find it, but something scratched the back of my hand. I sat up
irritably and nursed the wound, which was bleeding a little. Still drowsy, I
felt more cautiously for what I supposed had been my scarf pin, but there was
nothing there. Wide awake now, I reached for my traveling-bag, on the chance
that I had put my watch in there. I had drawn the satchel to me and had my hand
on the lock before I realized that it was not my own!
Mine was of alligator hide. I had killed the beast in Florida, after the
expenditure of enough money to have bought a house and enough energy to have
built one. The bag I held in my hand was a black one, sealskin, I think. The
staggering thought of what the loss of my bag meant to me put my finger on the
bell and kept it there until the porter came.
“Did you ring, sir?” he asked, poking his head through the curtains
obsequiously. McKnight objects that nobody can poke his head through a curtain
and be obsequious. But Pullman porters can and do.
“No,” I snapped. “It rang itself. What in thunder do you mean
by exchanging my valise for this one? You’ll have to find it if you waken
the entire car to do it. There are important papers in that grip.”
“Porter,” called a feminine voice from an upper berth near-by.
“Porter, am I to dangle here all day?”
“Let her dangle,” I said savagely. “You find that bag of
mine.”
The porter frowned. Then he looked at me with injured dignity. “I brought
in your overcoat, sir. You carried your own valise.”
The fellow was right! In an excess of caution I had refused to relinquish my
alligator bag, and had turned over my other traps to the porter. It was clear
enough then. I was simply a victim of the usual sleeping-car robbery. I was in
a lather of perspiration by that time: the lady down the car was still dangling
and talking about it: still nearer a feminine voice was giving quick orders in
French, presumably to a maid. The porter was on his knees, looking under the
berth.
“Not there, sir,” he said, dusting his knees. He was visibly more
cheerful, having been absolved of responsibility. “Reckon it was taken
while you was wanderin’ around the car last night.”
“I’ll give you fifty dollars if you find it,” I said.
“A hundred. Reach up my shoes and I’ll—”
I stopped abruptly. My eyes were fixed in stupefied amazement on a coat that
hung from a hook at the foot of my berth. From the coat they traveled, dazed,
to the soft-bosomed shirt beside it, and from there to the collar and cravat in
the net hammock across the windows.
“A hundred!” the porter repeated, showing his teeth. But I caught
him by the arm and pointed to the foot of the berth.
“What—what color’s that coat?” I asked unsteadily.
“Gray, sir.” His tone was one of gentle reproof.
“And—the trousers?”
He reached over and held up one creased leg. “Gray, too,” he
grinned.
“Gray!” I could not believe even his corroboration of my own eyes.
“But my clothes were blue!” The porter was amused: he dived under
the curtains and brought up a pair of shoes. “Your shoes, sir,” he
said with a flourish. “Reckon you’ve been dreaming, sir.”
Now, there are two things I always avoid in my dress—possibly an
idiosyncrasy of my bachelor existence. These tabooed articles are red neckties
and tan shoes. And not only were the shoes the porter lifted from the floor of
a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf which was run through the turned over
collar was a gaudy red. It took a full minute for the real import of things to
penetrate my dazed intelligence. Then I gave a vindictive kick at the offending
ensemble.
“They’re not mine, any of them,” I snarled. “They are
some other fellow’s. I’ll sit here until I take root before I put
them on.”
“They’re nice lookin’ clothes,” the porter put in,
eying the red tie with appreciation. “Ain’t everybody would have
left you anything.”
“Call the conductor,” I said shortly. Then a possible explanation
occurred to me. “Oh, porter—what’s the number of this
berth?”
“Seven, sir. If you cain’t wear those shoes—”
“Seven!” In my relief I almost shouted it. “Why, then,
it’s simple enough. I’m in the wrong berth, that’s all. My
berth is nine. Only—where the deuce is the man who belongs here?”
“Likely in nine, sir.” The darky was enjoying himself. “You
and the other gentleman just got mixed in the night. That’s all,
sir.” It was clear that he thought I had been drinking.
I drew a long breath. Of course, that was the explanation. This was number
seven’s berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella, his coat, his
bag. My rage turned to irritation at myself.
The porter went to the next berth and I could hear his softly insinuating
voice. “Time to get up, sir. Are you awake? Time to get up.”
There was no response from number nine. I guessed that he had opened the
curtains and was looking in. Then he came back.
“Number nine’s empty,” he said.
“Empty! Do you mean my clothes aren’t there?” I demanded.
“My valise? Why don’t you answer me?”
“You doan’ give me time,” he retorted. “There
ain’t nothin’ there. But it’s been slept in.”
The disappointment was the greater for my few moments of hope. I sat up in a
white fury and put on the clothes that had been left me. Then, still raging, I
sat on the edge of the berth and put on the obnoxious tan shoes. The porter,
called to his duties, made little excursions back to me, to offer assistance
and to chuckle at my discomfiture. He stood by, outwardly decorous, but with
little irritating grins of amusement around his mouth, when I finally emerged
with the red tie in my hand.
“Bet the owner of those clothes didn’t become them any more than
you do,” he said, as he plied the ubiquitous whisk broom.
“When I get the owner of these clothes,” I retorted grimly,
“he will need a shroud. Where’s the conductor?”
The conductor was coming, he assured me; also that there was no bag answering
the description of mine on the car. I slammed my way to the dressing-room,
washed, choked my fifteen and a half neck into a fifteen collar, and was back
again in less than five minutes. The car, as well as its occupants, was
gradually taking on a daylight appearance. I hobbled in, for one of the shoes
was abominably tight, and found myself facing a young woman in blue with an
unforgettable face. (“Three women already.” McKnight says:
“That’s going some, even if you don’t count the Gilmore
nurse.”) She stood, half-turned toward me, one hand idly drooping, the
other steadying her as she gazed out at the flying landscape. I had an instant
impression that I had met her somewhere, under different circumstances, more
cheerful ones, I thought, for the girl’s dejection now was evident.
Beside her, sitting down, a small dark woman, considerably older, was talking
in a rapid undertone. The girl nodded indifferently now and then. I fancied,
although I was not sure, that my appearance brought a startled look into the
young woman’s face. I sat down and, hands thrust deep into the other
man’s pockets, stared ruefully at the other man’s shoes.
The stage was set. In a moment the curtain was going up on the first act of the
play. And for a while we would all say our little speeches and sing our little
songs, and I, the villain, would hold center stage while the gallery hissed.
The porter was standing beside lower ten. He had reached in and was knocking
valiantly. But his efforts met with no response. He winked at me over his
shoulder; then he unfastened the curtains and bent forward. Behind him, I saw
him stiffen, heard his muttered exclamation, saw the bluish pallor that spread
over his face and neck. As he retreated a step the interior of lower ten lay
open to the day.
The man in it was on his back, the early morning sun striking full on his
upturned face. But the light did not disturb him. A small stain of red dyed the
front of his night clothes and trailed across the sheet; his half-open eyes
were fixed, without seeing, on the shining wood above.
I grasped the porter’s shaking shoulders and stared down to where the
train imparted to the body a grisly suggestion of motion. “Good
Lord,” I gasped. “The man’s been murdered!”
