Lord Darcy Investigates

by Randall Garrett

  “Not quite the same. They’re not as unified as the Duchies of Italy. Some of them take the title of Prince, and some would like to take the title of King, though that’s forbidden by the Concordat of Magdeburg. But the general idea’s the same. You might say that we’re all different states, but with the same goals, under the same Emperor. We all want individual freedom, peace, prosperity, and happy homes. And the Emperor is the living symbol of those goals for all of us.”

  After a moment’s silence, Martine said: “Goodness! That’s very poetic, Goodman Seamus!”

  “It still seems silly,” John-Paul said doggedly, “to have to stop a train at the border between two Imperial Duchies.”

  Master Seamus sighed. “You should try visiting the Poles—or even the Magyars,” he said. “The delay might be as much as two hours. You would have to have a passport. The train would be searched. Your luggage would be searched. Even you might be searched. And the Poles do that even when their own people are crossing their own internal borders.”

  “Well!” said Martine, “I certainly shan’t ever go there!’

  “No need to worry about that,” said John-Paul. “Will you have more caffe, my dear?”

  Master Seamus went back to the train feeling very relaxed, thankful that two very ordinary people had taken his mind off his troubles. He never saw nor heard of either of them again.

  9

  By eight o’clock that evening, the Napoli Express was nearly twenty-five miles out of Marsaille, headed for a rendezvous with the Ligurian border.

  The saba game was in full swing again, and Master Seamus had the private feeling that, if it weren’t for the fact that no one was permitted in the lounge while the train was in the station, three or four of the die-hards would never have bothered to eat.

  By that time, the sorcerer found his eyelids getting heavy again. Since Father Armand was in deep conversation with two other passengers, Master Seamus decided he might as well go back to the compartment and take his turn on the day couch. He dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

  The sorcerer’s inward clock told him that it was ten minutes of nine when a rap sounded at the door.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Fred, sir. Time to make up the bed, sir.”

  Wake up, it’s time to go to sleep, the sorcerer thought glumly as he got his feet on the floor. “Certainly, Fred; come in.”

  “Sorry, sir, but the beds have to be made before I go off at nine. The night man doesn’t have the keys, you see.”

  “Certainly; that’s all right. I had me little nap, and I feel much better. I’ll go on out to the lounge and let you work; there’s hardly room in here for two of us.”

  “That’s true, sir; thank you, sir.”

  There was a new man on behind the bar. As the sorcerer sat down, he put down the glass he was polishing and came over.

  “May I serve you, sir?”

  “Indeed you may, me lad. A beer, if you please.”

  “One beer; yes, sir.” He took a pint mug, filled it, and served it.

  There was no one else at the bar. The saba game, like the constellations in the sky, seemed unchanged. Master Seamus entertained a brief fantasy of taking this same trip a hundred years hence and seeing nothing remarkably different about that saba game. (Young Jamieson had replaced Boothroyd, but Hauser, Tailleur, Herrick and Vandepole were still at it.) Master Seamus drank his beer slowly and looked around the lounge.

  Sir Stanley Galbraith and Father Armand were seated on the rearward couch, not talking to each other, but reading newspapers which they had evidently picked up in Marsaille.

  Apparently, Charpentier had managed to cure Zeisler’s hangover and get some food in him, for the two of them were sitting at the near table with Boothroyd and Lamar, talking in low tones. Zeisler was drinking caffe.

  Mac Kay, Quinte, and Peabody were nowhere in sight.

  Then Peabody, with his silver-handled stick, limped in from the passageway. He ordered ouiskie-and-splash and took it to the forward couch to sit by himself. He, too, had a newspaper, and began reading it with his touch-me-not attitude.

  The sorcerer finished his beer and ordered another.

  After a few minutes, Fred came back from his final duties for the day and said to the night man: “It’s all yours, Tonio. Take over.” And promptly left.

  “No, no; I can get it. I’m closer.” It was Zeisler’s voice, raised just high enough for the sorcerer to hear it. His chair was nearest the bar. He got up, caffe cup in hand, and brought it over to the bar. “Another cup of caffe, Tonio.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zeisler smiled and nodded at Master Seamus, but said nothing. The sorcerer returned the greeting.

  And then pretended not to notice what Tonio was doing. He set the cup down behind the bar, carefully poured in a good ounce of ouiskie, then filled the cup from the carafe that sat over a small alcohol lamp. It was done in such a way that the men at the table could not possibly have told that there was anything but caffe in the cup.

  Zeisler had obviously tipped him well for that bit of legerdemain long before Master Seamus had come into the lounge.

  Mentally, the sorcerer allowed himself a sad chuckle. Boothroyd, Lamar, and Charpentier thought they were dutifully keeping Zeisler sober, and here he was getting blotto before their very eyes. Ah, well.

  Peabody put down his newspaper and came over to the bar, glass in hand. “Another ouiskie-and-splash, if you please,” he said in a very low voice.

  It was brought, and he returned to his seat and his newspaper. Tonio went back to polishing glasses.

  Master Seamus was well into his third beer when the Trainmaster showed up. He went around and nodded and spoke to everyone, including the sorcerer. He went back to the observation deck, and Master Seamus concluded that Quinte and Mac Kay must be back there.

  Trainmaster Edmund came back to the bar, took off his hat, and wiped his balding head with a handkerchief. “Warm evening. Tonio, how are your supplies holding out?”

  “We’ll have plenty for the rest of the evening, Trainmaster.”

  “Good; good. But I just checked the utility room, and we’re short of towels. These men will be wanting to bathe in the morning, and we’re way short. Run up to supply and get a full set. I’ll watch the bar for you.”

  “Right away, Trainmaster.” Tonio hurried without seeming to.

  The Trainmaster left his cap off and stood behind the bar. He did not polish any glasses. “Another beer, Master Sorcerer?” he asked.

  “No, thanks, Trainmaster. I’ve had me limit for a while. I think I’ll stretch me legs.” He got up off the barchair and turned toward the observation deck.

  “How about you, sir?” the Trainmaster called to Peabody, a few feet away, in the forward couch.

  Peabody nodded, got up, and brought his glass over.

  As Master Seamus passed the table where Zeisler and the other three were sitting, he heard Zeisler say: “You chaps know who that bearded chap at the bar is? I do.”

  “Morrie, will you shut up?” said Boothroyd coldly.

  Zeisler said no more.

  10

  “What is going on out there? A convention?” came the voice of the sorcerer’s companion from the lower berth. It was a rhetorical question, so the Master Sorcerer didn’t bother to answer.

  It is not the loudness of a noise, nor even its unexpectedness, wakes one up. It is the unusual noise that does that. And when the noise becomes interesting, it is difficult to go back to sleep.

  The rumble and roar of the train as it moved toward Italy was actually soothing, once one got used to it. If it had only drowned out these other noises, all would have been well. But it didn’t; it merely muffled them somewhat.

  The sorcerer had been one of the last few to retire; only Boothroyd and Charpentier had still been in the lounge when he left to go to his compartment.

  The hooded lamp had been burning low, and the gentle snores from the lower berth told him that his co
mpartment-mate was already asleep.

  He had prepared for bed and climbed in, only to find that the other man had left his newspaper on the other berth. It had been folded so that one article was uppermost, but in the dim light all he could read was the headline: NICHOLAS JOURDAN RITES TO BE HELD IN NAPOLI. It was an obituary notice.

  He put the paper on the nearby shelf and began to doze off.

  Then he heard a door open and close, and footsteps moving down the passageway. Someone going to the toilet, he thought drowsily. No, for the footsteps went right by his own door to Compartment Number One. He heard a light rap. Hell of a time of night to go visiting, he thought. Actually, it wasn’t all that late—only a little after ten. But everyone aboard had been up since at least four that morning, some even longer. Oh, well; no business of his.

  But there were other footsteps, farther down the corridor, other doors opening and closing.

  He tried to get to sleep and couldn’t. Things would get quiet for a minute or two, then they would start up again. From Compartment Three, he could hear voices, but only because the partition was next to his berth. There was only the sound; he couldn’t distinguish any words. Being a curious man, he shamelessly put his ear to the wall, but could still make out no words.

  He tried very hard to go to sleep, but the intermittent noises continued. Footsteps. Every five minutes or so, they would go to Number One or return from there, and, of course, these were the loudest. But there were others, up and down the passageway.

  There was little he could do about it. He couldn’t really say they were noisy. Just irritating.

  He lay there, dozing intermittently, coming up out of it every time he heard something, drifting off each time there was a lull.

  After what seemed like hours, he decided there was something he could do about it. He could at least get up and see what was going on.

  That was when his companion had said: “What’s going on out there? A convention?”

  The sorcerer made no reply, but climbed down the short ladder and grabbed his dressing gown. “I feel the call of nature,” he said abruptly. He went out.

  There was no one in the passageway. He walked slowly down to the toilet. No one appeared. No one stuck his head out of a door. No one even opened it a crack to peek. Nothing.

  He took his time in the toilet. Five minutes. Ten.

  He went back to his compartment. His slippers on the floor had been almost inaudible, and he’d been very careful about making any noise. They couldn’t have heard him.

  He reported what he had found to his compartment-mate.

  “Well, whatever they were up to,” said the other, “I am thoroughly awake now. I think I’ll have a pipe before I go back to bed. Care to join me?”

  When they came into the lounge, Tonio was seated on a stool behind the bar. He looked up. “Good evening, Father; good evening, Master Sorcerer. May I help you?”

  “No, we’re just going out for a smoke,” said the sorcerer. “But I guess you’ve had a pretty busy evening, eh?”

  “Me? Oh, no, sir. Nobody been in here for an hour and a half.”

  The two men went on out to the observation deck. Their conversation was interrupted a few minutes later by Tonio, who slid open the door and said: “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you gentlemen? I have to go forward to the supply car to fetch a few things for tomorrow, but I wouldn’t want you to be needing anything.”

  “No, thanks. That’ll be all right. As soon as the good Father finishes his pipe, we’ll be goin’ back to bed.”

  Twenty minutes later, they did just that, and fell asleep immediately. It was twenty minutes after midnight.

  11

  At 12:25, Tonio returned with his first load. During the daytime, when people were awake, it was permissible to use a handcart to trundle things through the aisles of the long train. But a sudden lurch of the train could upset a handcart and wake people up. Besides, there was much less to carry at night.

  He carefully put his load of stuff away in the cabinets behind the bar, then went back to check the observation deck to see if his two gentlemen were still there. They were not. Good; everyone was asleep.

  About time, too, he thought as he headed back uptrain for his second and last load. The gentlemen had certainly been having themselves some sort of party, going from one compartment to another like that. Though they hadn’t made much noise, of course.

  Tonio Bracelli was not a curious young man by nature, and if his gentlemen and ladies gave him no problems on the night run, he was content to leave them alone.

  The train began to slow, and at thirty minutes after midnight, it came to an easy stop at the check station on the Ligurian border. The stop was only a formality, really. The Ligurian authorities had to check the bills of lading for the cargo in the freight cars at the front of the train, but there was no search or actual checking of the cargo itself. It was all bookkeeping.

  Tonio picked out what he needed for the second load, and then stood talking to the Supply Master while the train was stopped. The locomotive braked easily enough to a smooth stop, but getting started again was sometimes a little jerky, and Tonio didn’t want to be walking with his arms full when that happened. He’d wait until the train picked up speed.

  He reached the rearmost car at 12:50, took his load of goods to the bar and stashed them as before. Then he went to do his last duty until the morning: cleaning out the bathroom.

  It was a touchy job—not because it was hard work, or even unpleasant, but because one had to be so infernally quiet! The day man could bang around all he liked, but if the night man did so, the gentlefolk in Four and Five, on each side of the bathroom, might complain.

  He went up to the utility compartment, just forward of Number One, got his equipment, went back to the bathroom, and went to work.

  When he was finished, he took a final look around to make sure. All looked fine until he came to the last check.

  He looked at the floor.

  Strange. What were those red stains?

  He had just mopped down the floor. It was still damp, but…

  He stepped to one side and looked down.

  The stains were coming from his right boot.

  He sat down on the necessary, lifted his right foot, and looked at the bootsole. Red stains, almost gone, now.

  Where the devil had they come from?

  Tonio Bracelli, if not curious, was conscientious. After wiping the stains from his boot and checking the other to make sure there were none, he wiped the floor and went out to track down the source of those stains.

  “Track” was certainly the word. He had left footprints of the stuff, whatever it was, up and down on the tan floor of the passageway. The darker tracks led uptrain. He followed them.

  When he found their source, he lost his composure.

  A great pool of what was obviously blood had seeped out from beneath the door of Compartment Number One.

  12

  The Irish sorcerer was brought out of his sleep by a banging that almost slammed him awake, and a voice that was screaming: “Sir! Sir! Open the door! Sir! Are you all right? Sir!”

  Both of the men in Compartment Number Two were on their feet and at the door within two seconds.

  But the banging was not at their door, but at the one to their right—Number One. The two men grabbed their robes and went out.

  Tonio was pounding his fists on the door of Number One and shouting—almost screaming—at the top of his voice. Down the passageway, other doors were opening.

  An arm reached out and a hand grabbed Tonio’s shoulder. “Now, calm down, my son! What’s the trouble?”

  Tonio suddenly gasped and looked at the man who had laid such a firm hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Father! Look! Look at this!” He stepped back and pointed at the blood at his feet. “He doesn’t answer! What should I do, Father?”

  “The first thing to do, my son, is go get the Trainmaster. You don’t have the key to this door, do you? No. Then go f
etch Trainmaster Edmund immediately. But mind! No noise, no shouting. Don’t alarm the passengers in the other cars. This is for the Trainmaster only. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father. Certainly.” His voice was much calmer.

  “Very well. Now, quickly.” Then, and only then, did that strong hand release the young man’s shoulder. Tonio left—hurriedly, but now obviously under control.

  “Now, Master Seamus, Sir Stanley, we must be careful not to crowd round here any more than necessary.”

  Sir Stanley, who had come boiling out of Number Eight only half a second later than the sorcerer and his companion had come out of Number Two, turned to block the passageway.

  His voice seemed to fill the car. “All right, now. Stand away, all of you! You men get back to your quarters! Move!”

  Within half a minute, the passageway was empty, except for three men. Then Sir Stanley said: “What’s happened here, Father?”

  “I know no more than you do, Sir Stanley. We must wait for the Trainmaster.”

  “I think we ought to—” Whatever it was that Sir Stanley thought they ought to do was cut off forever by the appearance of Trainmaster Edmund, who came running in from the dining car ahead, followed by Tonio, and asked almost the same question.

  “What’s happened here?”

  The magician stepped forward. “We don’t know, Trainmaster, but that looks like blood, and I suggest you open that door.”

  “Certainly, certainly.” The Trainmaster keyed back the bolt of Number One.

  On Lower One, Goodman John Peabody lay with his smashed head hanging over the edge, his scalp a mass of clotted blood. He was very obviously quite dead.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, Trainmaster,” said the sorcerer, putting an arm in front of Trainmaster Edmund as he started to enter.

  “What? On my own train? Why not?” He sounded indignant.

  “With all due apologies, Trainmaster, have you ever had a murder on your train before?”

  “Well, no, but—”