Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  “What?” Adele said, trying to keep her tone gentle.

  The young man, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, muttered, “The conductor would like to speak with you. If it’s not too much to ask. I know you’re busy, and I can tell him, if you’d like, that maybe—”

  “The conductor?” Adele said, slowly.

  For a moment, she hesitated. She didn’t have the time to be yanked around every which way. But as she continued to think about it, she remembered the staff list. They had cross-referenced the same staff list, which had said two people were common between the murders on the train cars in France and Italy. The bartender, whom they had cleared. But the conductor also.

  She felt a sudden shiver.

  “The conductor,” she said, hesitantly. “It isn’t Peter Granet, is it?

  The young man wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “Honestly, they switch so much, I don’t know. Should I tell him you’re coming?”

  “Better yet,” Adele said, with a significant glance toward John and then Leoni, “lead the way.”

  The young man turned, as if glad to be looking any direction than in John’s glowering face, and then hurried off, his red uniform stiff and starched like cardboard. He walked quickly, not even glancing back, and Adele hurried along, listening as Leoni breathed, not cursing as he hobbled after them. He’d refused any help, yet she still felt sympathy for the agent. His sock, from what she’d seen, was wet, with some droplets from melted ice now seeping to the floor around him.

  They had bigger concerns, though, than water damage on a few floorboards.

  The young valet passed the old man who was sitting by the window. The man in question looked up, and he wasn’t smiling now, a newspaper laid in front of him.

  As he spotted the agents with the valet, he frowned for a moment, but just as quickly, his expression flickered, and he adopted the same smile, his eyes shining as he regarded them.

  Adele hesitated, looking at the old man, but then she followed after the valet, who was quickly losing them as he pushed through the partition at the end of the first-class car, which led further into the train and up toward the engine.

  The engine itself was more spacious than Adele would’ve thought. As they were pushed through a metal door, which was locked from the inside and required a quick knock and an announcing of their presence before it would open, Adele could feel her apprehension rising. She felt a flicker of excitement, which just as quickly gave way to nerves. She wasn’t sure what lay beyond. Twenty minutes left, twenty minutes until they reached the station. Twenty minutes and the killer would get away. But the conductor had called. The same conductor had been on the Italian train and the French one. Peter Granet. Was it the same man here on this third train? If so, certainly it wouldn’t be a coincidence. It couldn’t be. Three bodies, three countries.

  It was with a rising apprehension, like a child on Christmas morning unwrapping a glistening present, that Adele stepped into the engine.

  Two men in white uniforms standing by the metal door turned to resume their seats, facing a small window no bigger than a porthole. One of them picked up a book he’d left on a coffee table, and the other crossed his arms, watching them enter. Adele’s attention, though, was drawn toward a man sitting next to an array of controls. The conductor wasn’t wearing a hat, like she’d imagined in her mind’s eye, but he stood, straight-backed, with perfect posture.

  “Peter,” Adele said, preemptively.

  But the man didn’t turn.

  She pressed into the room further, staring at the back of the man’s dark head. Was it the same conductor? He had the same build. Why had he summoned her?

  John stood in the frame of the door, as if blocking anyone from running, and Leoni limped after Adele, moving deeper into the engine. The valet, glad to be rid of them, his work done, turned and scampered off.

  Adele stared at the back of the conductor. “Excuse me,” she said, “sir?”

  At this, the conductor seem to snap out of his reverie from where he was staring through the elevated windshield at the front of the train. Now Adele had an even better look at the approaching city beyond. The settlement outside the Black Forest wasn’t as large as Paris, nor did it seem as populated. The train station, though, would be a hub of transit. Adele knew if the train stopped, the killer would have every chance to slip away.

  “Ah, yes, the federals?” said the conductor, turning fully now.

  Adele felt a sudden flutter of disappointment. It wasn’t Peter Granet—he didn’t match Granet’s picture at all. This was a different conductor than the last two. Another dead end.

  “Agent Sharp,” said Adele, nodding in greeting, her lips firm. “This is Agent Renee and Agent Leoni,” she said, nodding to each of her partners in turn. “We were told you sent for us. We’re in the middle of an investigation, so I hope you don’t mind if we make this quick.”

  The conductor still stood, straight-backed, perfect postured. Something about his stance reminded Adele of her own father. She instantly guessed he was either military or ex-police. Regardless, unlike her father, he was perfectly clean-shaven, his hair trimmed back, neat. He wasn’t handsome, nor were his features striking. But there was a clean, almost maintained quality about his features. His face wasn’t as weathered as someone might’ve expected from a man who had the same color of gray hair. His teeth, when she glimpsed them, were white, but not unnaturally so, suggesting he took care of himself.

  The straight-postured conductor glanced around at the agents and cleared his throat. “I’m happy to make this brief,” he said. “I’ve been in contact with the German authorities, and will be pulling the train into the station as planned.”

  Adele frowned. “Is there any way we could go slower?”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Already passengers are complaining. In Germany, German citizens have rights.” He raised an eyebrow, seemingly plucked and trimmed. “I’m sure you know this.”

  “I’m not asking for you to break any laws,” she said, trying to hide her frustration. “But I’m looking for some help here, just a few more minutes.”

  The conductor shook his head. He didn’t wince, he didn’t apologize, and his tone was matter-of-fact and straight to the point. Though he was a conductor on a train, he carried himself like a captain in the army.

  “We’ve done what we could. We’re traveling at a third our normal pace, and we’ve given you ample time. We even agreed to allow you to enter through the hatch above the remodeled car. But we have a body on board. Which brings into question all sorts of hygiene issues. And on top of that, I have to get on another train within the next half hour. I’m running late as it is.”

  Adele sighed and glanced back toward the two men in the white uniforms by the window. One seemed engrossed in his book while the other was still watching them curiously, from beneath hooded eyes. Security? She wasn’t sure.

  “All right, so you have to get on another train. But we’re trying to catch a serial killer, you’re aware of this, yes?”

  “As I said, I’ve been in contact with the German authorities. They’ve apprised me of the situation. I wish we could be of more help. As I said, we did slow the train. Are you saying you’re no closer to finding the murderer?”

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Leoni interjected.

  Adele frowned, annoyed. The conductor obviously wasn’t willing to budge. He had the air of a man who’d already made up his mind. “Look,” she said, firmly, “is there anything you can do? Stall? Lock the doors? Slow even further?”

  “I said I can’t slow, and I have another train waiting for me.”

  “Come on, man,” she said, firmly. “This psycho has already murdered three people. Do you really want that on your conscience?”

  His eyes narrowed, and his jaw went rigid. He stared at her, and with granite in his voice, the conductor said, “My conscience is clear. I have a job to do; a job that shuttles hundreds of people around from country to country. Som
e of them doctors, others businesspeople, others family members. Without transportation, people like you,” he said, nodding toward her, “couldn’t do your jobs either. You’re not the only person with a job to do on this train. And you’re certainly not the most important person on this train,” he said, firmly. “We’re doing what we can. If you have an issue with my conscience, maybe it’s your own you should examine. You had more than an hour to find a killer. And by the sounds of things, you’re no closer than when you started.”

  “Hold on,” said John, glaring from where he stood in the doorway, “if you’re moving to another train, who’s going to be conducting this one?”

  Adele hesitated. In her frustration, she hadn’t realized the obvious question. She felt a flash of gratitude at John’s words. They both regarded the conductor.

  “My second,” he said, as if the answer were obvious.

  “Hang on,” said Adele. “No one said anything about a second.”

  The conductor shrugged. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. But all trains have a second. They take over for the conductor when he needs rest, or sometimes will take over when he has to switch trains. As in this case.”

  “There was no mention of a second on the staff manifests.”

  “Sometimes they’re not listed. Especially if they’re not going to be needed. Think of it more like a backup plan. My second’s been riding around on trains for three days without having to do anything.”

  “You sound reproachful,” John said.

  The straight-postured man grumbled and shook his head. “Gets paid nearly as much as me to do what? Sleep around in the dormitory car? Please. Regardless, the German authorities want to catch the killer as well. They’ll be waiting for you at the station. That’s the best we can do. That’s all I have. And as you said, you’ve got little more than a quarter hour left.”

  “The second,” Adele said, quietly, “you say he’s been riding around for three days?”

  “Not on this train. He only just boarded earlier this morning. But he’s been on other trains for the last three days, without actually having to put in any work.”

  “He’s been on other trains in the last three days? You know which ones?”

  The conductor hesitated, pausing for a moment, then he nibbled on the bottom of his lip. “I don’t know all of them. But I think one was the LuccaRail, you know it?”

  Agent Leoni perked up at this answer. “This second of yours, is it possible he was on the Normandie Express as well?”

  At the earnest tone in the Italian’s voice, the conductor looked over, frowning deeply. “I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t keep track of all his trains. All I can tell you is he hasn’t had to put in a day’s work for the last three days—lucky him.”

  “And where is he now?” Adele said, her voice insistent. She felt a prickle along her spine. A second? Someone who didn’t appear on the staff list. She’d cross-referenced staff from both trains. Only two hits. But if the name hadn’t shown up, if he had been on the LuccaRail, the train from Italy where the first victim had been killed, then possibly he’d been on the Normandie as well. Maybe this was their connection point.

  Through the windshield, she glimpsed the quickly approaching city in the distance. Soon, they’d arrive at the station. Soon, she knew, the killer would have a chance to get away. But maybe they’d been gifted a lead just in time.

  “Where is he?” Adele demanded.

  She stared, hard-eyed, at the conductor. She felt her stomach twist, though, as he gave an indifferent shrug. “I wish I could tell you. But I don’t keep track,”

  “Dormitory car,” said the white-uniformed man who was reading a book.

  Adele glanced over. The man was still engrossed in his novel, and he didn’t look up.

  “Excuse me?” Adele asked.

  A bit of irritation crept into the reader’s voice. “Johnson is in the dormitory car and has been there for the last ten hours since he transferred from the Normandie Express.”

  Adele felt her stomach twist. “Hang on, the Normandie? So he was on the French train?”

  But the man reading his book seemed to have decided he’d already said enough. He flipped the page and ignored the agent staring at him. Adele felt a rising sense of frustration, but she didn’t have time to make an issue of it. “Where’s the dormitory car?”

  The conductor blinked and said, hesitantly, “Next to the sleeper car. Dormitory cars are where the staff hangs out between shifts. But I have to advise you that I don’t think it’s possible Johnson had the nerve to commit—”

  “Thank you for your time,” Adele interrupted.

  Fifteen minutes until they reached the station.

  John was already on the move. “I know the dormitory car. I was just there,” he growled as he brushed past Adele, gesturing for her to follow.

  Leoni limped after them, not complaining, but moving slowly on his injured ankle and struggling to keep up.

  Adele broke into stride next to John and they hastened back in the direction they’d come.

  “LuccaRail, Normandie, and now here,” John said with a mutter. “Think it’s a coincidence?”

  Adele set her jaw and shrugged one shoulder as she marched hurriedly forward. “Mighty big coincidence if so,” she said. “A second. He didn’t even show up on the manifests. It might be our guy, John.”

  “He’s our killer,” John said, nodding firmly. “I’d bet everything. We just have to find him before the train stops.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  “Hang on,” came Agent Leoni’s gasping voice as they crossed the remodeled car with the body. Adele whirled around, her heart hammering from where she’d been half jogging next to John in her effort to reach the dormitory car and the reserve conductor.

  Now, she stopped next to the tall Frenchman and regarded the Italian agent where he gasped at the floor and leaned against the wall, his face very pale all of a sudden, a thin film of sweat slicking his brow.

  “What is it?” Adele said, concern stretching her words.

  “My ankle,” he murmured, gritting his teeth. “I think it might be broken.”

  John grunted. “Sprained more like. Putting weight on it isn’t going to help in either case.”

  Adele cursed and glanced around the compartment helplessly, searching for…for what, exactly? A first aid kit? A doctor? A miracle in a bottle? Leoni was injured. He’d be of no further use like this, and as much as she hated thinking it, right now, he was just slowing them down.

  “Do you think you can stay here?” she said, urgent. “We don’t have long until we reach the station. We’re running out of time.”

  “I’m fine,” Leoni gasped. He pressed his back to the wall and began to slide down, his eyes flitting around the compartment, fixing on everything except for the body in the center of the room. Leoni’s ice pack in his sock had graduated from mere droplets and was now leaking water onto the floor. A small puddle quickly formed beneath his sodden shoe.

  “All right,” Adele said. “Be safe. Call if you need anything.”

  Leoni made a shooing gesture toward both of them, reaching down and probing gingerly at his ankle. “I’ll be fine, you go. Hurry.”

  Adele winced sympathetically, but felt a sudden jolt of anxiety and turned, with John moving after her. To her surprise, though, the Frenchman hesitated, and then, muttering darkly, stomped back toward where Leoni was resting.

  “Here, use your sock, wrap it around the ice, and get some compression on your ankle. Elevate it as well; take off your shoe, if you can, and place your heel on it.”

  Leoni looked up, surprised, as John, despite his gruff tone, very gently removed the Italian’s shoe from his injured foot. He then placed it beneath the man’s heel, gauging how much pain Leoni was in by how clenched his teeth seemed to go. John’s demeanor was rough, but his hands moved like the cajoling fingers of a mother tending her young. His motions were efficient, still, rapid, and clearly conscious of passing
time. Adele stared. John was a strange man—she’d always known it, but he always surprised her regardless.

  Once Leoni’s ankle was elevated and the Italian seemed settled, John got quickly back to his feet and began striding past Adele.

  “Thanks,” Adele murmured.

  “We’re wasting time,” the Frenchman growled, “hurry up.”

  Adele didn’t need a second invitation. She spared one last look toward her Italian friend, making sure he wasn’t in too much pain; his head was now leaning back, the sweat on his face dripping down to his chin. But, at least for now, his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be breathing steadily, trying to focus on something besides the numb sensations.

  She muttered darkly, and then moved after John through the first-class compartment, onto the sleeper cars, and toward the back, where the dormitory was.

  As they hastened together, Adele could feel the wheels of the train shaking through the floorboards. As if, somehow, it was a ticking clock, threatening each passing moment. Was it her imagination? Or were they slowing? Maybe the conductor had decided to help a bit after all. But they didn’t have time either way—they were almost at the station.

  She pushed through the door into the staff dormitory. Inside, a couple of employees in waiter uniforms were staring up with a glazed look at a TV. Behind a veiled curtain, there were three bunks set in the wall.

  “Johnson,” Adele said, wishing now she had managed to snag a first name. “The reserve conductor, where is he?” she demanded.

  The waiter and waitress leaning back on the couch blinked, startled, and one of them began to protest, “Hey, you’re not supposed to be back—”

  “It’s the feds,” the other one whispered, cutting him off. The girl said, “He’s over there. Sleeping. He’s not going to be happy if you wake—”

  But she didn’t managed to finish her sentence either, before Adele and John rushed past, pushing through the veiled curtain and moving into the sleeping quarters with the three cots. The area was sparse, and Adele’s gaze landed on a small lump beneath a thin blanket.