The little lawyer shuddered, then grabbed the late Steve Larsen and tugged him through the connecting door into his drawing room. Meanwhile, Miss Withers cast aside maidenly modesty and tore pins from her hair, the dress from her shoulders. Clutching a robe around her, she opened the door a crack and announced, “This is an outrage!” The train conductor, a Pullman conductor, and two Altoona police detectives crowded in, ignoring her protest. They pawed through the wardrobe, peered into every nook and cranny.
Miss Withers stood rooted to the spot, in more ways than one. There was a damp brownish–red spot on the carpet, and she had one foot firmly holding it down. At last the delegation backed out, with apologies. Then she heard a feeble, imploring tapping on the connecting door, and John J. Malone's voice whispering “Help!”
The maiden schoolteacher stuck her head out into the corridor again, where the search party was already waiting for Malone to open up. “Oh, officer!” she cried tremulously. “Is there any danger?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Was the man you're looking for a burly, dark–complexioned cutthroat with dark glasses and a pronounced limp in the left leg?”
“No, lady. Get lost, please, lady.”
“Because on my way back from the diner I saw a man like that. He leered, and then followed me through three cars.”
“The man we're looking for is an embezzler, not a mental case.” They hammered on Malone's door again. “Open up in there!”
Over her shoulder Miss Withers could see the pale, perspiring face of John J. Malone as he dragged Steve Larsen back into her compartment again. “But, officer,” she improvised desperately, “I'm sure that the awful dark man who followed me was a distinct criminal type – ”
There was a reassuring whisper of “Okay” from behind her, and the sound of a softly closing door. Miss Withers backed into her compartment, closed and locked the connecting door, and then sank down on the edge of her berth, trying to avoid the blankly staring eyes of the dead man.
Next door there was a rumble of voices, and then suddenly Malone's high tenor doing rough justice to “Did Your Mother Come from Ireland?” The schoolteacher heard no more than the first line of the chorus before the Jello in her knees melted completely. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Malone holding a dagger before her, and she very nearly fainted again.
“You were so right,” the little lawyer told her admiringly. “It was a frame–up all right but meant for me. This was tucked into the upholstery of my room. I sat on it while they were searching, and had to burst into song to cover my howl of anguish.”
“Oh, dear!” said Miss Withers.
He sat down beside her, patted her comfortingly on the shoulder, and said, “Maybe I can shove the body out the window!”
“We're still in the station,” she reminded him crisply. “And from what experience I've had with train windows, it would be easier to solve the murder than open one. Why don't we start searching for clues?”
Malone stood up so quickly that he rapped his head on the bottom of the upper berth. “Never mind clues. Let's just find the murderer!”
“Just as easy as that?”
“Look,” he said. “This train was searched at the request of the Chicago police because somebody – probably Bert Glick – tipped them off that Larsen and a lot of stolen money were on board. The word has got around. Obviously, somebody else knew – somebody who caught the train and did the dirty work. It's reasonable to assume that whoever has the money is the killer.”
There was a new glint in Miss Withers' blue–gray eyes. “Go on.”
“Also, Larsen's ex–wife – or do – I mean ex–widow? – is aboard. I saw her. She is a lovely girl whose many friends agree that she would eat her young or sell her old mother down the river into slavery for a fast buck.” He took out a cigar. “I'll go next door and have a smoke while you change, and then we'll go look for Lolly Larsen.”
“I'm practically ready now,” the schoolteacher agreed. “But take that with you!”
Malone hesitated, and then with a deep sigh reached down and took a firm grasp of all that was mortal of his late client. “Here we go again!”
A few minutes later Miss Hildegarde Withers was following Malone through the now–darkened train. The fact that this was somebody else's problem never occurred to her. Murder, according to her tenets, was everybody's business.
Malone touched her arm as they came at last to the door of the club car. “Here is where I saw Lolly last,” he whispered. “She only got aboard at the last minute, and didn't have a reservation.” He pointed down the corridor.
“See that door, just this side of the pantry? It's a private lounge, used only for railroad officials or bigshots like governors or senators. Lolly bribed the steward to let her use it when she wanted to have a private talk with me. It just occurred to me that she might have talked him into letting her have it for the rest of the night. If she's still there – ”
“Say no more,” Miss Withers cut in. “I am a fellow passenger, also without a berth, seeking only a place to rest my weary head. After all, I have as much right in there as she has. But you will be within call, won't you?”
“If you need help, just holler,” he promised. Malone watched as the schoolteacher marched down the corridor, tried the lounge door gently, and then knocked. The door opened and she vanished inside.
The little lawyer had an argument with his conscience. It wasn't just that she reminded him of Miss Hackett, it was that she had become a sort of partner. Besides, he was getting almost fond of that equine face.
Oh, well, he'd be within earshot. And if there was anything in the inspiration which had just come to him, she wasn't in any real danger anyway.
He went on into the bar. It was half–dark and empty now, except for a little group of men in Navy uniforms at the far end, who were sleeping sprawled and entangled like a litter of puppies.
“Sorry, Mr. Malone, but the bar is closed,” a voice spoke up behind him. It was Horace Lee Randolph, looking drawn and
exhausted. He caught Malone's glance toward the sleeping sailors and added, “Against the rules, but the conductor said don't bother 'em.” Malone nodded, and then said, “Horace, we're old friends and classmates. You know me of old, and you know you can trust me. Where did you hide it?”
“Where did I hide what?”
“You know what!” Malone fixed the man with the cold and baleful eye he used on prosecution witnesses. “Let me have it before it's too late, and I'll do my best for you.”
The eyes rolled. “Oh, Lawdy! I knew I shouldn't a done it, Mista Malone! I'll show you!” Horace hurried on down through the car and unlocked a small closet filled with mops and brooms. From a box labeled Soap Flakes he came up with a paper sack. It was a very small sack to hold a hundred thousand dollars, Malone thought, even if the money was in big bills. Horace fumbled inside the sack.
“What's that?” Malone demanded.
“What would it be but the bottle of gin I sneaked from the bar? Join me?”
The breath went out of John J. Malone like air out of a busted balloon. He caught the doorknob for support, swaying like an aspen in the wind. It was at just that moment that they both heard the screams.
The rush of self–confidence with which Miss Hildegarde Withers had pushed her way into the lounge ebbed somewhat as she came face to face with Lolly Larsen. Appeals to sympathy, as from one supposedly stranded fellow passenger to another, failed utterly. It was not until the schoolteacher played her last card, reminding Lolly sharply that if there was any commotion the Pullman conductor would undoubtedly have them both evicted, that she succeeding in getting a toehold.
“Oh, all right!” snarled Lolly ungraciously. “Only shut up and go to sleep.”
During the few minutes before the room went dark again, Miss Withers made a mental snapshot of everything in it. No toilet, no wardrobe, no closet. A small suitcase, a coat and a handbag were on the only chair. The money must be somewhere in thi
s room, the schoolteacher thought. There was a way to find out.
As the train flashed through the moonlit night, Miss Withers busily wriggled out of her petticoat and ripped it into shreds. Using a bit of paper from her handbag for tinder – and inwardly praying it wasn't a ten–dollar bill – she did what had to be done. A few minutes later she burst out into the corridor, holding her handkerchief to her mouth. She almost bumped into one of the sailors who came lurching toward her along the narrow passage, and gasped, “What do you want?”
He stared at her with heavy eyes. “If it's any of your business, I'm looking for the latrine,” he said dryly.
When he was out of sight, Miss Withers turned and peeked back into the lounge. A burst of acrid smoke struck her in the face. Now was the time. “Fire!” she shrieked.
Thick billows of greasy smoke flooded out through the half–open door. Inside, little tongues of red flame ran greedily along the edge of the seat where Miss Withers had tucked the burning rags and paper. Down the corridor came Malone and Horace Lee Randolph, and a couple of startled bluejackets appeared from the other direction. Somebody tore an extinguisher from the wall. Miss Withers grabbed Malone's arm. “Watch her! She'll go for the money – ”
The fire extinguisher sent a stream of foaming chemicals into the doorway just as Lolly Larsen burst out. Her mascara streaked down her face, already blackened by smoke, and her yellow hair was plastered unflatteringly to her skull. But she clutched a small leather case.
Somehow she tripped over Miss Withers' outstretched foot. The leather case flew across the corridor to smash against the wall, where it flew open, disclosing a multitude of creams, oils, and tiny bottles – a portable beauty parlor.
“She must have gone to sleep smoking a cigarette!” put in Miss Withers in loud clear tones. “A lucky thing I was there to smell the smoke and give the alarm – ”
But John J. Malone seized her firmly by the arm and propelled her back through the train. “It was a good try, but you can stop acting now. She doesn't have the money.” Back in her own compartment he confessed about Horace. “I had a wonderful idea, but it didn't pay off. The poor guy's career as a lawyer was busted by a City Hall chiseler. If Larsen was the one, Horace might have spotted him on the train and decided to get even.”
“You were holding out on me,” said Miss Withers, slightly miffed.
Malone unwrapped a cigar and said, “If anybody finds that money, I want it to be me. Because I've got to get my fee out of it or I can't even get back to Chicago.”
“Perhaps you'll learn to like Manhattan,” she told him brightly.
Malone said grimly, “If something isn't done soon, I'm going to see New York through those cold iron bars.”
“We're in the same boat. Except,” she added honestly, “that I don't think the Inspector would go so far as to lock me up. But he does take a dim view of anybody who finds a body and doesn't report it.” She sighed. “Do you think we could get one of these windows open?”
Malone smothered a yawn and said, “Not in my present condition of exhaustion.”
“Let's begin at the beginning,” the schoolteacher said. “Larsen invited a number of people to a party he didn't plan to attend. He sneaked on this train, presumably disguised in a Navy enlisted man's uniform. How he got hold of it – ”
“He was in the service for a while,” said the little lawyer.
“The murderer made a date to meet his victim in your drawing room, hoping to set you up as the goat. He stuck a knife in him and then stripped him, looking for a money–belt or something.”
“You don't have to undress a man to find a moneybelt,” Malone murmured.
“Really? I wouldn't know.” Miss Withers sniffed. “The knife was then hidden in your room, but the body was moved in here. The money – ” She paused and studied him searchingly. “Mr. Malone, are you sure you didn't – ?”
“We plead not guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity,” Malone muttered. He closed his eyes for just five seconds' much–needed rest, and when he opened them a dirty–looking dawn was glaring in at him through the window.
“Good morning,” Miss Withers greeted him, entirely too cheerfully. “Did you get any ideas while you were in dreamland?” She put away her toothbrush and added, “You know, I've sometimes found that if a problem seems insoluble, you can sleep on it and sometimes your subconscious comes up with the answer. Sometimes it's even happened to me in a dream.”
“It does? It has?” Malone sat up suddenly. “Okay. Burglars can't be choosers. Sleep and the world sleeps – I mean, I'll just stand watch for a while and you try taking a nap. Maybe you can dream up an answer out of your subconscious. But dream fast, lady, because we get in about two hours from now.”
But when Miss Withers had finally been comfortably settled against the pillows, she found that her eyelids stubbornly refused to stay shut.
“Try once more,” John J. Malone said soothingly. She closed her eyes obediently, and his high, whispering tenor filled the little compartment, singing a fine old song. It was probably the first time in history, Miss Withers thought, that anyone had tried to use “Throw Him Down, McCluskey” as a lullaby, but she found herself drifting off. ...
Malone passed the time by trying to imagine what he would do with a hundred grand if he were the murderer. There must have been a desperate need for haste – at any moment, someone might come back to the murder room. The money would have to be put somewhere handy – some obvious place where nobody would ever think of looking, and where it could be quickly and easily retrieved when all was clear.
There was an angry growl from Precious in his cage. “If you could only say something besides `Meerow` and `Fssst`!” Malone murmured wistfully. “Because you're the only itness. Now if it had been the parrot ...”
At last he touched Miss Withers apologetically on the shoulder. “Wake up, ma'am, we're coming into New York. Quick, what did you dream?” She blinked, sniffed, and came wide awake. “My dream? Why – I was buying a hat, a darling little sailor hat, only it had to be exchanged because the ribbon was yellow. But first I wore it out to dinner with Inspector Piper, who took me to a Greek restaurant, and the proprietor was so glad to see us that he said dinner was on the house. But naturally we didn't eat anything because you have to beware of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts. His name was Mr. Roberts. That's all I remember.”
“Oh, brother!” said John J. Malone.
“And there wasn't anyone named Roberts mixed up in this case, or anyone of Greek extraction, was there?” She sighed. “Pure nonsense. I guess a watched subconscious never boils.”
The train was crawling laboriously up an elevated platform. “A drowning man will grasp at a strawberry,” Malone said suddenly. “I've got a sort of an idea. Greeks bearing gifts –that means look out for somebody who wants to give you something for nothing. And that something could include gratuitous information.”
She nodded. “Perhaps someone planned to murder Larsen aboard this train and wanted you aboard to be the obvious suspect.”
The train shuddered to a stop. Malone leaped up, startled, but the schoolteacher told him it was only 125th Street. “Perhaps we should check and see who gets off.” She glanced out the window and said, “On second thought, let's not. The platform is swarming with police.”
They were interrupted by the porter, who brushed off Miss Withers, accepted a dollar from the gallant Malone, and then lugged her suitcases and the pet container down to the vestibule. “He'll be in your room next,” she whispered to Malone. “What do we do now?”
“We think fast,” Malone said. “The rest of your dream! The sailor hat with the wrong ribbon! And Mr. Roberts – ”
The door burst open and suddenly they were surrounded by detectives, led by a grizzled sergeant in plain clothes. Lolly Larsen was with them. She had removed most of the traces f the holocaust, her face was lovely and her hair was gleaming, but her mood was that of a dyspeptic cobra. She breathlessly accused Miss Wi
thers of assaulting her and trying to burn her alive, and Malone of engineering Steve Larsen's successful disappearance.
“So,” said Malone. “You wired ahead from Albany, crying copper?”
“Maybe she did,” said the sergeant. “But we'd already been contacted by the Chicago police. Somebody out there swore out a warrant for Steve Larsen's arrest ...”
“Glick, maybe?”
“A Mr. Allen Roth, according to the teletype. Now, folks – ”
But Malone was trying to pretend that Lolly, the sergeant, and the whole police department didn't exist. He faced Miss Withers and said, “About that dream! It must mean a sailor under false colors. We already know that Larsen was disguised in Navy uniform ...”
“Shaddap!” said the sergeant. “Maybe you don't know, mister, that helping an embezzler to escape makes you an assessory after the fact.”
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