“The Mahdi hired an assassin rather than use one of their own. Because their own people would have stood out.”
“Yes. Cleveland was to go to the marketplace to observe the handoff, as you know, and ended up with the scarab in his own hand. We don’t know why he suddenly grabbed the scarab, perhaps from inexperience in dealing with such a situation, or maybe the man mistook him for the assassin and at first offered him—”
“The scarab, and then called for his death when he realized the mistake.”
He nods. “Poor devil. He appears to have acted on impulse, as a soldier would have, obviously knowing about the subtleties of spying.”
“Your Cleveland disguised himself as an Egyptian when he could have blended in with other Europeans in the marketplace. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, I agree, Nellie. What does that tell you?”
“He planned from the first to get the key. And he had had a conversation with the man selling the scarabs, at least enough to be told that the target car was Amelia.”
“You’re quite right, I see what you mean. He didn’t go there just to observe as he’d been ordered, but to pull off a coup.”
“How close were you when he was killed?” I ask.
“Not as close as you. Back quite a ways, as a matter of fact. I didn’t see the killing. I made contact with Lord Warton after you and her ladyship left.”
“Uh-huh. And began trying to make me the fool.”
He shrugs and spreads his hands on his lap. “Not out of malice, let me assure you.”
“And you took Cleveland’s place?”
“Right. His superior drafted me to continue the mission because there was no one else available. As it so happens I had already obtained a ticket for India to attend a safari, so my appearance on the boat wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”
“And you concocted the story that Cleveland was alive.”
“It seemed the appropriate way to proceed at the time.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me for the key?”
“Nellie, you never told me you had it.”
“True … actually, I didn’t know I had it until I began to see conspiracies swirling around me.”
“That wasn’t intentional. There was also a question about your potential involvement. Bey was told that the assassination team was composed of two people. It could have been a man and woman.”
“You thought I was an assassin? And planned a race around the world to carry it off?”
“I didn’t know who you were at the time. I soon decided you were a genuine reporter—”
“Well, that was kind of you. And clever.”
He clears his throat. “But then another problem arose. The scarab wasn’t on Cleveland when I searched his body. And I found fragments of a scarab when I searched your room.”
“So you knew I had the key. And we began a game of cat and mouse.”
He smiles. “And you were the cat. With sharp claws.”
“So after you knew I had it, why didn’t you just ask me for it?”
“There were complicated reasons.”
“Complicated reasons … ah, I think I understand. The hired assassins would also want the key. And if you watched me, you would see who they were…”
“Quite.”
“As they murdered me.”
He clears his throat again and grins. “I was hoping to prevent that possibility.”
“And you are just an innocent bystander, roped in to serve queen and country.”
He tries unsuccessfully to smother a smirk. “I thought I adapted well to the role of spy.”
“Not bad,” I say with a shrug, “though you must watch your back more. I was able to follow you to your meeting with Lady Warton and that rather offensive sailor friend of yours in Hong Kong.” I didn’t volunteer I had stumbled onto them by accident.
“So, the spy was spied upon! Very good. Gary plays the role of offensive seaman, quite well, don’t you think? He’s actually with Navy Intelligence.”
“He didn’t play it that well. He spoke French to the wrong woman, so I knew you had hatched something with Sarah. I take it there was an effort to get Sarah to go home and forget the rendezvous?”
“Yes, but like you, Sarah follows her own drummer.”
“What were you hatching with Lady Bluenose in Hong Kong?”
“Lady Warton wanted to relate her feelings about Von Reich. Her husband is quite taken with the man, but her ladyship doesn’t like him and was offended by some anti-British statements he had made.”
“Her husband’s tolerance, I take it, is a result of him being paid to introduce the man to government officials.”
“Quite.”
“So…” I think for a moment. “The plan was to put a bomb into the Pullman locker. As they did in Egypt.”
“Yes.”
“But you prevented that?”
“The attempt was blocked, yes, hours earlier than your use of the key. We knew it was going to be attempted and were ready. When the culprit was spotted, he dropped the bomb on the ground and fled. But we know who it is and your police will catch him. If nothing else, his heavy accent will trip him up.”
“An accent? Von Reich? Von Reich’s the assassin?” My astonishment is evident.
“Yes, he fills the bill rather nicely. An explosives expert, a foreigner, was at the marketplace—”
“He’s not the type.”
Frederick raises his eyebrows. “Nellie, dear, assassins aren’t produced from a cookie cutter.”
“But—”
“No buts. You simply must accept it.”
“You and those coppers actually saw Von Reich?”
“It was too dark to see the man’s features, but his hat fell off as he ran away.”
“What’s his motive?”
“Money, of course. The Mahdi can pay vast sums in gold. They may have done business before. No doubt he prepared the explosives for the Egyptian train car assassinations.”
“You have no confession? Don’t know where—”
He held up his hand to cut me off. “The man is on the run. But, I’m sure you’re aware from your reporting that fleeing from the scene of a crime is tantamount to a signed confession.”
He gets up, leans down, and kisses me on the cheek. “Get some rest, sweet lady. We’ll talk about this some more in the morning. You must conserve your energy to finish your race.”
Back in my compartment, I undress and climb back into bed again, worn to the bone and down to the marrow. Frederick’s right, of course; the mystery of the key to Amelia is finished and I still have mountains to climb, rivers to cross, castle walls to storm … and a race to win.
I didn’t fail to note that Frederick forgot to obtain my promise not to use the story. The revelations will be sensational. Mr. Pulitzer will be thrilled, not to mention extra benefits for me—a pay raise, choices of stories to cover. Not only will I finish my trip on time, I will come back with another sensational story.
This settled, I close my eyes and will myself to sleep when a thought electrifies my tired brain: Poor Von Reich.
Now why did I have such a thought? The man’s an assassin, a murderer—
I sit straight up in my bed. But he’s not a runner. The portly gentleman would hardly have given the coppers a run for their money. And dropping his hat. “How convenient is that?” I ask the ceiling. He leaves his hat behind so there would be no mistake in identification?
The shoe doesn’t fit Von Reich no matter how I try to slip it on.
Stop it, Nellie!
I restrain myself from shouting the command. It’s over with, done, finished, time to move on.
Von Reich is the obvious villain. He’s a professional bomb maker; the crime fits him like a glove, so why can’t I accept it? I pull the blanket over my head. I hate it when my mind won’t shut off and let me sleep.
There’s a light tap on my door and the porter asks, “Miss Bly? Are you still awake? I have a note for you.”
Giving me the note, he apologizes. “Sorry, ma’am, I was given this hours ago and forgot to give it to you.”
“Who’s it from?” I ask as I unfold the note.
“Don’t know, ma’am. Another porter handed it to me. Good night.”
George leaves and I step back into my compartment to read the message.
I MUST SEE YOU 7201C—VR
The author’s initials blaze with fire in my mind’s eye.
What does he want with me?
65
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, plays in my head as I step lightly down the corridor to the porter’s bunk. The only evidence of life in the train car is the rasps of snoring. Once again, everyone is asleep except lucky me.
Tapping next to the bunk curtain, I whisper George’s name and he sticks his head out.
“Sorry, George, but what car is 7201?”
“Two cars up, ma’am.”
“Who occupies compartment C in that car?”
“I can’t say, ma’am. The porter in 7201 has that information. Did you want me to—”
“No.” I slip him a silver dollar. “Thank you. Go back to sleep.”
Two cars up is the one that I had seen the Wartons entering.
Frederick’s car is next. The corridor is as deserted as my own, as is that of 7201 when I reach it. Hushing the porter with “shh” and a silver dollar, I ask who occupies compartment C.
He unhooks a clipboard from a hook and consults it. “A Mr. Lazarus, ma’am.”
“What does he look like?”
“I don’t know. He’s sick, never comes out of his compartment.”
“How do you know he’s sick?”
“The young lady told me, the one with the other Australian woman. She said not to disturb him ’cause he’s under the weather.”
Questions rattle in my head as I go to compartment C. Who’s Mr. Lazarus and why is he harboring Von Reich? Why is the caustic Cenza making excuses for Lazarus? And what does Von Reich want with me?
Gathering my courage, I stare at the compartment door, knowing that I might be throwing myself into the hands of a dangerous killer, and that I should get Frederick. But then I’d never get to the truth of what’s happening. He’ll bust in, arrest Von Reich, and I’ll still have no final answer.
Looking up and down the corridor to ensure that I am not being watched, I tap lightly with just the tip of my fingernail. No response and I tap again, a little louder. Silence. Taking a deep breath, I slowly slide open the door an inch, just enough to see that it is dark inside.
I pull the door open wider and give a startled cry.
Von Reich is on the bench seat, hunched over, his right shoulder against the window frame. A streak of blood has run down the side of his head. On the seat beside him is a derringer.
A woman pokes her head out of the next compartment.
“What’s going on?”
“Murder, there’s been a murder!”
She screams. I stare at her dumbfounded.
She screams again.
Compartment doors start opening, heads poke out.
I feel like screaming myself so I take a deep breath and let out a wail of pure frustration.
66
I am back in the hands of the coppers and the other vigilantes. Under ordinary circumstances I would welcome the professional attention being given the matter, but since I’m being treated as a suspicious person, if not an actual suspect, by the high-handed flatfoots, I find no fault on my part in challenging their conclusions or their authority.
Shocked, sick at seeing a man dead that I knew and rather liked, a companion on a long trip who had shown me courtesies, I permit myself to be ushered to the common area in Frederick’s car. I don’t know what to think. I’m out of answers, at the moment. I’m even out of questions. Everything is too unreal for it to really sink in. For a moment after I opened that door my first thought was that the death was staged, a joke by Von Reich, but that thought was erased by the funeral pallor of his skin.
Half the train awoke from the hysterical cries of “Murder!” that resounded down the aisles. Order was finally restored, people assured of their safety, and the vigilance committee met to receive the “official” pronouncement from the coppers who were examining Von Reich’s body—which is now wrapped in blankets and being transferred to the baggage car by the two coppers.
Frederick is with me, as is Lord Warton, looking the worse for wear and carefully not looking in my direction.
No one is happy I found the body. No one considers me completely innocent. They look at me as if I was caught rustling their cattle and will soon be kicking at the end of a rope.
Frederick reads my mind and rubs his forehead as if it will remove a headache.
“I find you completely amazing. A friend of mine in the raj is quite taken by the belief in India that our lives are predestined, that the paths we take are determined at birth by our fate, our karma. Nellie, I have to wonder what it is about your karma that draws murder to you like bees to honey.”
The two coppers return, saving me from trying to justify my existence.
They give a nod to Frederick and a glance at Warton, who appears to have slipped into a drunken slumber. His lordship’s chin has dropped down to his chest with a dribble of saliva threatening to drop off at any moment.
“Suicide,” the redheaded copper announces.
“Nonsense.” That retort comes from me, of course.
The copper sucks in a sharp breath through bared teeth and Frederick throws his hands in the air. “Why does that proclamation not surprise me? Officer, let’s hear the facts of your thorough investigation before Miss Bly entertains us with her guesswork.”
My temper spikes but I clamp my mouth shut.
“It’s laid out quite neatly, sir, the pieces falling together to form the answer to a puzzle. There are no powder burns on his head; however, the burns are on the small pillow provided for seat comfort. He used it to muffle the shot.”
“Why would he use a pillow to muffle a shot?” I ask.
The copper chews on it for a moment before deciding to answer me, using a tone he probably reserves for children—and women. “Obviously one muffles a shot so it can’t be heard.”
“It doesn’t make sense that someone on the run from the police, and so panicked and depressed that they are driven to take their own life, would bother muffling a shot.”
“Crazy people don’t have to make sense,” the copper replies, miffed.
“Well, I spent weeks travelling on the same ships with Von Reich. Being crazy was not one of his faults.”
“I warned everyone about her.” Lord Warton has come to life.
His drunken, slurred statement, made without opening his eyes, grabs the attention of all of us for a moment, but he quickly falls back into his slumber.
The redheaded copper gives me a stern look that I’m sure has frightened a confession out of more than one criminal.
“This is a police matter and I would inform you in no uncertain terms that you will find yourself in serious trouble if you interfere in an official investigation. Do we understand each other … madam?”
“As I have pointed out, you have no official authority in this country. And if you interfere with my official investigation as a journalist, I shall have the sheriff of the next town take you into custody. Do you understand me … sir?”
His mouth flaps open in an attempt to deliver a reply but the words don’t come. He looks to Frederick for help.
“Nellie, please, the officer is just trying to help out in a delicate situation. Let him finish his report. Officer?”
The copper clears his throat. “Yes, sir. The most important and telling piece of evidence is the weapon used by the deceased. It is a Rhine brand single shot derringer. And on the bottom of the butt,” the officer gives me a look of triumph, “appears a plate bearing the name ‘Von Reich’.”
The other chimes in. “Naturally we considered the matter
of motive. The deceased was on the run from the law, facing financial ruin and spending the rest of his life in a prison cell. Motivation for suicide, if I ever heard it.”
Frederick nods. “Quite so; good work, officers. Isn’t that so, your lordship?”
Lord Warton snaps awake with a sputter and looks about him as if he’s unaware of his whereabouts.
The redheaded officer gives the peer a frown and says to Frederick, “We’ll be moving on.” He nods in the direction of the Amelia. “Have to make a full report of the matter.”
I wait until they have stepped by me before I direct a comment to Frederick, who has started up from his seat. “There is that unanswered question…”
He flops back down on his seat and looks to the two officers who have paused in the corridor. Poor devils—they would very much like to ignore me but don’t dare, out of fear that a mere woman will show them up.
“All right, Nellie.” Frederick sighs. “We’re all tired, as I’m sure you are. Please, do tell us what you’re referring to.”
That’s it. I get up and head for my compartment.
“Nellie!” Frederick yells. “You’ll not be able to sleep unless you get it off your chest.”
He is right, of course, but I would like to make them sweat a little, so I pause at the compartment door before I turn and give them a wan smile.
“What about Mr. Lazarus?”
“Lazarus?” Frederick asks.
“This investigation is not over with until the matter of Mr. Lazarus has been resolved.”
“Why should we care about this Lazarus person?” the mouthy redheaded copper demands.
“Well, I would be curious as to the man’s whereabouts since Von Reich was found dead in his compartment. If you are actually right about Von Reich being a mad bomber, and if he knew Mr. Lazarus well enough to kill himself in his compartment, well … I guess I would be wondering about whether this invisible man makes bombs, too.”
Passing halfway into my compartment, I toss another volley over my shoulder. “Kind of strange, don’t you think?… No one has ever seen the man. I think I’d ask that Aussie sharpshooter’s assistant, Cenza, why she made excuses for him.”
The Illusion of Murder Page 31
