The Illusion of Murder

by McCleary, Carol

  “She left the train,” Lord Warton says. “I saw her get off at the last stop.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Well, there it is. You spent so much time harassing me that all the bad people were able to duck for cover. Good luck finding a man no one has ever seen after you let the only witness escape.”

  As soon as I close the door behind me, I lean back against it. My heart is ricocheting in my chest, my mouth is dry, my stomach feels ready to erupt volcanically. Despite my attempt at a firm tone, I am shaking. However, I’m glad I threw that last punch.

  The devil oils my tongue and makes me do these things, but it feels good, at least for the moment.

  67

  Lazarus rose from the dead. That’s what it says in the Bible, if my memory of a Sunday school lesson remains true.

  That thought about the name wraps around me like the arms of an octopus as I lie awake and listen to the rumble of the train wheels in the early morning. I can’t shake it. Lazarus rising from the dead is connected back to something Von Reich had said on the dock at Colombo when the Aussie sharpshooter had shouted to someone as if he recognized the person.

  Von Reich also said someone else was a better shot than the Aussie, and something about an identity crisis and rising from the dead.

  Another thought with the grip of octopus tentacles grips me. If no one saw Lazarus besides Cenza, a doubtful source, was he ever actually in the compartment?

  I try to move on but my thoughts are fuzzy. Being in a room that is small and confining doesn’t help, and I make another try at getting Sarah to work with me.

  A knock on her door reveals that she has not returned from her previous engagement. Sliding it open to see if she has simply slept through the knock—my excuse for being nosy—I find her personal effects have been removed. The Divine Sarah has either moved into the baggage compartment to sleep in her coffin, or she is ensconced in her lover’s bed. I’d guess the latter.

  Knowing that she is enjoying the tender caresses of forbidden love while I wrestle with the world’s problems doesn’t endear her to me at this moment.

  The parlor area at the head of the car is empty and I go there to pace. Most of the passengers on the train had boarded after attending a wedding and got off at the last stop, leaving me as the only occupant now that Sarah has taken up residence in more luxurious quarters.

  George comes behind me carrying a long, narrow box. He gives me a smile as I eye the odd-shaped package.

  “Golf clubs for that British lord. I stored them for his porter because there was no room in his car. I can’t imagine why he’d want them while still on the train.”

  “Maybe he plans to hit balls down the aisle.”

  George finds the idea amusing and is still chuckling as he goes through the connecting doors to the next car.

  I also find myself wondering at the odd request. Unless Lord Warton has had a miracle cure, he will be fortunate to get out of bed today, much less play golf aboard a train.

  I kneel on the bench seat and lean my arms on the bottom of the windowsill and stare out, miserable. I hate it when I can’t shake off one of those unsettled feelings I have when things just aren’t right and there’s no easy solution to putting them back on track.

  The train is travelling through hilly terrain, going up grades, and snaking around turns that permit good views of the other cars on inside bends, giving me the opportunity to shamelessly stare at the Amelia, hoping to get a look at the “personage” with her. Like all passenger cars, the Westcot’s Pullman has large windows, but my car is too closely attached for me to get a good broadside look when the opportunity arises. Cars farther up the train would have a clearer view.

  What I do get is a glimpse of the storage locker beneath the train car and that gets my thoughts churning.

  So busy defending myself as a woman, a reporter, and a human being to the vigilantes, I have not shared a thought with them about the storage locker and have not given enough reflection on it myself. Now a worrisome matter about it tugs at me: It became useless as a hiding place for a bomb when the key was taken by Mr. Cleveland.

  The full impact of that thought blows the top off my mind. Resisting the impulse to run and tell Frederick, I keep my feet firmly planted because my thinking isn’t completely organized.

  While the blood was still wet in the Port Said marketplace, the conspirators had to know that Mr. Cleveland had passed on the key and the name of what it fit, and pretty much could guess I had been the recipient. He died in my arms and I made no secret in the marketplace that he spoke the name to me. Not long afterward, Frederick knew I had the key and told Lord Warton, who would have passed it on to Von Reich and Lord knows who else.

  When that happened, the plot to place a bomb in Amelia’s storage locker became unusable not because they couldn’t get another key, but because it was obvious that the locker would be carefully watched. But the storage locker could serve another purpose for the plot: a red herring to direct the authorities’ attention elsewhere while the killing is carried out another way.

  The thwarted attempt to place the bomb in the Amelia was at best inane—walking up to the train car with bomb in hand, knowing that the authorities had been forewarned and knowing that two armed guards were standing by, was hardly a workable scheme. Managing to leave behind a hat conveniently allowed the perpetrator to be identified.

  It made sense only if it was done to disarm the suspicions of the guards. They were told there would be a bomb attempt, there was one, the would-be assassin was identified, and is now conveniently dead.

  With a wave of a magician’s wand and a shout of “Abracadabra!” everyone can relax and the lovers can enjoy their forbidden tryst.

  So what is the real plan? Guns, knives, another bomb plot …

  We go around another inside bend and I get a view of Sarah and her lover through the window, briefly but enough to see the broad build and the dark beard of the man. Too far away to see him well enough to put a name to the face, in my heart I believe I know who it is, but I dare not utter the name even to myself until I am positively certain. Still, it does strike me that he can be an easy target for a sharpshooter on the ground or even on the train. In fact, because a rifleman in another carriage is travelling at the same speed, it makes it a much easier shot.

  Why, going around the curves as we are, if I had a rifle, I could—

  The thought petrifies me.

  A man named Lazarus is somewhere on the train, a person who Von Reich intimated is a world-class sharpshooter. Shooting from a train car farther up from mine to the Amelia would be a turkey shoot for a good marksman when we go around an inside bend.

  But Frederick and the coppers must have searched the train and it would be extremely difficult for Lazarus to hide—unless someone is helping him, someone who is above suspicion and whose quarters would not be searched.

  Lady Warton demonstrated her knowledge of a high-powered but little-known rifle last night. One her English huntsman husband wasn’t even familiar with. She hadn’t named the rifle out of necessity, more to show off. Hardly the sort of thing a proper woman, a well-bred lady, would have done, especially one who prides herself on her womanly social skills as she does.

  If she and her husband are working with Lazarus, it is information that she could have gotten from the mysterious marksman. It sounds far-fetched only because Warton is a British peer. But he’s also a drunkard, a gambler, and apparently so broke he has to sell his integrity to literally act as a doorman for businessmen who want access to government officials. Desperate enough to aid an assassin because he might lose his estates? Men have done worse for less.

  Thinking about it, Warton had always been Johnny-on-the-spot. He took charge in the marketplace, set out to discredit my suspicions from the very beginning, kept possession of Mr. Cleveland’s effects even though he could have sent them ashore to British officials in Port Said. Von Reich knew something about Lazarus and was involved in some way with the man. Lord Wart
on was Von Reich’s sponsor and even volunteered the information that the woman Cenza had left the train, ensuring no one would look for her.

  Now he orders his golf clubs. A golf bag would be a perfect place to hide a rifle.

  My mind is swirling and I press my temples. All nonsense? A house of cards? But it fits so nicely.

  “Head hurtin’ from all the excitement?”

  Cenza. With a gun, a small, wicked-looking one.

  “There are people looking for you. And they have bigger guns.” Brave talk but I’m petrified.

  “This? It’s only a backup. When the two guards come out of Amelia and run down this corridor, I’m going to step out of a compartment and shoot them—hopefully in the back. If I don’t get them, my brother will.”

  “Lazarus?”

  “That’s his stage name, from an act when he was a kid and rose from a coffin that had been burned to cinders. Bela kept it when he became a sharpshooter.”

  “He’s the one who Murdock recognized in Colombo and tried to blackmail. He shot Murdock backstage with you. He fired at the same time Murdock’s wife did. She knew, of course. Bought off?”

  “Bought off in more ways than one. Bela’s very smart. He knew the Murdocks were booked on the ship and sent me down to join them. It wasn’t hard. I just climbed into bed with both of them.”

  A strange calmness engulfs me as I talk to a woman who has come to murder me. Electrified shock, not courage, keeps my lips moving.

  “Why didn’t you just buy him off instead of killing him?”

  “Tried. But Hugh had a big appetite.”

  “What about Von Reich? When you didn’t need his explosives—”

  She scoffs. “He knew nothing about explosives. He was a road manager for Bela’s magic-and-sharpshooting act and made some money selling gunpowder to the Mahdi. He talked too much. You are clever, I give you that. You have the curiosity of a cat.” Her malicious grin widens. “But with eight less lives. Have you figured it out?”

  “I think so. It’ll happen around one of these bends, when your brother can get a clear shot at the man in the Amelia. The rifle’s in the golf bag. You paid off Lord Warton to help.”

  “Very good, you would make a good detective—if you weren’t going to be dead very soon. But you’re not all right.”

  Keep her talking, someone will come along.

  “How much did you pay Warton?” I ask. “Even if he needed the money—”

  “That souse’s so busted, he’d sell his soul to keep off the foreclosure of his estates. But it’s more than that. Bela can destroy his reputation, too. A sex scandal that no one can crawl out from under.”

  “Did you—”

  “Turn around.” She checks her watch. “Now. We’re through talking.”

  “They’ll hear you if you shoot me.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you.”

  There is wicked glee in her voice.

  I turn, my knees suddenly weak. I can barely keep them from buckling. I hear a movement and out of the corner of my eye I can see she’s taken off her belt and is folding it. My head explodes in a burst of sparks. The leather strap loops over my head and onto my neck, her knee presses into the small of my back, my wind is shut off as she jerks back. My neck feels crushed and I can’t break her hold even with the strength of my panic.

  The pressure suddenly snaps, and she falls against me and slides to the floor as I push myself away and get up, nearly falling back down.

  “You okay?”

  Holding my burning throat and gasping for breath, I stare into the wonderful face of my porter. He’s holding a silver platter and there are breakfast rolls scattered on the floor.

  He gestures at Cenza. “She was choking you. Is she crazy?”

  “Mean crazy.”

  Cenza starts to push herself up and I grab the heavy platter from George. Lifting it high in the air, I bring it down on the back of her head, collapsing her back down on the floor. Just for good measure, I give her another whack.

  “You could kill her!” George says.

  “I doubt it, but hope so.” She’s still clutching her small pistol and I take it. “Watch her, she’s dangerous.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A killer.”

  Giving him the platter, I make a dash for the connecting door to the adjoining car where Frederick’s compartment is, yelling back at George. “Tell those British coppers to make sure their man is away from the windows and then come to Mr. Selous’s compartment.”

  Dashing into the next car, I slide open Frederick’s door. Empty.

  “Where is he?” I shout at his porter who stares at me like I’m a maniac.

  He shakes his head as he backs away, holding up his hands. “I don’t know.”

  I realize I’m pointing the gun at him and aim it at the floor. “Find Mr. Selous. Tell him it’s the Wartons.”

  “What about the Wartons?”

  “Tell him they’re the ones.”

  I rush by him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To stop a murder!”

  68

  A few feet from the Wartons’ compartment, I stop and stare at the small caliber revolver in my hand.

  What am I doing? I’m about to face a sharpshooter who’s armed with a rifle and I’ve got a peashooter. Cenza’s small revolver holds five bullets in the cylinder, less than the six-shooter I learned to fire but it feels like a cannon right now.

  “Don’t think,” Annie Oakley had said when giving me a lesson, “just look where you want the bullet to go, then point and shoot.”

  Point and shoot. Pulling back the hammer to cock it, I fumble the gun in my hand and nearly drop it.

  Forcing myself forward, one step at a time, I’m shaking so badly I have a hard time opening the connecting door out of the car and the one into the next.

  The corridor is deserted and I move slowly down, holding the gun out in front of me with both hands. A shadow created by someone in the parlor area at the other end of the car moves and I freeze in place.

  Lord Warton steps into my line of aim, swaying, and almost loses his balance.

  “Go back to your hole,” he slurs.

  He’s so drunk, I’m not sure he even recognizes me.

  “Put your hands up!”

  “Stupid woman.” He goes back around the corner, out of my sight.

  Half from panic, I run toward the parlor area holding the gun out in front of me. As I go by a half-open compartment door, Lady Warton flies out, swinging a rifle stock that knocks the revolver from my hand.

  She jerks the rifle back and slams the butt into my stomach, crippling me with pain and shock. My knees fold and I grab at her for support as I start to fall, getting a hold of her hair. The whole head of hair comes off, leaving a bald head.

  She—he?—grabs me by my own hair and jerks me up, sticking the gun under my chin as I rise to wobbly knees. My eyes are glazed, a wheezing breath feels like it’s on fire.

  “Give me any trouble and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Her voice is no longer feminine, though softer than most men’s. The identity problem Von Reich spoke of is obvious—Lady Warton is not a woman. I now understand Cenza’s remark about Lord Warton facing a sexual scandal.

  “Bela,” I spit out.

  He hits me across the side of the face with the back of his hand. “Shut up.”

  His features are so similar to his sister’s, I might have made the connection if I saw them side by side—without a netted veil.

  He forces me down the aisle, one hand on my hair, the other holding the rifle he has stuck against my side. Tears roll down my cheeks, not from sobbing, but from the excruciating pain.

  In the parlor area he shoves me down on the couch next to Lord Warton who’s clutching a bottle of Scotch as a life preserver.

  Bela lifts my chin with the tip of the rifle barrel. “Where’s my sister?”

  Unable to speak, I shake my head as tears flow and I’
m still trying to breathe.

  He slaps me and my neck stretches as my head feels like it’s ready to fly off.

  “If they have her, I have you, and we’ll trade when I’m ready. And if she’s been harmed … I’ll kill you.”

  He raises his hand to slap me again and I slide down on the couch, turning my head away and sobbing.

  Bela looks beyond me, leaning down to squint as the train tracks form an inside bend that gives him a clear view of the Amelia.

  “Can’t do this,” Lord Warton slurs, “not what we agreed. Can’t do it.”

  “Shut up, you old sot. I’m saving your estate from creditors.”

  Warton shakes his head. “Can’t do it, not this.”

  “Shut up and drink your milk.”

  The window suddenly explodes behind my head and I fall forward as glass shatters toward me. Bela drops to his knees and I grab onto the rifle with both hands. He jerks it, rising up from his knees, but I hang on for dear life and go with him until we are standing face-to-face with the rifle between us. He lurches forward to shove me back and I push up on the rifle, displacing his force as Carolina Magnet did. He pushes again and I push up, shrieking with glee as his face turns purple from rage.

  Jerking me to him, he twists the rifle but I hang on as he pulls me around in a circle when he can’t break my hold. He tries again, this time pushing me back toward the wall and I push up again and we stop in the middle of the parlor. His rage has now turned into a wild animals howl.

  He lets one hand go of the rifle and hits me across the side of the head, sending me sprawling. Rifle now to his shoulder, he aims down at me but it is Lord Warton who comes to my rescue when he flies off the couch with his bottle of Scotch and swings, hitting Bela on the side of his head.

  Bela falls back against the opposite wall and screams, “You stupid fool!” He fires, slamming Lord Warton back onto the couch.

  Gunfire erupts and I lay flat on the floor as bullets smack the walls around me. Bela is knocked backward but keeps his feet and fires the rifle from the hip once before his body jerks as a rain of bullets hit him.