Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

not G – G for Gwyneth Gilmour.

  My thoughts are interrupted: Chisholm is back.

  “I’ve got news, Agnes. Mr Freshing is recovering. He’s regained consciousness, and he’s out of danger. But, I’m afraid that you, I and the professor are not.”

  “Not – out of danger? What do you mean?”

  “Along with the good news about Mr Freshing, there comes some bad news for us. When I phoned from that hotel in Westchester, I gave the New York Police Department a description of that man aboard the El. They have just told me on the telephone now that an automobile was reported stolen that night, from near 155th Street station. The time of the theft was shortly after we left the Polo Grounds with Gwyneth.”

  “It has to be coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid not. The owner saw the man taking his car. The thief answers the description of our gunman that I gave to the police. The police took it very seriously: they believe that the gunman from the El is coming after us.”

  “Even if he did steal a car, he surely couldn’t have followed us right out of New York City and all the way here. We were travelling for hours that evening, and all day yesterday. All that time, we didn’t spot any following car behind us on the road.”

  “But – could anyone have overheard you at the Metropole, when you were talking to Gwyneth? Did you tell her that Professor Axelson was at Glen Springs?”

  “No, I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

  “Because, Agnes, there’s even more bad news. Inspector Trench realized the significance of the theft and advised the upstate police in towns near here to look out for the stolen car in this area. A car of that description was seen an hour ago in Binghampton.”

  “How on earth do they know where we are?...” I trail off, because I’m recalling my conversation with Professor Axelson on the rail of the Olympic, when we docked in New York. I hear the professor’s voice in my head. ‘I am travelling on to Glen Springs Sanitarium in upstate New York, to see Mr Freshing. I have allowed three days to speak to him.’ Someone must have been listening to us. I tell Chisholm.

  “That must be the explanation. The sighting of the stolen car in Binghampton shows that they know that we’re all here – you, I and Axelson.”

  “But the Gophers wouldn’t try coming into the Glen Springs spa itself, would they? We must be safe here.”

  “Remember what Gwyneth said about the recent murder at the Hotel Metropole. New York gangs are ruthless and daring. So I think, Agnes, that we’re not at all safe here. Come to think of it, we’re not very popular here, either.” He motions with his head towards the corridor behind the reception desk, where I can now make out several raised voices. Among the voices I hear the professor’s, still insisting loudly that the hypnosis could not possibly have caused Mr Freshing’s seizure.

  Chisholm’s low voice as he speaks to me is calm, but rapid and insistent.

  “Agnes, can you find Gwyneth and tell her to pack all her things and go the car and wait for us. Then pack you own things and go to the car too. I’m going to rescue the professor from this mess. We’ll meet you ladies at the car. The only problem is Freshing’s papers – they’ve vital clues, we need to study them. But they don’t belong to us: by rights we should leave them here…”

  “I’ve copied them out. Here.”

  Chisholm’s delight is such that I almost think he’s going to embrace me. But he just says three words. “Thank you, Agnes.”

  It’s twenty minutes later, and Gwyneth and I are getting into her automobile on the driveway in front of the Glen Springs entrance. I thought she and I would have to wait at the car, but as I get into the back seat I see Chisholm, carrying two suitcases, hurrying the professor down the steps of the Sanitarium.

  “Professor, get in the back with Agnes. I’ll drive, Gwyneth.”

  “No you won’t, Chisholm. I know this car, and I know the roads of New York State.”

  It’s clear that she won’t move from the driving seat. Chisholm gets into the front passenger seat beside her. “I’ll navigate, then. Back down the drive, then turn right towards Watkins Glen.”

  The moon is rising as we drive through the neat little town. In just a few minutes, we’re passing the lakeshore and the pier. We see the church with its tall stone English-looking spire, the neat frontages of the shops and the sidewalk cafés. Then, we drive past houses, set well back from the road in large gardens. After a few minutes the houses become more scattered, and there are more trees. The road begins to dip and wind among woods. As we leave the last of the houses, I glance backwards. Last time I looked, the road behind us was deserted – and, it is again. I breathe a sigh of thankfulness. We drive deeper among the trees. But something makes me take one final look behind us. And this time, I see that the distant trees behind us are momentarily lit, as if illuminated by the passing headlamps of a car.

  “There may be something behind us, Gwyneth.”

  “Don’t worry. This automobile is one of the fastest and most powerful in America. We can outrun them, I’m sure.”

  Ten minutes later, I think: it was a false alarm. I’ve not seen anything more on the road behind us. The twilight is deepening into night. We pass a lonely farm, and then there are no more houses, no signs of human life. The road is rough, it’s made of dirt and stones, but Gwyneth’s driving is assured and confident. Despite the bumps and shakes, we’re making fast progress. If someone is pursuing us, then they can’t possibly find us, I think, in the deepest backcountry of New York State. Thick, gloomy woodlands stretch endlessly around us, and the deserted road winds on and on in the growing darkness. As we drive ever deeper into the woods, I have the strange feeling that we’re the last humans left on Earth. I ask the obvious question.

  “Where are we going?”

  Gwyneth keeps her eyes fixed ahead on the road as she answers me. “Somewhere where we’ll be safe. I’m taking us to my husband’s fishing lodge at Olcott, on Lake Ontario. Not far from Niagara Falls. I managed to speak to Calvin on the telephone before I left Glen Springs. By fortunate coincidence, he’s staying at the lodge himself. He understands our situation, and he’s very happy for us all to go there.”

  I interrupt her. “There’s a car behind us.”

  I’m sure of it now: it is so dark in this forest that even the faraway lights of a car, several hundred yards behind us, can be made out, glowing and dimming as it drives among the trunks of the endless trees. I hold my breath, and say silent prayers as we drive on in the darkness.

  “It’s odd.” says Axelson, fifteen minutes later. “It’s like they’re tailing us at a distance, rather than trying to catch us.”

  “Maybe it’s not them, after all.”

  Another five minutes pass, in which growing relief that we’re not being followed is countered by alarm at the increasing roughness of the road. Lumpy rocks have replaced stones and gravel, and every few seconds our tires plunge into deep potholes. The powerful headlamps light our path like beacons in the black night, but it must be so hard for Gwyneth to see and anticipate each twist of the road, the ruts and dips and bumps along its surface. As we jolt over the potholes, I hold onto Chisholm’s seat in front of me to lessen the shaking.

  Suddenly there’s a bigger jolt. I’m thrown sideways: Gwyneth has wrenched the steering wheel right across. I see a fallen tree, huge in our headlights, lying across the road as we swerve left, then a squeal of straining brakes as she brings the car to a standstill. We stare at the massive trunk and its splayed branches, crushed and crumpled by its fall. The road is completely blocked.

  Gwyneth looks round at us all. “I’m going to turn the car round. We’ve got to go back. There’s no way around this tree.”

  “But the car behind us…”

  “Chances are, they’re not pursuing us. But if they are, then if we stay here, this tree across the road means they’ll catch us anyway. We’re rats in a trap here.”

  Gwyneth pulls the car into reverse and turns it around in the road. We start to
head back along the road again. I’m starting to hate this place, this lonely road, these unending, silent trees, the now-familiar judder of the rocks and the sudden jolts of the potholes. We’re still moving fast: Gwyneth is handling the car superbly, but then she accelerates still faster. I glimpse light ahead of us: it’s the other car. Her plan, I see, is to take them by surprise: to race past them on the road before they can react to us. Then, if they are indeed our enemies, they will have to take time to turn their car round to follow us. In the meantime, Gwyneth will be able to outrun them on the road back to Watkins Glen. It’s a clever idea: we’ll be safer among the streets and houses of the little town than out here in the wilderness. Maybe we can take refuge in a hotel, I think…

  The car races faster and faster: the jolts in the road shake us like a jackhammer, and I can feel the acceleration in the pit of my stomach. A blur of tree trunks ahead, then a sudden dazzle: I see the other car’s headlights straight ahead of us, bigger and bigger. We swerve to avoid them – but they swerve too. Quite deliberately, they are swerving towards us.

  I see the twist of the other car’s wheels in the road: then, the cars collide. I feel like I’ve been punched: the sudden impact takes the breath from my body as our car slews round in the road, reeling from the hit. It leans sideways, more and more. For a moment I think: we’re going to topple