Compartment K

by Helen Reilly

  COMPARTMENT K

  by Helen Reilly

  A BRUTAL MURDER occurred on a New York side street the night before the swank Canadian express left Montreal, en route to the Rocky Mountain estate of Millionairess Elizabeth Questing.

  A gay group of friends and relatives of the fortunate lady is aboard the train—and the object of Detective Todhunter’s special attention, though serenely unaware that one of their number is a suspect.

  Before he can nail his man (or woman), however, a second body is discovered. And, by the time the train reaches its destination, the gay mood of the Questing party has sobered considerably. But it isn’t until a woman is found drowned in Lake Amethyst, near the Questing mansion, that the field of suspects narrows—and Detective Todhunter finally closes in. . . .

  COMPARTMENT K © Copyright, 1955 by Helen Reilly

  First U.S. (book) publication, 1955 by Walter J. Black, Inc.

  THE DETECTIVE BOOK CLUB Printed in the United States of America

  ONE

  The blow was hard and swift. The woman fell. She didn’t cry out. There was no time. The attack was too sudden. The only sound was the thud of her body hitting the cement. She rolled over. Her face was towards the sky. Another blow, and another and another, fast, savage, unreasoning. Bone cracked and blood gushed. Presently drunken footsteps staggered away. A pause. The pause was filled with the distant murmur of traffic, a horn, the slam of a car door somewhere down the block. The retreating footsteps stopped. High above the hot New York pavements a clock in a church tower struck nine. The last gleam of day was gone. The sky was overcast. It was very dark. The footsteps began to return.

  The night was the night of August the tenth.

  The Canadian Pacific Commonwealth, enroute from Montreal to Vancouver, went round a wide curve. The lounge car at the back of the long train swung gently. It was 5:20 Mountain Daylight-Saving Time on the afternoon of August the thirteenth. The car was less than half full. A man and a girl sat opposite each other in one of the four booths in the middle of it. The girl, a slight dark attractive girl in blue linen, was Rose O’Hara. The man, a tall man in his middle thirties with a ruggedly intelligent face and a wide, humorous mouth, was Nils Gantry, a writer to whom Rose O’Hara was engaged. They were on their way to the Canadian Rockies to stay with a cousin of Rose’s who had a lodge at Amethyst Lake high in the mountains.

  Gantry was playing solitaire. There was a book open in front of Rose. She wasn’t reading, she was gazing through the window. On either side of the speeding train the great plains of northwest Canada slid past, broken at long intervals by an isolated farmhouse, a tiny clump of trees or a nest of tractors that merely accentuated the immensity rolling unbroken to an invisible horizon. Thunderheads piled the sky, mass on mass of them. The fading day was somber. In the east, lightning zigzagged brilliantly.

  Rose gazed apathetically at the jagged streaks. Ordinarily she was afraid of thunderstorms, but not now. Eyes, she thought, the eyes were everywhere. Nils watched her from across the table, an army officer halfway down the car kept glancing at her, a small gray man in the opposite booth faced in her direction. If only she could escape from the eyes, not have to look at anyone. She couldn’t escape. She was going into danger, not away from it..

  Gantry swept cards together and glanced at the sky. “We’re going to get it. I think—a corker, big. like everything else up here.”

  "Yes."

  It was the first time Nils had said a word in twenty minutes. Was that significant? Rose pressed her shoulders harder against padded leather, rested her wrist on the table edge to keep her hand from shaking. She was suffering from shock. She recognized that fullv, but recognizing a state of mind didn't do away with it. The night before in the dining car she had come suddenly on Daniel Font, the man who had unceremoniously thrown her over to marry another woman less than a year ago.

  She didn’t know whether Nils knew that she had formerly been engaged to Daniel or not. She had never told him. He had been directly behind her last night when she had caught sight of Daniel and his wife at a table halfway down the dining car. and he must have felt her pause, stand abruptly still. It had been like a punch over the heart, paralyzing her for an instant or two. Then she had moved on. Daniel saw her at once. He stared, couldn't seem to remove his eves. Blood rushed into his face and he half rose. She had given him a small nod and walked on after the steward, seating herself, not in the chair the man held out that would have put her face to face with Daniel, but in the chair opposite, with her back to the Font party.

  Thai was where she had made her initial mistake. Nils was a man whom verv little escaped., and he knew the Fonts. She should have spoken then and there. She should have said. “Running into mv ex-fiance like that was rather a jolt, but I’ll live,*' said it with a smile. She had been too shaken to think straight.

  All during dinner she had comforted herself with the assurance that it would soon be over, that she and Nils had only one more day to go through before they left the train at Field, that Daniel and his wife might be getting off at Banff, or Lake Louise, or might be going on to Vancouver—and then the blow had fallen.

  On her way out of the dining car, Mrs. Pilgrim, the mother of the girl Daniel had married, stopped at their table. Rose had known Loretta Pilgrim distantly for years. She was a small, plump, comely woman in her late forties with fly-away smoke gray curls and a pink and white skin. She had an attractive dimple. Her manner, as always, was brightly vague—her talk elliptical.

  "Rose O’Hara, and Mr. Gantry,” she exclaimed. “Well, it is a small world. How nice to see you both—and such a surprise. You’re going up to your cousin, of course, Rose, I thought so. I said so the moment you came in. We’re going there too.”

  Rose had stared at her speechlessly. She was stunned on two counts. First, that there was now no easy way of getting clear of Daniel and his wife and, second, that her cousin should be entertaining Loretta Pilgrim and the Fonts at all.

  After Loretta left them Nils said, “Didn’t your cousin marry Mrs. Pilgrim’s brother, Humphrey Questing? . . . What’s the matter? You look surprised.”

  There at least Rose was able to be truthful. She said, “Yes, Hum phrey Questing was Mrs. Pilgrim’s brother—and I am surprised, extremely surprised. I can’t imagine my cousin Elizabeth asking any of her husband’s relatives as house guests. . . . There's never been the slightest pretense of friendliness on their part. They’ve always hated Elizabeth. I suppose, in a way, it was natural enough. Humphrey Questing was enormously rich, and when he stayed a bachelor until he was in his forties they probably figured he’d never marry and the money would go to them. According to my mother, they did everything they could to wreck the marriage, but it was no go. And when Humphrey died six years ago and left Elizabeth everything it simply made things worse.”

  There again Rose had had her chance to speak of Daniel Font. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. The whole thing was too recent. She thought Nils had wiped it out, obliterated it cleanly. It wasn’t so. The sight of Daniel brought it back—not only the pain, but the uncertainty, unsureness, the feeling that there was something fundamentally wrong with her, that she couldn’t trust her judgment, the evidence of her senses. . . . Nils would have no sympathy with that. He was so sure himself. . . .

  She had been silent long enough, too long. She closed her book, made her eyes meet Nils’s and stifled a yawn.

  “Where are we now?”

  Nils consulted a timetable. “Between Broadview and Regina.” He studied her thoughtfully. “You look tired. You ought to try and get a good sleep tonight, go to bed early.”

  What did he mean by that? How much did he know, suspect? Rose shrugged.

  “It’s a long journey.”

  �
�Don’t forget you’re crossing a continent, pet. We’ll be in Calgary tomorrow and after that it’s only a short run up into the mountains. Cigarette?”

  He gave her one, lit it. “Somehow or other I’ve never been in this part of the world. How far is it from Banff to Amethyst Lake?”

  Amethyst Lake where Daniel was going to be, Daniel and his beautiful wife.

  “About fifty miles up into the mountains,” Rose said.

  The thunder was loud above the racketing of the wheels, the creaking of wood. The storm was coming closer. They were rushing to meet it. Oppression pushed up against Rose. It was a physical thing. Nils was eying her critically.

  “You’re right, I am tired. What I’d like is a drink.”

  “Good.” Nils was enthusiastic. “So would I. I’ve still got plenty of Scotch in my bag. I’ll go and fill a flask. Order some soda, will you?”

  It was a relief to be alone. The relief didn’t last. It was while Nils was gone that Daniel’s wife and her mother came into the lounge car. Rose had begun to relax, let the tension seep out of her. She tightened up sharply.

  The girl, who had been Candy Pilgrim and was now Candy Font, brought stir with her, and a small clamor. The clamor was the shrill barking of a dog. Candy was carrying what looked like a soft mass of pale pink silk over one arm. It was, incredibly, a pink poodle, with a black nose and tiny round black eyes. Interested stares, exclamations: “Isn’t he sweet?”, “Oh, what a perfect darling!”—Rose immersed herself in her book.

  The two women went past her to the extreme end of the car.

  There was a man with them. 'Flic man wasn’t Daniel. He was a stranger—big, broad shouldered, superlatively groomed. Rose looked through her lashes at the distant group. Candy sat in profile to her. It was an exquisite profile. No wonder Daniel had fallen for her madly. The lovely promising mouth—childish, eager; the limpid eyes; the pale gold hair. nd her clothes—she made every other woman look drab, shapeless.

  Rose wondered satirically whether her mother's slight dowdiness was deliberate, a planned foil for Candy’s perfection. A pale beige suit molded Candy’s reed-like slimness, a minute crescent of cinnamon felt was perched sideways on the shining head. Her hair was touched up of course, so were her eyelashes . . . instead of being dark, they were probably straw-colored. She must spend hours a day on her face. She looks, Rose thought venomously, like a professional model who works for a living instead of like the wife of a rising young but not too well-heeled executive. The little head bent over the poodle draped across her knees, lemon-colored gloves delicately smoothing the silky fur—who but Candy Font would bother with gloves on a train? But they were part of a costume. She sat gazing out at the plains under piled storm clouds as cool and untouched as a daisy in a meadow, aloof from her mother and the man Loretta Pilgrim was talking to vivaciously.

  It was then that the Beldings came into the lounge car.

  Rose had no premonition, no forewarning of what was about to take place. Impending death, sudden and violent death, cast no oncoming shadow. It was simply that her own emotional climate sharpened her perceptions, grooved detail into her mind during that prelude to murder, so that she was able to recall timing and exists and entrances with accuracy later.

  It was perfectly natural for the Beldings to be there. They paused at her table.

  Harry said, “Everything all right, Rose?"

  Harry Belding was Elizabeth's man of business and Rose had known him for years. He was a pleasant man with a thin, attractive face, a long chin and nice eyes, very light against an olive skin. He smiled down at her with quiet friendliness. His wife was with him. Gertrude Belding was a washed-out blond, with frizzled taffy hair and glasses, whose chief business in life seemed to be to placate. She wore a permanently anxious expression and was always dropping things or stumbling over something, but there was a sweetness to her, an awkward and bumbling unselfishness. When you stayed with Elizabeth she was the one who did all the little things, who saw that the maid had turned down the bed properly and that you had aspirin and extra blankets, anything you might need. Harry had been in New York and had made all arrangements for the trip, had bought Rose her reservations.

  It was rather odd that Elizabeth hadn’t given him that commission—or it would have been in anyone else, but Elizabeth had her own way of doing things and you didn’t question it. Rose said that everything was fine, except the storm. “And there's nothing even you can do about that, Harry.”

  “It makes me nervous, too,” Gertrude Belding said with unusual force, biting her lip and closing her eyes at a sudden long crackling boom overhead. She looked green. She was as afraid of thunder as Rose was.

  They chatted idly for a minute, then the Beldings moved on down the car towards Candy and Loretta Pilgrim, Harry a dutiful shepherd looking after his sheep.

  Rain splashed hissingly at the windows in a sudden downpour. Rose glanced at her watch. What was keeping Nils? He had been away almost a quarter of an hour. The army officer had shifted in his chair. He was watching Candy now. The little gray man was gone from the booth across the aisle. Where was Daniel? Suppose he came into the car . . . She felt nakedly exposed, vulnerable, sitting there alone—not that Daniel would stop and speak. He had nothing to say to her, or she to him. His wife was there, the wife he had chosen deliberately . . . Where ivas Nils? Rose was about to get to her feet when the second interruption came.

  A man paused at the end of the table.

  “Miss O'Hara?”

  Rose looked up. It was the man who had been with Candy and Loretta Pilgrim. His voice was deep, drawling and authoritative. Slight Oxford accent, the remains of one, not accentuated. Rose’s first impression was that he had a false head. It was large and shapely, like the rest of him. There wasn’t a hair out of place. The brown eyes were large, too, and of the very best quality. An expensive camera case was slung over the shoulder of a beautifullv draped gabardine suit. Something about his appearance was vaguely familiar. She couldn’t place him.

  “I'm Gil Davidson, Miss O’Hara." He made her a little bow as though he were presenting her with something. “I wouldn't intrude on you like this, only I just heard who you were. I believe you’re a cousin of Elizabeth Questing’s? So am I. May I—?” He waved at Nils's vacant seat and, at Rose’s nod, dropped into it and offered her a cigarette. She refused and he lit one for himself.

  "I understand that you, too, are going up to Amethyst Lake? An excellent time of the year for it, the mountains are at their best in early August. Too bad about Elizabeth's breaking her ankle, but Belding says she’s on the mend. Mrs. Pilgrim tells me that she and her daughter and her son-in-law are also going to Amethyst Lake. Quite a gathering of the clans.”

  He gave her a glance out of the large glossy dark eyes. There was a peculiar fixity to them. Rose contented herself with a nod and Davidson went on.

  “I will be the intruder, the serpent in paradise. I didn’t let Elizabeth know I was coming, only decided at the last moment. But there are always rooms at the Chalet. And I can’t stay long, more’s the pity. Tell me, Miss O'Hara,” he leaned forward, deposited ash, and brought his head up, “how is Elizabeth?”

  There was more than idle inquiry in his question. There was a pointed quality to it, as though he was deeply concerned, expected her to share his concern. She rejected the assumption of a common bond of knowledge they both had.

  “Elizabeth’s fine as far as I know, except for the ankle. I haven’t seen her in almost a year but I’ve had letters from her, and I was talking to her over the phone a few days ago. Why do you ask?” Davidson met directness with directness. “This—” he smiled faintly, gestured with his head towards the group behind him at the far end of the lounge car, “—has a last will and testament air. Kiss and make up—all is forgiven. The lion lying down with the lambs—”

  “Or the lamb with the lions.”

  Davidson laughed softly. “Oh yes, yes, I couldn’t agree more.” His face sobered. “I’ve been wonderi
ng,” he looked away from her at a tiny station flashing past, returned his gaze to her face, “if Elizabeth is ill, or has gotten salvation or something to—ah—bring this rapprochement about. What I mean is, Elizabeth and Loretta Pilgrim never see each other, entertain each other. It’s rather odd that Elizabeth should ask Loretta Pilgrim and the Fonts to Amethyst as guests, now, after all these years—and that they should accept the invitation. Do you know anything that would explain it?”

  Thunder and a furious rattle of hail drowned his voice. He waited.

  Rose knew it was odd. The more she thought about it, the odder it seemed. But she had no explanation, knew nothing, and in any case she wouldn’t have discussed Elizabeth with this man who was a stranger to her. Gilbert Davidson might be Elizabeth’s cousin, he wouldn't say so if he wasn’t, but there were cousins and cousins, and there was no law that made you like them. For all she knew Elizabeth might detest this man. She had never spoken of him, as far as Rose could recall. Moreover, in spite of his excellent manners, there was something about Mr. Davidson—a boldness of approach perhaps—that she didn’t quite care for. She shook her head, smiled politely, and gathered her book and purse.

  “I’m afraid I have no information.” She stood.

  Davidson recognized the dismissing note in her voice. He got up, bent to her, a large well cared for hand adjusting the strap of the camera case. “Ah, well, we’ll know soon, won’t we? It promises to be an interesting visit.”

  He rejoined Candy, Loretta and the Beldings at the rear of the lounge car. Rose looked at her watch again. It was ten minutes of six. Nils had now been gone half an hour. He must have met someone, he met people he knew or who knew him everywhere he went. She wasn’t sorry. It would give her more time to steady down. Already she was feeling less jittery, stronger. When she faced the dining car tonight she would be armed and ready. She walked up the aisle. Her coach was directly ahead. Purple light threaded with needles of sleet, the crack of thunder; the speeding train lurched, the roadbed there was rough. The dim platforms were tilting rafts, hazardous. She opened the door of her own car, stepped into it, rounded the jog, and saw Daniel.