stood, half-turned toward me, one hand idly drooping,
the other steadying her as she gazed out at the flying
landscape. I had an instant impression that
I had met her somewhere, under different circumstances,
more cheerful ones, I thought, for the girl’s
dejection now was evident. Beside her, sitting
down, a small dark woman, considerably older, was
talking in a rapid undertone. The girl nodded
indifferently now and then. I fancied, although
I was not sure, that my appearance brought a startled
look into the young woman’s face. I sat
down and, hands thrust deep into the other man’s
pockets, stared ruefully at the other man’s
shoes.
The stage was set. In a moment the curtain was
going up on the first act of the play. And for
a while we would all say our little speeches and sing
our little songs, and I, the villain, would hold center
stage while the gallery hissed.
The porter was standing beside lower ten. He
had reached in and was knocking valiantly. But
his efforts met with no response. He winked
at me over his shoulder; then he unfastened the curtains
and bent forward. Behind him, I saw him stiffen,
heard his muttered exclamation, saw the bluish pallor
that spread over his face and neck. As he retreated
a step the interior of lower ten lay open to the day.
The man in it was on his back, the early morning sun
striking full on his upturned face. But the
light did not disturb him. A small stain of
red dyed the front of his night clothes and trailed
across the sheet; his half-open eyes were fixed, without
seeing, on the shining wood above.
I grasped the porter’s shaking shoulders and
stared down to where the train imparted to the body
a grisly suggestion of motion. “Good Lord,”
I gasped. “The man’s been murdered!”
NUMBERS SEVEN AND NINE
Afterwards, when I tried to recall our discovery of
the body in lower ten, I found that my most vivid
impression was not that made by the revelation of
the opened curtain. I had an instantaneous picture
of a slender blue-gowned girl who seemed to sense my
words rather than hear them, of two small hands that
clutched desperately at the seat beside them.
The girl in the aisle stood, bent toward us, perplexity
and alarm fighting in her face.
With twitching hands the porter attempted to draw
the curtains together. Then in a paralysis of
shock, he collapsed on the edge of my berth and sat
there swaying. In my excitement I shook him.
“For Heaven’s sake, keep your nerve, man,”
I said bruskly. “You’ll have every
woman in the car in hysterics. And if you do,
you’ll wish you could change places with the
man in there.” He rolled his eyes.
A man near, who had been reading last night’s
paper, dropped it quickly and tiptoed toward us.
He peered between the partly open curtains, closed
them quietly and went back, ostentatiously solemn,
to his seat. The very crackle with which he opened
his paper added to the bursting curiosity of the car.
For the passengers knew that something was amiss:
I was conscious of a sudden tension.
