The Rome Express, the
direttissimo, or most direct, was approaching Paris one morning in
March, when it became known to the occupants of the sleeping-car
that there was something amiss, very much amiss, in the car.
The train was travelling the last
stage, between Laroche and Paris, a run of a hundred miles without
a stop. It had halted at Laroche for early breakfast, and many, if
not all the passengers, had turned out. Of those in the
sleeping-car, seven in number, six had been seen in the restaurant,
or about the platform; the seventh, a lady, had not stirred. All
had reëntered their berths to sleep or doze when the train went on,
but several were on the move as it neared Paris, taking their turn
at the lavatory, calling for water, towels, making the usual stir
of preparation as the end of a journey was at hand.
There were many calls for the
porter, yet no porter appeared. At last the attendant was
found—lazy villain!--asleep, snoring loudly, stertorously, in his
little bunk at the end of the car. He was roused with difficulty,
and set about his work in a dull, unwilling, lethargic way, which
promised badly for his tips from those he was supposed to
serve.
By degrees all the passengers got
dressed, all but two,—the lady in 9 and 10, who had made no sign as
yet; and the man who occupied alone a double berth next her,
numbered 7 and 8.
As it was the porter's duty to
call every one, and as he was anxious, like the rest of his class,
to get rid of his travellers as soon as possible after arrival, he
rapped at each of the two closed doors behind which people
presumably still slept.
The lady cried "All right," but
there was no answer from No. 7 and 8.
Again and again the porter
knocked and called loudly. Still meeting with no response, he
opened the door of the compartment and went in.
It was now broad daylight. No
blind was down; indeed, the one narrow window was open, wide; and
the whole of the interior of the compartment was plainly visible,
all and everything in it.
The occupant lay on his bed
motionless. Sound asleep? No, not merely asleep—the twisted
unnatural lie of the limbs, the contorted legs, the one arm
drooping listlessly but stiffly over the side of the berth, told of
a deeper, more eternal sleep.
The man was dead. Dead—and not
from natural causes.
One glance at the blood-stained
bedclothes, one look at the gaping wound in the breast, at the
battered, mangled face, told the terrible story.
It was murder! murder most foul!
The victim had been stabbed to the heart.
With a wild, affrighted, cry the
porter rushed out of the compartment, and to the eager questioning
of all who crowded round him, he could only mutter in confused and
trembling accents:
"There! there! in there!"
Thus the fact of the murder
became known to every one by personal inspection, for every one
(even the lady had appeared for just a moment) had looked in where
the body lay. The compartment was filled for some ten minutes or
more by an excited, gesticulating, polyglot mob of half a dozen,
all talking at once in French, English, and Italian.
The first attempt to restore
order was made by a tall man, middle-aged, but erect in his
bearing, with bright eyes and alert manner, who took the porter
aside, and said sharply in good French, but with a strong English
accent:
"Here! it's your business to do
something. No one has any right to be in that compartment now.
There may be reasons—traces—things to remove; never mind what. But
get them all out. Be sharp about it; and lock the door. Remember
you will be held responsible to justice."
The porter shuddered, so did many
of the passengers who had overheard the Englishman's last
words.
Justice! It is not to be trifled
with anywhere, least of all in France, where the uncomfortable
superstition prevails that every one who can be reasonably
suspected of a crime is held to be guilty of that crime until his
innocence is clearly proved.
All those six passengers and the
porter were now brought within the category of the accused. They
were all open to suspicion; they, and they alone, for the murdered
man had been seen alive at Laroche, and the fell deed must have
been done since then, while the train was in transit, that is to
say, going at express speed, when no one could leave it except at
peril of his life.
"Deuced awkward for us!" said the
tall English general, Sir Charles Collingham by name, to his
brother the parson, when he had reëntered their compartment and
shut the door.
"I can't see it. In what way?"
asked the Reverend Silas Collingham, a typical English cleric, with
a rubicund face and square-cut white whiskers, dressed in a suit of
black serge, and wearing the professional white tie.
"Why, we shall be detained, of
course; arrested, probably—certainly detained. Examined,
cross-examined, bully-ragged—I know something of the French police
and their ways."
"If they stop us, I shall write
to the Times" cried his brother, by profession a man of peace, but
with a choleric eye that told of an angry temperament.
"By all means, my dear Silas,
when you get the chance. That won't be just yet, for I tell you
we're in a tight place, and may expect a good deal of worry." With
that he took out his cigarette-case, and his match-box, lighted his
cigarette, and calmly watched the smoke rising with all the
coolness of an old campaigner accustomed to encounter and face the
ups and downs of life. "I only hope to goodness they'll run
straight on to Paris," he added in a fervent tone, not unmixed with
apprehension. "No! By jingo, we're slackening speed—."
"Why shouldn't we? It's right the
conductor, or chief of the train, or whatever you call him, should
know what has happened."
"Why, man, can't you see? While
the train is travelling express, every one must stay on board it;
if it slows, it is possible to leave it."
"Who would want to leave
it?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the
General, rather testily. "Any way, the thing's done now."
The train had pulled up in
obedience to the signal of alarm given by some one in the
sleeping-car, but by whom it was impossible to say. Not by the
porter, for he seemed greatly surprised as the conductor came up to
him.
"How did you know?" he
asked.
"Know! Know what? You stopped
me."
"I didn't."
"Who rang the bell, then?"
"I did not. But I'm glad you've
come. There has been a crime—murder."
"Good Heavens!" cried the
conductor, jumping up on to the car, and entering into the
situation at once. His business was only to verify the fact, and
take all necessary precautions. He was a burly, brusque, peremptory
person, the despotic, self-important French official, who knew what
to do—as he thought—and did it without hesitation or apology.
"No one must leave the car," he
said in a tone not to be misunderstood. "Neither now, nor on
arrival at the station."
There was a shout of protest and
dismay, which he quickly cut short.
"You will have to arrange it with
the authorities in Paris; they can alone decide. My duty is plain:
to detain you, place you under surveillance till then. Afterwards,
we will see. Enough, gentlemen and madame"—
He bowed with the instinctive
gallantry of his nation to the female figure which now appeared at
the door of her compartment. She stood for a moment listening,
seemingly greatly agitated, and then, without a word, disappeared,
retreating hastily into her own private room, where she shut
herself in.
Almost immediately, at a signal
from the conductor, the train resumed its journey. The distance
remaining to be traversed was short; half an hour more, and the
Lyons station, at Paris, was reached, where the bulk of the
passengers—all, indeed, but the occupants of the sleeper—descended
and passed through the barriers. The latter were again desired to
keep their places, while a posse of officials came and mounted
guard. Presently they were told to leave the car one by one, but to
take nothing with them. All their hand-bags, rugs, and belongings
were to remain in the berths, just as they lay. One by one they
were marched under escort to a large and bare waiting-room, which
had, no doubt, been prepared for their reception.
Here they took their seats on
chairs placed at wide intervals apart, and were peremptorily
forbidden to hold any communication with each other, by word or
gesture. This order was enforced by a fierce-looking guard in blue
and red uniform, who stood facing them with his arms folded,
gnawing his moustache and frowning severely.
Last of all, the porter was
brought in and treated like the passengers, but more distinctly as
a prisoner. He had a guard all to himself; and it seemed as though
he was the object of peculiar suspicion. It had no great effect
upon him, for, while the rest of the party were very plainly sad,
and a prey to lively apprehension, the porter sat dull and unmoved,
with the stolid, sluggish, unconcerned aspect of a man just roused
from sound sleep and relapsing into slumber, who takes little
notice of what is passing around.
Meanwhile, the sleeping-car, with its contents, especially the
corpse of the victim, was shunted into a siding, and sentries were
placed on it at both ends. Seals had been affixed upon the entrance
doors, so that the interior might be kept inviolate until it could
be visited and examined by the Chef de la Surêté, or Chief of the
Detective Service. Every one and everything awaited the arrival of
this all-important functionary.