The Wheel Spins (19 page)

“Thanks be I sounded him first,” she told herself.

Her gain was Miss Froy’s loss. The express carried a ghost-passenger, whose passport—although in order—was never examined. An experienced traveller, she realised what had actually happened when the train began to move slowly for the second time.

“Frontier,” she thought.

But in the interval between picking up the Customs officials and dropping them again, she swept through a cycle of emotions, as she shot up from midnight to sunshine, and then—through the gradual twilight of suspense, deferred hope and anxiety—sank back again into darkness.

The train rushed on.

After the Professor had left her Iris slumped down in her seat and listened to the choppy current of the train’s frantic rhythm. The grimed glass was beginning to grow steamy, so that it was difficult to see anything outside the window, except an occasional line of lights when the express flashed through some small station.

Since Miss Froy had been proved non-existent by the laws of logic she felt too flat to be interested in her surroundings. She had not even sufficient spirit to remain angry with the professor for his interference.

“All travellers are selfish,” she reflected. “It was those Miss Flood-Porters. They were afraid they might be saddled with me, so they got at the professor. I expect he consulted the doctor about what could be done.”

She straightened herself in an effort to relieve the aching of her back. The continual shaking of the train had worn her out, while her neck felt as though it were made of plaster of Paris and would crack in two if she jerked it. At that moment she longed for a comfortable bed where she could rest, far from the incessant rattle and din.

It was the doctor’s suggestion—a good night’s rest. Yet, although she began to doubt her own wisdom in trying to swim against the current, she remained set in her determination to oppose advice.

Presently Hare entered and sat opposite to her in Miss Kummer’s seat.

“Well?” he asked hopefully. “Going to stop off at Trieste?”

“No,” replied Iris stiffly.

“But are you sure you’re fit to go on?”

“Does it matter to you?”

“No. But, all the same, I’m worried stiff about you.”

“Why?”

“Hanged if I know. It’s not a habit of mine.”

Against her will Iris smiled faintly. She could not forget Miss Froy. The memory of her was a grumbling undercurrent, like the aching of a stopped tooth. Yet whenever Hare was present he acted in the same manner as a local application that deadened the pain. In spite of her misery there was a queer thrill in being alone with him on the same nightmare journey.

“Cheer up,” he said. “You’ll soon be home. Back with your colony of friends.”

The prospect seemed suddenly distasteful to Iris.

“I don’t want to see one of them,” she declared petulantly. “I don’t want to get back. I’ve no home. And nothing seems worth while.”

“What do you do with yourself?”

“Nothing. Oh, play about.”

“With other chaps?”

“Yes. We all do the same things. Silly things. There’s not one real person among the lot of us. Sometimes I get terrified. I’m wasting my youth. What’s at the end of it all?”

Hare made no attempt to console her or answer her question. He stared out at the darkness with a half-smile playing round his mouth. When he began to talk, it was about himself.

“My life’s very different from yours. I never know where I’m going next. But it’s always rough. And things happen. Not always pleasant things. Still, if I could take you with me on my next job, you’d get a complete change. You’d go without every comfort a refined home should have—but I’d lay you odds you’d never feel bored again.”

“Sounds lovely. Are you proposing to me?”

“No. Just waiting to dodge when you start to throw custard pies at me.”

“But lots of men propose to me. And I’d like to go to a rough place.”

“Fine. Now I can go into it seriously. Got any money?”

“Some. Just chicken feed.”

“Suits me. I’ve none.”

They were scarcely conscious of what they said as they talked at random in the only language they knew—their light words utterly at variance with the yearning in their eyes.

“You know,” said Hare, breaking a pause, “all this is rot. I’m only doing it to take your mind off things.”

“You mean—Miss Froy?”

“Yes, confound the woman.”

To his surprise Iris changed the subject.

“What sort of brain have you?” she asked.

“Fair to middling, when it’s lubricated. It works best on beer.”

“Could you write a detective thriller?”

“No. Can’t spell.”

“But could you solve one?”

“Every time.”

“Then suppose you give me a demonstration. You’ve been very clever in proving Miss Froy could not exist. But—if she did—could you find out what
might
have happened to her? Or is it too difficult?”

Hare burst out laughing.

“I used to think,” he said, “that if ever I liked a girl, I’d be cut out by some beautiful band conductor with waved hair. I’m hanged if I thought I’d have to play second fiddle to an ancient governess. Time’s revenge, I suppose. Long ago, I bit one. And she was a good governess. Well, here goes.”

He lit his pipe and furrowed his brow while Iris watched him with intense interest. His face—no longer slack and careless—was hardened into lines of concentration, so that he looked almost a different man. Sometimes he ran his fingers through his hair, when his rebellious tuft flared up rampant and sometimes he chuckled.

Presently he gave a crow of triumph.

“I’ve got it to fit. Bit of jiggery-pokery in parts, but it hangs together. Now would you like to hear an original story called ‘The Strange Disappearance of Miss Froy’?”

Iris winced at the light tone.

“I’d love to,” she told him.

“Then you’re for it. But, first of all, when you boarded the train, was there one nun next door to you, or two?”

“I only noticed one as we passed the carriage. She had a horrible face.”

“Hum. My story demands a second one, later on.”

“That’s convenient, because there is another one. I met her in the corridor.”

“Seen her since?”

“No, but I shouldn’t notice one way or another. There’s such a jam.”

“Good. That proves that no one would be likely to notice whether there was one nun, or two, connected with the invalid outfit. Especially as it’s corked up at the end of the corridor. You see, I’ve got to play about with these blessed nuns, so they’re very important.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“I haven’t started yet. The nun part was preamble. Here really goes. Miss Froy is a spy who’s got some information which she’s sneaking out of the country. So she’s got to be bumped off. And what better way than on a railway journey?”

“You mean—they’ve thrown her on the rails going through a tunnel?” asked Iris faintly.

“Don’t be absurd. And don’t look so wan. If they chucked her on the line her body would be found and awkward questions asked. No, she’s got to
disappear
. And what I was getting at was this. On a journey, a lot of valuable time will be wasted before it can be proved even that she is missing. At first her people will think she’s lost a connection or stopped at Paris for a day or two, to shop. So, by the time they get busy, the trail will be stone cold.”

“But they wouldn’t know what to do. They’re old and helpless.”

“Tough luck. You’re making my tale positively pathetic. But even if they are influential and know the ropes, when they begin to make inquiries they’d find themselves up against a conspiracy of silence.”

“Why, is the whole train in the plot?”

“No, just the baroness, the doctor and the nuns. Of course, there’d be a passive conspiracy of silence, as I mentioned before. None of the passengers, who are local folk, would dare to contradict any statement of the baroness.”

“But, don’t forget the baroness said something to the ticket collector which you couldn’t understand.”

“Is this my yarn or yours? But—perhaps you’re right. There may be a railway official or two in it. In fact, there must have been some dirty work at the cross-roads over her reserved seat. They had to be sure that she would be in the baroness’ compartment, and at the end of the train.”

“Next door to the doctor, too. But what’s
happened
to her?”

In spite of her resolution to keep cool, Iris clenched her fingers in suspense as she waited.

“Aha,” gloated Hare. “That’s where my brain comes in. Miss Froy is lying in the next compartment to this, covered with rugs, and disguised with bandages and trimmings. Her own mother wouldn’t know her now.”

“How? When?”

“It happened when you obligingly dropped off to sleep. Enter the doctor. He asks Miss Froy if she could render some slight service to his patient. I’m sure I don’t know why he should rope her in as he’s got a nurse on tap. But she’ll go.”

“I know she would.”

“Well, directly she enters the compartment she gets the surprise of her life. To begin with all the blinds are drawn down and the place is in darkness. She smells a rat, but before she can squeal the three of them set on her.”

“The three?”

“Ja, the patient is one of the gang. One of them pinions her, the other throttles her so she can’t shout, and the doctor is busy giving her an injection, to make her unconscious.”

Iris felt her heart hammer as she pictured the scene.

“It
could
happen,” she said.

Hare gave her a delighted beam.

“Wish I had you to listen to my golf-stories. You’ve got the right reaction to lies. Artistic ones, of course. By the way, one of the nuns is a man. The one with the ugly face.”

“I believe she is.”

“Don’t be so prejudiced. All men aren’t ugly. Well, Miss Froy is now down and out, so they’re able to bandage her up roughly, and stick a lot of plaster over her face, to disguise her. Then they tie her up, gag her, and lay her out, in the place of the false patient, who was already dressed in uniform, only she was covered with rugs. So she’s only to pull off her plaster and stick a veil over her bandaged head, to look the perfect nun. Number two.”

“I saw a second one in the corridor,” nodded Iris.

“But, by now, you’ve unearthed some English people who will remember Miss Froy, and you’ve roped in the parson’s wife. As I think I explained before, the conspirators have to produce some one, and trust to bluff. So, down comes the blind again, while the second nun—the one who posed as the original patient, dresses herself in Miss Froy’s clothes.”

As Iris remained silent Hare looked rather depressed.

“Admittedly feeble,” he said, “but the best I can do.”

Iris scarcely heard him, for she was nerving herself to ask a question.

“What will happen to her when they reach Trieste?”

“Oh, this is the part my readers will adore,” explained Hare. “She’ll be put in an ambulance and taken to some lonely house, overlooking deep deserted water—a creek, or arm of the river, or something. You know the sort of thing—black oily water lapping a derelict quay. Then she’ll be weighted, and all that, and neatly dumped among the mud and ooze. But I’m not altogether ruthless. I’ll let them keep her drugged to the bitter end. So the old dear’ll know nothing about it. Here. What’s up?”

Iris had sprung to her feet and was tugging at the door.

“Everything you say may be true,” she panted. “We mustn’t waste time. We must do something.”

Hare forced her back to her seat.

“Here—
you
,” he said. Already she meant everything to him but he’d completely forgotten her name. “This is simply a yarn I made up for you.”

“But I must get to that patient,” cried Iris. “It’s Miss Froy. I must see for myself.”

“Don’t be a fool. The patient next door is
real
, and she’s been smashed up. If we forced our way into that carriage and started to make any fuss the doctor would order us out. And quite right too.”

“Then you won’t help me?” asked Iris despairingly.

“Definitely no. I’m sorry to keep harping on it, but I can’t forget your sunstroke. And when I remember my own experience and how I mistook my own footer captain—”

“For the Prince of Wales. I know, I know.”

“I’m frightfully sorry I led you on. I only told you how things
might
be worked. But I’m just like the old lady who saw a giraffe for the first time. Honestly, ‘
I don’t believe it
.’”

“Of course,” agreed Iris dully, “you were just making it up. What a fool I am.”

As she tried to stifle her disappointment some one—farther down the corridor—began to speak in an unnaturally loud voice. The words were unintelligible to her and sounded like an incantation for rain; but Hare’s face lit up.

“Some one’s got a wireless set,” he said springing up. “It’s the news. Back in two shakes.”

When he returned he told Iris what he had heard.

“Another good murder sensation gone west. The medical evidence on the editor states he was shot about midnight—while the High Hat had left for his hunting lodge directly after dinner. So they can’t hang it on him. Pity.”

As he spoke something floated across Iris’ memory, like one of those spirals of cobweb which are wafted on the air on still autumn mornings. She started up as Hare looked at his watch.

“Nearly time for the second dinner,” he told her. “Coming?”

“No. But the others will be coming back.”

“What’s the odds? Are you frightened of them?”

“Don’t be absurd. But they make a little clump, all together, this end. And I—I don’t like being so near that doctor.”

“
Not
frightened then. Well, our compartment will be empty while the professor and I are having dinner. I am willing to sub-let it, at a nominal rent, to a good tenant.”

After he had gone Iris felt the old limpness stealing over her. A long-drawn howl, as though some damned soul were lamenting, followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire, told her that they were passing through a tunnel. It suggested a gruesome possibility.