Parker Pyne Investigates - Agatha Christie [26]
He went to his room and examined the weapon. He was still uncertain about its mechanism and hoped he would not be called upon to use it.
He went out to book his seat.
The train left Geneva at nine-thirty. Roberts got to the station in good time. The sleeping-car conductor took his ticket and his passport, and stood aside while an underling swung Roberts’ suitcase on to the rack. There was other luggage there: a pigskin case and a Gladstone bag.
‘Number Nine is the lower berth,’ said the conductor.
As Roberts turned to leave the carriage he ran into a big man who was entering. They drew apart with apologies–Roberts’ in English and the stranger’s in French. He was a big burly man, with a closely shaven head and thick eye-glasses through which his eyes seemed to peer suspiciously.
‘An ugly customer,’ said the little man to himself.
He sensed something vaguely sinister about his travelling companion. Was it to keep a watch on this man that he had been told to ask for Berth Number Nine? He fancied it might be.
He went out again into the corridor. There was still ten minutes before the train was due to start and he thought he would walk up and down the platform. Half-way along the passage he stood back to allow a lady to pass him. She was just entering the train and the conductor preceded her, ticket in hand. As she passed Roberts she dropped her handbag. The Englishman picked it up and handed it to her.
‘Thank you, Monsieur.’ She spoke in English but her voice was foreign, a rich low voice very seductive in quality. As she was about to pass on, she hesitated and murmured: ‘Pardon, Monsieur, but I think you were recently at Grasse?’
Roberts’ heart leaped with excitement. He was to place himself at the disposal of this lovely creature–for she was lovely, of that there was no doubt. She wore a travelling coat of fur, a chic hat. There were pearls round her neck. She was dark and her lips were scarlet.
Roberts made the required answer. ‘Yes, last month.’
‘You are interested in scent?’
‘Yes, I am a manufacturer of synthetic Oil of Jasmine.’
She bent her head and passed on, leaving a mere whisper behind her. ‘In the corridor as soon as the train starts.’
The next ten minutes seemed an age to Roberts. At last the train started. He walked slowly along the corridor. The lady in the fur coat was struggling with a window. He hurried to her assistance.
‘Thank you, Monsieur. Just a little air before they insist on closing everything.’ And then in a soft, low, rapid voice: ‘After the frontier, when our fellow traveller is asleep–not before–go into the washing place and through it into the compartment on the other side. You understand?’
‘Yes.’ He let down the window and said in a louder voice: ‘Is that better, Madame?’
‘Thank you very much.’
He retired to his compartment. His travelling companion was already stretched out in the upper berth. His preparations for the night had obviously been simple. The removal of boots and a coat, in fact.
Roberts debated his own costume. Clearly, if he were going into a lady’s compartment he could not undress.
He found a pair of slippers, substituting them for his boots, and then lay down, switching out the light. A few minutes later, the man above began to snore.
Just after ten o’clock they reached the frontier. The door was thrown open; a perfunctory question was asked. Had Messieurs anything to declare? The door was closed again. Presently the train drew out of Bellegarde.
The man in the upper berth was snoring again. Roberts allowed twenty minutes to elapse, then he slipped to his feet and opened the door of the lavatory compartment. Once inside, he bolted the door behind him and eyed the door on the farther side. It was not bolted. He hesitated. Should he knock?
Perhaps it would be absurd to knock. But he didn’t quite like entering without knocking. He compromised, opened the door gently about an inch and waited. He even ventured on a small cough.
The response was prompt. The door was pulled open, he was seized by the arm,