Murder on the Liverpool Express (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 17) Read online

“That we will see for ourselves,” said the inspector, ungratefully.

  “Mon ami, how do you say, the sooner the better,” added Poiret and the whole party rose from their chairs, intending to go straight to the carriage, when a policeman appeared at the door, followed by a military officer in uniform. It was Colonel Brooks.

  “Hullo, Marty! Now there goes a good chap,” cried the lord, quickly going forward to shake hands. “I was sure you would come.”

  “Come? Of course I came. I was going to an official function, as you see, but the general insisted and here I am.”

  With many apologies for his intrusion, Colonel Brooks suggested that they should allow his friend, Lord Henderson, to return with him to the their barracks, when they had done with him.

  “Of course we will be responsible for him. He shall remain at your disposal and will appear whenever called upon.” He turned to Lord Henderson, asking, “You will promise that, sir?”

  “Oh, willingly, my dear fellow. I should like to see the end of this. But my uncle must get home to his prison. Have I mentioned that he’s in your line of work? A prison warden. He has nothing to tell, but he would come back to London at any time, if his statement was wanted.”

  Inspector Watkins looked at Poiret. He nodded. Watkins obligingly agreed to all his proposals and two more of the detained passengers, now making four in all, left the station.

  Then they proceeded to the carriage, which still remained as the inspector had left it. They soon found out how correct the lord was in his observations. They went straight to the still open window. The exterior of the carriage was a little smirched and stained with the dust and dirt of the journey, lying thick in parts and in others there were a few splotches of mud scattered about.

  Poiret paused for a moment and put his glasses on. Taking care not to soil his clothes, in light of the Lord’s suggestion, he searched carefully for either hand or foot marks, anything like a trace of the passage of a feminine skirt, across the dusty surface.

  But nothing was to be seen. Only here and there a few lines and scratches that might be encouraging, but proved little. Then Captain Haven, moving nearer, called attention to some suspicious spots sprinkled above the window towards the roof.

  “What is it?” asked the inspector. With the back of a pencil he picked at one of the spots, disclosing a dark, red core.

  “Blood!”

  “Blood? Good Heavens!” cried Haven.

  Poiret adjusted his glasses and looked at the stain on the pencil.

  “Poiret,” said Watkins, after a long and minute examination. “What say you?”

  “It has the appearance of the blood.”

  “Now we are on the right track,” exclaimed Watkins, jubilantly. “Someone fetch a ladder.”

  A policeman duly fetched a ladder and quickly leaned it against the carriage.

  “Poiret,” said Hawkins, pointing at the ladder.

  Poiret shook his head.

  “Non, mon ami, c’est a vous!” responded Poiret with a bow and a smile.

  The inspector climbed up and used the magnifying glass as he climbed.

  “There is more here, much more. Ah! Two handprints on the roof. It was here that she climbed on top of the roof.”

  “She sits on the window ledge, the legs, they are inside the compartment. Then with her hands she pulls herself up to the roof,” said Poiret.

  “I say! What nerve! What strength!”

  “It is the matter of life and death for her. Within the carriage, there is the mortal danger. Fear, mon ami, it will make a person do everything to save the life.”

  By this time Inspector Watkins had stepped on top of the roof.

  “More, much more footprints. As plain as a painting. A woman’s feet. Wait, let me follow them to the end,” he said and cautiously creeped forward to the end of the carriage.

  After a minute he rejoined his friends on the platform and rubbing his hands, declared joyously that it was all perfectly clear to him what had happened.

  “Dangerous or not, difficult or not, she did it. I’ve traced her, followed her all along the roof of the carriage to the end, where she got down. Beyond doubt she left the roof of the carriage, when it stopped with the help of her accomplice.”

  “Her accomplice? The baroness?”

  “Who else?”

  “The lord, he says to us, the halt was about twenty minutes from the station.”

  “Then it is starting from that point that we must begin our search for her. The policeman from Liverpool has got it wrong.”

  “Not necessarily, mon ami. The maid, we may be sure, she will try to communicate with her mistress.”

  “Still, it would be better to arrest her before she can do that,” said Watkins. “With all we know now, a thorough interrogation might extract some very damaging admissions from her. Who is to go, though? I’ve sent away my best men. Of course I can telephone Scotland Yard for more men or I might go myself.”

  “No, no, mon ami, we cannot spare you at this moment. Please to telephone to Scotland Yard for more men. You would wish to be present at the rest of the interrogations.”

  “Yes, you’re right. We may find out more about this invisible maid. Let us call in the conductor. He talked to her. Something more may be got out of him.”

  More was not much. Swift, the conductor, came in, cringing and hurting, in the sorry state of a man, who had just been drugged and is now slowly recovering. Although thoroughly questioned, he had nothing to add to his first story.

  “Speak out,” said Inspector Watkins, harshly. “Tell us everything plainly and promptly or I shall send you straight to jail. The warrant is already signed,” and as he spoke, he waved a document in front of him.

  “I know nothing,” the conductor protested, holding his head with both hands to alleviate the pain.

  “That is false! We are fully informed. This crime could not have occurred without your knowledge or help.”

  “Please, sir, not so loud.”

  “You were drinking with this maid in the dining compartment in Leicester. You had more drinks with her or maybe she provided you with a nice bottle of brandy, afterwards in the carriage.”

  “No, sir, that is not so. Oh, my head! She was not in the carriage.”

  “We know better than that. We have proof. You cannot deceive us anymore. You were her accomplice and the accomplice of her mistress, also.”

  “Sir, you don’t understand. I am innocent. I hardly remember what happened in Leicester or after that. I do not deny drinking in the dining compartment. I don’t know how many drinks I had, but I could not hold my head up, when I got back to the sleeper.”

  “You went off to sleep immediately? Is that what you assert?”

  “It must have been, sir. I know nothing more, not till I was aroused.”

  Beyond this tale, to which he stuck with undeviating persistence, they could get nothing out of him.

  “He is either too clever for us or an absolute fool,” said Watkins, wearily, when Swift had left the room. “We had better send him to jail and hold him there for a day or two. He will be less difficult then.”

  “But, mon ami, it is clear that he was the victim of the sleeping medicine, which the maid, probably, put into his drink in Leicester.”

  “He says so, Poiret, but why was the small bottle with the sleeping medicine found on the floor by his seat?” asked the inspector, triumphantly.

  “Poiret, he cannot believe in the second dose. How was it administered, mon ami? By whom? It is the liquid and it can only be given in the drink. He says he had not the drink in the sleeping compartment and he denies vehemently having seen the maid again.”

  “Come, come, Poiret. The case is clear. Don’t tell me you give any credibility to the conductor? I hardly believe a word of it. Did he not tell me at first that he had not seen the maid after Sheffield at 8 P.M.? Now he admits that he was drinking with her in the dining compartment in Leicester. It is all lies, Poiret, his losing the pocket-book and
the train tickets too. There is something he is hiding. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was only faking being drugged.”

  “Poiret, he does not think he is acting, mon ami. He has not the acumen or ability to deceive us like that.”

  “Listen! What if the baroness gave him the drink in the sleeper?”

  “Mon ami, there is not the proof! That is the speculation, the imagination.”

  “Then how do you, Poiret, master detective, famous all around the world, explain the bottle of sleeping medicine near the conductor’s bunk?”

  “May it not have been dropped there on purpose?” put in Haven, with another flash of intelligence.

  “On purpose?” queried the detective, for no reason, because he disagreed with the implication of the assertion.

  “Sure! To bring suspicion on the baroness.”

  “I think you are wrong, my dear Captain. That would imply that she was not in the conspiracy and conspiracy there certainly was. Everything points to it. The drugging, the open window, the maid’s escape.”

  “A plot, mon ami,” said Poiret, touching his protruding stomach, as he hadn’t eaten for several hours, “no doubt, but organized by whom? Two women only? Women, they have the brains to conceive the conspiracy, but not the courage nor the brute force, necessary to execute the plan. Cherchez l’homme!”

  Watkins thought of the brutally beaten victim.

  “Granted, but who? The unhinged Lord Henderson?” asked Watkins, giving rein once more to his anger.

  “The psychology, mon ami, it is not there,” declared Poiret. “The lord is prone to thuggish conduct and has been blameworthy and unjustified, but he has not the character of the cold-blooded murderer.”

  “But who, then? The conductor? The prison warden? The gentlemen from Manchester, we haven’t examined them yet, but from what I saw at first glance, I’m not disposed to suspect them.”

  “What of the Welshman, my dear fellow?” asked Haven. “He was awfully eager to get away from here. What if he takes to his heels?”

  “My man Noble is with him,” the inspector replied hastily. “We know where he is if we need him.”

  Only the two Mancunians remained in the waiting room. They had been left to the last by pure accident. The inquiry had led to the preference of others, but these two well-mannered gentlemen did not protest. However much they may have complained inwardly at the delay, they knew better than to raise an objection at their treatment. Not only were they patient, but when summoned before the three friends, they were very eager to give every assistance to the police.

  The first called in was the elder, Mr. Bertie Woodward, a fat and comfortable middle-class gentleman, humble in speech and exceedingly deferential to authority. Poiret wished to know more of a possible conspiracy and the different passengers associating with each other, especially with reference to two of them, the two women of the party. On this important point Mr. Woodward had something to say.

  Asked if he had seen or noticed the lady’s maid on the journey, he answered “yes” very decisively and he smacked his lips, as though the sight of the pretty maid had given him considerable satisfaction.

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not. I’m married, you know? I had no opportunity. She had her gentlemen friends. I caught her more than once whispering in the corner of the carriage with one of them.”

  “With whom, Monsieur?”

  “I think the Welsh gentleman. I’m sure I recognized his clothes. I did not see his face, it was turned from me towards hers and very close, I may be permitted to say.”

  “And they were friendly? How friendly?” asked Watkins.

  Poiret glanced at him.

  “More than friendly, I should say. I had to turn away as a matter of fact, as he touched, just touch, her red lips. I should not gossip. Unforgivable, forgive me, gentlemen.”

  “Aha!” exclaimed Watkins. “They were that intimate? And did she reserve her affection exclusively for him? Did no one else pay her court, you understand?”

  “I saw her with the conductor, I believe, in Leicester, but only then. No, the Welshman was her gentleman friend.”

  “Did any one else notice the flirtation, do you think?”

  “Possibly. They were not hiding it. We could all see.”

  “And her mistress?”

  “That I cannot say. The lady I saw but little during the journey.”

  A few more questions, mainly as to his address, business, stay in London and Mr. Woodward was permitted to leave the station at last.

  The examination of the younger Mancunian, a smart, alert young fellow, with a pleasant manner and with a quick, inquisitive eye, followed the same lines and was corroborative on all the points to which Mr. Woodward spoke. But Mr. Roger Wolf had something startling to say about the baroness.

  When asked if he had seen her or spoken to her, he shook his head.

  “No, she pretty much kept to herself,” he said. “I saw her but little, hardly at all, really, except in the dining compartment.”

  “Did she receive anyone in her compartment?”

  “Oh, beyond doubt. The Yorkshiremen both visited her there, but not the Welshman.”

  “Not the Welshman, Monsieur? Why do you talk of him?”

  “I think they knew each other. Not on the journey, though. Between Liverpool and London she didn’t give the impression she knew him. It was afterwards, here at the station in fact, that I came to the conclusion that there was some secret understanding between them.”

  “Why do you say that, Mr. Wolf?” cried the inspector, excitedly. “Let me urge you to speak out fully. This is of the utmost importance.”

  “Well, sir, I will tell you. As you are well aware, on our arrival here, we were all ordered to leave the carriage and walk to the waiting room, out there. The lady entered first and she was seated, when I went in. There was a strong light on her face.”

  “Was she veiled?”

  “Yes. I saw her lower it later. I’m sure you have noticed how beautiful her face is and I was looking at it, when suddenly I saw a remarkable change come over it.”

  “What do you mean, my man?”

  “It was the look of horror, also disgust, maybe surprise. All three, I suppose. It faded quickly and was followed by a deathlike pallor. Then almost immediately she lowered her veil.”

  “What caused it?”

  “Something unexpected, I believe. Some shock. That was how it struck me. I was so surprised that I turned to look over my shoulder, to see what the reason was.”

  “I say! What was it?” asked Captain Haven sitting at the edge of his seat.

  “The Welshman. He came in last. We were already seated for a few minutes, when he walked in accompanied by a policeman.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He said nothing, but the leer he gave her in reply, was evil and it proved to me that there was some sort of secret between them.”

  “Tell me more, dear fellow, tell me more!” cried Haven, now standing, eager to hear more.

  Poiret gave his friend a glance and shook his head.

  “I will, sir. I was so interested and I’m not ashamed to say, so suspicious of him that I watched him closely, awaiting, expecting more.”

  “More?” said Haven.

  “It was like this, sir. When he sat down, he took a back seat, through modesty perhaps or to be out of observation, more likely. He sat in the shadow by the door, which in fact leads into this room. He was in the background, rather out of the way, but I could see his eyes glittering as they were turned in our direction, but the whole time fixed on the lady, you understand. She was sitting next to me.”

  “Go on, my man,” said Watkins, impatiently as the young man paused for a moment.

  “Then, as you will remember, sir, you called us in one by one and I, with Mr. Woodward, was the first to appear before you. When I returned to the waiting room, the Welshman was still staring at the lady, but now from time to time his eyes wandered
towards a table near where he was sitting by the door.”

  “What was on the table?”

  “I did not understand it immediately. But I did get at the hidden meaning later. There was a small piece of paper, crumpled up into a ball, lying on the table and the Welshman wished, now, it was more than that, he was desperate for the lady to see it.”

  “A crumpled piece of paper? Are you sure there was nothing else he could be trying to make her aware of on the table?”

  “If I had had any doubt of this, it was removed, when he was called into this room, he turned his head over his shoulder and nodded slightly, but I saw it, at the ball of paper.”

  “I say!”

  “Well, gentlemen, I now was satisfied in my own mind that this was some attempt of his to communicate with the lady. Believe me, gentlemen, had she fallen for it, I would have immediately informed you, but whether she didn’t understand the signal or it was a definite refusal to have any dealings with this man, the lady did not pick up the piece of paper.”

  Captain Haven suddenly sprang up and ran to the door. He opened it quickly and looked at the table in the waiting room. He came back with a dejected look on his face.

  “Nothing,” he said, “The villain must have taken it with him.”

  “Not so, I assure you,” said Mr. Wolf. “I have it here.”

  Mr. Wolf opened his hand and showed them the scrap of paper, which was rolled up into a small tight ball.

  “Monsieur,” said Poiret, standing up, “when and how did you come into the possession of it?”

  “I got it only just now, when I was called in here. Before that I was told not to move, not even to use the men’s room, but I’m not complaining. I’m happy to be of service.”

  “Sir,” said Watkins, now also standing up, “you are a credit to your town of residence and your parents.”

  “What does it say, old boy,” asked Haven.

  “It is just as I picked it up. I haven’t read it. Will you gentlemen take it and if you think fit, tell me what it says?”

  “Yes, here are words written in pencil,” said the inspector, unrolling the paper. “Say nothing. If you betray me, you will be lost too.”

  A long silence followed, broken first by Watkins, who as a representative of Scotland Yard, felt it was his role to solemnly declare, “Mr. Wolf, in the name of justice I thank you warmly. You have acted with admirable tact and judgment and have rendered your country invaluable assistance.”