The Mystery of the Green Ray. Le Queux William
with, it means waiting, which is absurd; and in the second place I object to any attempt to travel first-class. It’s silly and snobbish, to put the kindest construction on it. If I’ve got to join this excursion I’m willing to go where they like to put me, and if necessary I’ll hang on behind.”
I record this remark because it was the last that I ever heard poor Tommy Evans make in this connection; and I think the reader will agree it was just what one would have expected of him.
We said good-bye after dinner. They all wanted to come to the station to see me off, but I was anxious to be alone with Dennis.
The others in any case had plenty to do, and I could scarcely let them sacrifice their “last few hours of liberty” to come and see me off. I rather expected that the excitement of the war would have prevented a lot of people travelling, but the reverse was the case. There seemed to be more people than ever on the platform, and I could not get a corner seat even in the Fort William coach. I bundled my things into a carriage and took up as much room as I could, and then Dennis and I strolled about the platform until the train was due to start.
“Strange mixtures of humanity you see on a railway platform,” Dennis remarked presently.
“Very,” I agreed. “I daresay there are some very curious professions represented here.”
“This chap, for instance,” said Dennis, indicating a youth in a tweed jacket and flannel trousers. “He might be anything from an M.P.’s private secretary to an artist’s model, for all we know. I should say he’s a journalist; he knows his way through a crowd as only journalists do.”
“A typical Yorkshire cattle-dealer in his Sunday best,” I suggested, as we passed another passenger. And so we went the length of the platform making rough guesses as to the professions of my fellow travellers. Suddenly I noticed a tall man, wearing a tweed cap and a long covert-coat, his hands in his pockets, a stumpy cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. His hair was gray, and his face bore signs of a tough struggle in early youth. His complexion was of that curious gray-yellow one sees frequently in America and occasionally in Denmark – something quite distinct from the bronze-gray of many colonials. I nudged Dennis.
“What did you make of that?” I asked him after we had passed.
“I should be much more interested to know what ‘that’ made of us,” he replied.
“Nothing, I should think,” I answered carelessly. “Why, the man’s eyes were nearly closed, he was half asleep. I bet he hasn’t taken the slightest notice of anyone for the past ten minutes. You could commit a murder under his nose and he wouldn’t see it.”
“I think not,” said Dennis quietly. “I fancy that if you took out a cigarette-case as you passed him he would be able to tell you afterwards how many cigarettes you had left in the case, what brand they were, and what the monogram on the front was. If you’ve any murders to commit, Ronnie, I should be careful to see that our American friend is some thousands of miles away.”
“Good heavens, you old sleuth!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “I never saw a more innocent-looking man in my life.”
“I hate innocent people,” said Dennis emphatically; “they are usually dangerous, and seldom half as innocent as they look.”
“But what makes you think this man is only pretending to look like a dreaming, unobservant idiot, and why do you call him American so definitely?”
“He may or may not be American; but we have to give him a name for purposes of classification,” Dennis explained. “In any case his overcoat was made in the States; the cut of the lapels is quite unmistakable. I knew an American who tried everywhere to get a coat cut like that over here, and failed. As to his being observant, you seem to have overlooked one important fact. There the man stands, apparently half asleep. Occasionally he displays a certain amount of life – tucks his papers more tightly under his arms, and so on. Now, the man who has been dreaming on a station platform and is obviously going by the train would wake up to look at the clock, or glance round to see how many are travelling, and generally take an interest in the bustle of the station. But this man doesn’t. Why? Because he only wakes up when his interest wanders, and that is only when he has seen all he wants to see for the moment. When we pass him the second time he will probably appear to be more awake, unless there is someone else passing him in the other direction, simply because he has seen us and sized us up and dismissed us as of no interest; or, more likely, stowed us away in his capacious memory, and, having no further use for us, he forgets to appear disinterested.”
“Good Lord, Dennis!” I exclaimed, “I’d no idea you ever noticed things so keenly. What do you think he is – a detective?”
“Either that or a criminal. They are the same type of mind. One is positive and the other negative, that’s all. We’ll turn back and test him as we pass him. Talk golf, or fishing, or something.”
So we commenced a half-hearted conversation on trout flies, and as we approached “the American” I was explaining the deadly nature of the Red Palmer after a spate and the advisability of including Greenwell’s Glory on the same cast. Unfortunately, as we passed our man there were three other people coming towards us, and he was gazing over the top of the carriage with the same dreaming look that had, according to Dennis, deceived me before. But we were hardly abreast of him when his stick shot up in front of us. His arm never moved at all; it was done with a quick jerk of the wrist.
“You’ve dropped a paper, sir,” he said to Dennis, to my utter astonishment, for I had seen no paper dropped. Dennis turned quickly, and picked up a letter which was lying on the platform behind him.
“I’m very much obliged, sir; thank you,” said Dennis, as he put the letter in his pocket.
“I never saw you drop that,” I exclaimed when we were safely out of earshot. “Did you?”
“There you are,” my friend cried triumphantly. “You were walking beside me and you didn’t spot it, and he was some distance away and he did; and you say he was half asleep.”
“I say, Den,” I exclaimed, laughing, “d’you think it’s going to be safe to travel on this train? I wonder where he’s going?”
Then we dismissed the man from our minds. The train was going in six minutes, and I joined the crowd round the rug and pillow barrow, and prepared to make myself comfortable. Leaving everything to the last minute, as most travellers do, we had a hurried stirrup-cup in view of the fact that I was about to “gang awa’,” and as the train glided out of the station Dennis turned to wire for my breakfast-basket at Crianlarich. The one thing that it is important to do when travelling on the West Highland Railway I had forgotten! We had not passed Potter’s Bar before I decided that it would be impossible to sleep, so I ferreted out the attendant and bribed him to put me into a first-class carriage. Better still, he showed me into a sleeper. I was dog-tired, and in ten minutes fell fast asleep. I awoke for a moment or two as the train snorted into a station and drew up. I dozed again for some time, and then the door of my sleeper opened and who should look in but “the American.”
“Say, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed apologetically. “My mistake.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Where are we now?” For the train was still standing.
“Edinburgh,” he answered. “Just leaving. Sorry to disturb you.”
I again assured him that there was no harm done, and he turned and left me, the tassels of his Jaeger dressing-gown trailing after him. Then I fell asleep again, and woke up as we left Whistlefield. I had finished my wretched ablutions – for an early morning wash on a train is always a wretched business – as we reached Crianlarich. I was not long in claiming my breakfast; and when the passengers in the refreshment-room had finished their coffee – which seems to be the time when the train is due to leave, and not vice-versâ, as might be expected – the guard was standing on the platform, flag in hand, on the point of blowing his whistle. Suddenly the head of the American shot out of the window of his carriage – no other expression describes it.
“Say, conductor,” he exclaimed angrily, “where’s