4.50 from Paddington. Agatha Christie
Mrs McGillicuddy panted along the platform in the wake of the porter carrying her suitcase. Mrs McGillicuddy was short and stout, the porter was tall and free-striding. In addition, Mrs McGillicuddy was burdened with a large quantity of parcels; the result of a day’s Christmas shopping. The race was, therefore, an uneven one, and the porter turned the corner at the end of the platform whilst Mrs McGillicuddy was still coming up the straight.
No. 1 Platform was not at the moment unduly crowded, since a train had just gone out, but in the no-man’s-land beyond, a milling crowd was rushing in several directions at once, to and from undergrounds, left-luggage offices, tea-rooms, inquiry offices, indicator boards, and the two outlets, Arrival and Departure, to the outside world.
Mrs McGillicuddy and her parcels were buffeted to and fro, but she arrived eventually at the entrance to No. 3 Platform, and deposited one parcel at her feet whilst she searched her bag for the ticket that would enable her to pass the stern uniformed guardian at the gate.
At that moment, a Voice, raucous yet refined, burst into speech over her head.
‘The train standing at Platform 3,’ the Voice told her, ‘is the 4.50 for Brackhampton, Milchester, Waverton, Carvil Junction, Roxeter and stations to Chadmouth. Passengers for Brackhampton and Milchester travel at the rear of the train. Passengers for Vanequay change at Roxeter.’ The Voice shut itself off with a click, and then reopened conversation by announcing the arrival at Platform 9 of the 4.35 from Birmingham and Wolverhampton.
Mrs McGillicuddy found her ticket and presented it. The man clipped it, murmured: ‘On the right—rear portion.’
Mrs McGillicuddy padded up the platform and found her porter, looking bored and staring into space, outside the door of a third-class carriage.
‘Here you are, lady.’
‘I’m travelling first-class,’ said Mrs McGillicuddy.
‘You didn’t say so,’ grumbled the porter. His eye swept her masculine-looking pepper-and-salt tweed coat disparagingly.
Mrs McGillicuddy, who had said so, did not argue the point. She was sadly out of breath.
The porter retrieved the suitcase and marched with it to the adjoining coach where Mrs McGillicuddy was installed in solitary splendour. The 4.50 was not much patronized, the first-class clientele preferring either the faster morning express, or the 6.40 with dining-car. Mrs McGillicuddy handed the porter his tip which he received with disappointment, clearly considering it more applicable to third-class than to first-class travel. Mrs McGillicuddy, though prepared to spend money on comfortable travel after a night journey from the North and a day’s feverish shopping, was at no time an extravagant tipper.
She settled herself back on the plush cushions with a sigh and opened her magazine. Five minutes later, whistles blew, and the train started. The magazine slipped from Mrs McGillicuddy’s hand, her head dropped sideways, three minutes later she was asleep. She slept for thirty-five minutes and awoke refreshed. Resettling her hat which had slipped askew she sat up and looked out of the window at what she could see of the flying countryside. It was quite dark now, a dreary misty December day—Christmas was only five days ahead. London had been dark and dreary; the country was no less so, though occasionally rendered cheerful with its constant clusters of lights as the train flashed through towns and stations.
‘Serving last tea now,’ said an attendant, whisking open the corridor door like a jinn. Mrs McGillicuddy had already partaken of tea at a large department store. She was for the moment amply nourished. The attendant went on down the corridor uttering his monotonous cry. Mrs McGillicuddy looked up at the rack where her various parcels reposed, with a pleased expression. The face towels had been excellent value and just what Margaret wanted, the space gun for Robby and the rabbit for Jean were highly satisfactory, and that evening coatee was just the thing she herself needed, warm but dressy. The pullover for Hector, too … her mind dwelt with approval on the soundness of her purchases.
Her satisfied gaze returned to the window, a train travelling in the opposite direction rushed by with a screech, making the windows rattle and causing her to start. The train clattered over points and passed through a station.
Then it began suddenly to slow down, presumably in obedience to a signal. For some minutes it crawled along, then stopped, presently it began to move forward again. Another up-train passed them, though with less vehemence than the first one. The train gathered speed again. At that moment another train, also on a down-line, swerved inwards towards them, for a moment with almost alarming effect. For a time the two trains ran parallel, now one gaining a little, now the other. Mrs McGillicuddy looked from her window through the windows of the parallel carriages. Most of the blinds were down, but occasionally the occupants of the carriages were visible. The other train was not very full and there were many empty carriages.
At the moment when the two trains gave the illusion of being stationary, a blind in one of the carriages flew up with a snap. Mrs McGillicuddy looked into the lighted first-class carriage that was only a few feet away.
Then she drew her breath in with a gasp and half-rose to her feet.
Standing with his back to the window and to her was a man. His hands were round the throat of a woman who faced him, and he was slowly, remorselessly, strangling her. Her eyes were starting from their sockets, her face was purple and congested. As Mrs McGillicuddy watched fascinated, the end came; the body went limp and crumpled in the man’s hands.
At the same moment, Mrs McGillicuddy’s train slowed down again and the other began to gain speed. It passed forward and a moment or two later it had vanished from sight.
Almost automatically Mrs McGillicuddy’s hand went up to the communication cord, then paused, irresolute. After all, what use would it be ringing the cord of the train in which she was travelling? The horror of what she had seen at such close quarters, and the unusual circumstances, made her feel paralysed. Some immediate action was necessary—but what?
The door of her compartment was drawn back and a ticket collector said, ‘Ticket, please.’
Mrs McGillicuddy turned to him with vehemence.
‘A woman has been strangled,’ she said. ‘In a train that has just passed. I saw it.’
The ticket collector looked at her doubtfully.
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
‘A man strangled a woman! In a train. I saw it—through there.’ She pointed to the window.
The ticket collector looked extremely doubtful.
‘Strangled?’ he said disbelievingly.
‘Yes, strangled! I saw it, I tell you. You must do something at once!’
The ticket collector coughed apologetically.
‘You don’t think, madam, that you may have had a little nap and—er—’ he broke off tactfully.
‘I have had a nap, but if you think this was a dream, you’re quite wrong. I saw it, I tell you.’
The ticket collector’s eyes dropped to the open magazine lying on the seat. On the exposed page was a girl being strangled whilst a man with a revolver threatened the pair from an open doorway.
He said persuasively: ‘Now don’t you think, madam, that you’d been reading an exciting story, and that you just dropped off, and awaking a little confused—’
Mrs McGillicuddy interrupted him.
‘I saw it,’ she said. ‘I was as wide awake as you are. And I looked out of the window into the window of the train alongside, and a man was strangling a woman. And what I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Well—madam—’