The Man in Lower Ten | Page 9

left you anything."
"Call the conductor," I said shortly. Then a possible explanation
occurred to me. "Oh, porter - what's the number of this berth?"
"Seven, sir. If you cain't wear those shoes - "
"Seven!" In my relief I almost shouted it. "Why, then, it's simple
enough. I'm in the wrong berth, that's all. My berth is nine. Only -
where the deuce is the man who belongs here?"
"Likely in nine, sir." The darky was enjoying himself. "You and the
other gentleman just got mixed in the night. That's all, sir." It was clear
that he thought I had been drinking.

I drew a long breath. Of course, that was the explanation. This was
number seven's berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella, his coat,
his bag. My rage turned to irritation at myself.
The porter went to the next berth and I could hear his softly insinuating
voice. "Time to get up, sir. Are you awake? Time to get up."
There was no response from number nine. I guessed that he had opened
the curtains and was looking in. Then he came back.
"Number nine's empty," he said.
"Empty! Do you mean my clothes aren't there?" I demanded. "My
valise? Why don't you answer me?"
"You doan' give me time," he retorted. "There ain't nothin' there. But
it's been slept in."
The disappointment was the greater for my few moments of hope. I sat
up in a white fury and put on the clothes that had been left me. Then,
still raging, I sat on the edge of the berth and put on the obnoxious tan
shoes. The porter, called to his duties, made little excursions back to
me, to offer assistance and to chuckle at my discomfiture. He stood by,
outwardly decorous, but with little irritating grins of amusement around
his mouth, when I finally emerged with the red tie in my hand.
"Bet the owner of those clothes didn't become them any more than you
do," he said, as he plied the ubiquitous whisk broom.
"When I get the owner of these clothes," I retorted grimly, "he will
need a shroud. Where's the conductor?"
The conductor was coming, he assured me; also that there was no bag
answering the description of mine on the car. I slammed my way to the
dressing-room, washed, choked my fifteen and a half neck into a fifteen
collar, and was back again in less than five minutes. The car, as well as
its occupants, was gradually taking on a daylight appearance. I hobbled
in, for one of the shoes was abominably tight, and found myself facing

a young woman in blue with an unforgettable face. ("Three women
already." McKnight says: "That's going some, even if you don't count
the Gilmore nurse.") She stood, half-turned toward me, one hand idly
drooping, the other steadying her as she gazed out at the flying
landscape. I had an instant impression that I had met her somewhere,
under different circumstances, more cheerful ones, I thought, for the
girl's dejection now was evident. Beside her, sitting down, a small dark
woman, considerably older, was talking in a rapid undertone. The girl
nodded indifferently now and then. I fancied, although I was not sure,
that my appearance brought a startled look into the young woman's face.
I sat down and, hands thrust deep into the other man's pockets, stared
ruefully at the other man's shoes.
The stage was set. In a moment the curtain was going up on the first act
of the play. And for a while we would all say our little speeches and
sing our little songs, and I, the villain, would hold center stage while
the gallery hissed.
The porter was standing beside lower ten. He had reached in and was
knocking valiantly. But his efforts met with no response. He winked at
me over his shoulder; then he unfastened the curtains and bent forward.
Behind him, I saw him stiffen, heard his muttered exclamation, saw the
bluish pallor that spread over his face and neck. As he retreated a step
the interior of lower ten lay open to the day.
The man in it was on his back, the early morning sun striking full on
his upturned face. But the light did not disturb him. A small stain of red
dyed the front of his night clothes and trailed across the sheet; his
half-open eyes were fixed, without seeing, on the shining wood above.
I grasped the porter's shaking shoulders and stared down to where the
train imparted to the body a grisly suggestion of motion. "Good Lord,"
I gasped. "The man's been murdered!"
CHAPTER IV
NUMBERS SEVEN AND NINE

Afterwards, when I tried to recall our discovery of the body in lower
ten, I found that my most vivid impression