Lane stepped across the car-junction and opened the door to the lighted car in which they had been seated. He stood silently for a moment. Imperiale was sitting alone now, dozing, Lord and Jeanne sat close together, heads almost touching. There were several other passengers, most of them napping or reading. The door at the opposite end of the car burst open, and two conductors ran up the aisle toward Lane. Instantly the passengers awoke or dropped their magazines and newspapers, sensing something wrong. Jeanne and Lord looked up, startled; Imperiale got to his feet, a questioning look on his face.

  The two conductors rushed up. “Who pulled that emergency?” cried the first, a small choleric old man. “What’s the idea, anyway?”

  Lane said in a low voice: “There has been a serious accident, Conductor. Please come back here with me.” Jeanne, Lord, and Imperiale had run toward them; the other passengers thronged about, asking bewildered questions. “No, please, Miss DeWitt. It would be better if you did not come back with us. Mr. Lord, take Miss DeWitt back to her seat. Mr. Imperiale, you might stay here also.” He looked significantly at Lord; the young man paled, then took the bewildered girl’s arm and forcibly conducted her back through the car. The second conductor, a tall heavy man, began to push the crowding passengers. “Back to your seats, please. Don’t ask questions. Back now…”

  Lane, accompanied by the two conductors, returned to the rear car. Brooks and Ahearn had not moved; petrified, they were still staring at DeWitt’s body. One of the conductors manipulated a switch in the wall of the rear car and the hitherto dim coach sprang into clear view as the lights flashed on. All three men went into the car, pushing Brooks and Ahearn ahead of them, and the tall conductor closed the door.

  The smaller and elder man edged into the compartment and bent over, heavy gold watch dangling from the chain on his vest. His aged finger pointed to the left breast of the dead man. “Bullet-hole,” he exclaimed. “Murder…

  He straightened up and stared at Lane. Lane said quietly: “I should advise you to touch nothing, Conductor.” He took a card from his wallet and offered it to the old man. “I have been acting in the capacity of consulting investigator in several recent murder cases,” he said. “I have authority, I think, in this matter.”

  The elder conductor examined the card suspiciously, then handed it back. He took off his cap and scratched his white poll. “Well, I don’t know,” he said with a touch of exacerbation. “How do I know this isn’t a stall? I’m senior conductor on this train, and the law says I’m in charge of it at all times and in any emergency…”

  “Look here,” broke in Brooks, “this is Mr. Drury Lane, and he has been helping out on the Longstreet and Wood murders. You must have read about them.”

  “Oh!” The old man rasped his chin.

  “Do you know who this dead man is?” continued Brooks, his voice cracking. “It’s John DeWitt, Longstreet’s partner!”

  “You don’t say,” exclaimed the conductor. He looked doubtfully at De-

  Witt’s half-hidden face. Then he brightened. “Come to think of it, I guess he does look sort of familiar. Been taking this train a long time. Okay, Mr. Lane, I guess you’re the boss. What do you want us to do?”

  Lane had stood silently during this colloquy, but impatience glittered in his eyes. He snapped at once: “Make sure that all doors and even windows are kept locked and guarded, at once. Instruct the engineer to run his train to the nearest station-”

  “There’s Teaneck, next stop along the line,” volunteered the tall conductor. “Whatever it is,” continued Lane, “make all the speed you can. Arrange to call the New York police - Inspector Thumm, either at headquarters or at his home - and District Attorney Bruno of New York County, if possible.”

  “Get the station-master to do that,” said the old man thoughtfully. “Precisely. And secure authority, whatever authority is necessary, to shunt this train off the main track into a siding at Teaneck. Your name, Conductor?”

  “They call me Pop Bottomley,” said the old man soberly. “I got you, Mr. Lane.”

  “Thoroughly understood then, Bottomley,” said Lane. “Please attend to these things at once.”

  The two conductors moved to the door. Bottomley said to his junior: “Now I’m going down to talk to the engineer and you see to the doors. Get me, Ed?”

  “Sure thing.”

  They ran out of the car, making their way through the throng of passengers crowded about the doors of the other car.

  There was silence after they left. Ahearn leaned with sudden weakness against the door of the toilet on the other side of the aisle. Brooks put his back to the door. Lane surveyed the mortal remains of John DeWitt somberly.

  He spoke without turning his head. “Ahearn, as DeWitt’s best friend it will be your unpleasant duty to break the news to his daughter.”

  Ahearn stiffened, moistened his lips, but left the car without a word.

  And Brooks leaned against the door again, and Lane stood like a sentinel by the side of the dead. Neither spoke, neither moved. From forward cars came faint shouting.

  They stood in exactly the same position when a few moments later the train shuddered the length of its ponderous steel body, and began to crawl on. Outside, darkness.

  BBB

  A SIDING AT TEANECK, Later

  The train, lights blazing, lay like a helpless caterpillar in the darkness of the rusty siding near the station of Teaneck. The station itself was alive with scurrying figures. A roaring automobile rushed out of the night and crashed to a stop by the tracks, discharging immediately a number of bulky forms that plunged toward the idle train.

  The newcomers were Thumm, Bruno, Dr. Schilling, and a small group of detectives.

  They hurried past a knot of men - trainmen, an engineer, yardmen - talking in low voices outside the train in the gashing light of flares. A man held up a lantern, and Inspector Thumm brushed it from his face as the newcomers dashed to the closed exit of the rear car. Thumm pounded with his hard fist on the door; a faint cry of “Here they are!” somewhere from the interior and Conductor Bottomley shoved back the door, clanging it against the catch in the wall. He pulled up the movable iron platform, revealing a flight of iron steps.

  “Police?”

  “Where’s the body?” They swarmed up the steps in the Inspector’s wake.

  “This way. Rear car.”

  They burst into the rear car. Lane had not moved. Their eyes went at once to the dead man. Near by stood a local policeman, the Teaneck station-master, the junior conductor.

  “Murdered, hey?” Thumm looked at Lane. “How the hell did this happen, Mr. Lane?”

  Lane moved slightly. “I shall never forgive myself, Inspector… A daring crime. A daring crime.” His carved features had aged.

  Dr. Schilling, cloth hat far back on his head, topcoat open dropped to his knees beside the body.

  “Touch him at all?” he mumbled, fingers busy exploring.

  “Lane. Mr. Lane,” said Bruno queerly. “Dr. Schilling’s talking to you.”

  Lane said mechanically: “I shook him. His head rolled to one side, then back again to its original position. I bent over and felt his heart. There was blood on my hand. Otherwise, not a finger has been laid on him.”

  They were silent then, watching Dr. Schilling. The Medical Examiner sniffed at the bullet-hole, grasped the coat, and tugged. The bullet had pierced the coat through the handkerchief pocket on the left breast, entering the heart directly. The coat gave way with a sticky tearing little sound. “Plop through his coat, vest, shirt, undershirt and heart. Clean wound, all right,” announced Dr. Schilling. There was little blood on the garments; a damp ragged red ring about the hole on each piece of clothing. “Dead about an hour, I’d say,” continued the Medical Examiner. He consulted his wrist- watch. Then he felt the muscles of the dead arms and legs, grotesquely attempted to flex the dead knee-joint. “Yep, died about 12:30. Maybe a few minutes before, I can’t say exactly.”

  They were staring at DeWitt’s frozen face. A horrible, unnatural expression twisted and distorted the features. The expression was not difficult to interpret - it was stark-naked fear, such fear as screwed up the eyes, laid tense ridges of muscle along the jaw, injected into every line an unmanning toxin that banished courage…

  Dr. Schilling exclaimed softly. Their eyes tore away from that terrifying dead face and turned in a battery to the left hand of the corpse, held up for their inspection by the doctor. “Look at these fingers,” said Dr. Schilling. They looked. The middle finger was twined tightly over the forefinger in a peculiar sign, the thumb and remaining two fingers curved inward in death.

  “What the devil-” growled Thumm. Bruno bent lower, eyes starting out of his head. “By God!” he cried, “am I crazy, or seeing things, or what? Why-” he laughed, “it’s impossible. Can’t be. This isn’t Europe in the Middle Ages… That’s the protection-sign against the evil eye!”

  They were silent. Then Thumm muttered: “Hell, this is like a detective- story. Ten to one there’s a Chink with long fangs hiding in the toilet here.” No one laughed. Dr. Schilling said: “Whatever it means, it’s here to stay.” He grasped the two overlapping fingers and struggled until his face crimsoned. He shrugged. “Rigor mortis. Stiff as a board. Suppose DeWitt was slightly diabetic, probably didn’t know it himself. Anyway, it would account for the rapidity with which rigor set in… He looked up, squinting. “Thumm, suppose you try putting your fingers together this way “

  Like mechanical men they stared at the Inspector. Without a word he held up his right hand and with some difficulty managed to slide his middle finger over the forefinger.

  “Bear down, Thumm,” said Dr. Schilling. “Tight. The way DeWitt has his. Now keep them that way for a few seconds… The Inspector exerted pressure. His face flushed a little. “Quite an effort, hey, Thumm?” said the Medical Examiner dryly. “One of the funniest things in my experience. These dead fingers were so tightly linked that they didn’t come apart even after death.”

  “I can’t accept that evil-eye explanation,” said Thumm stolidly, disengaging his fingers. “It’s too damned story-bookish. Doesn’t hold water, far’s I’m concerned. Why - they’d laugh at us!”

  “Suggest an alternative explanation,” said Bruno.

  “Well,” growled Thumm, “all right. Maybe the guy that pulled this job fixed DeWitt’s fingers that way himself.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Bruno. “That’s an even wilder explanation than the obvious one. Why under the sun should a killer do that?”

  “Well, you’ll see,” said Thumm. “You’ll see… And what do you think, Mr. Lane?”

  “Must we seek a jettatore in this case?” Lane stirred. “I think,” he said with infinite weariness, “that John DeWitt took very seriously a careless remark of mine earlier this evening.” Thumm began to demand an explanation, but fell silent when Dr. Schilling struggled to his feet.

  “Well, that’s about all I can do here,” said the physician. “One thing is sure. He died instantly.”

  Lane made his first energetic movement in long minutes. He gripped the Medical Examiner’s arm. “You’re certain of that, Doctor - instantly?”

  “Ja. Absolutely certain. The bullet, probably from a .38, penetrated the heart through the right ventricle. It’s the only wound, too, incidentally, from this superficial examination.”

  “His head is all right? There are no other signs of violence - no bruises anywhere?”

  “Not one. He was killed by one bullet in his pumper and nothing else. And believe you me, that was plenty. Neatest hole I’ve seen in months.”

  “In other words, Dr. Schilling, DeWitt could not have twisted his fingers into this position during death-throes?”

  “Now listen here,” said Dr. Schilling with some exasperation. “I just said he died instantly, didn’t I? How on God’s name could there have been death- throes? A bullet through the ventricle and - pfft! out like a light. Dead. Finished. Man’s not a guinea-pig, you know. Hell, no.”

  Lane did not smile. He turned to Inspector Thumm. “I think, Inspector,” he said, “that our irascible doctor’s opinion goes far to clearing up an interesting point.”

  “What of it? Suppose he did die on the spot without a whimper? I’ve seen hundreds of stiffs who’d died instantly. Nothing new about that.”

  “There is something new about this, Inspector,” said Lane. Bruno glanced at him inquiringly, but Lane made no further comment.

  Thumm shook his head and shoved past Dr. Schilling. He bent over the dead man and began unhurriedly to search his clothing. Lane altered his position so that he could see both Thumm’s face and the body of the dead man. “What’s this?” muttered Thumm. He had found in the inside breast pocket of DeWitt’s coat a number of old letters, a checkbook, a fountain-pen, a timetable and two railroad tripbooks.

  Lane said coldly: “This is his old fifty-trip book which expired while he was detained in prison, and a new one which he purchased this evening before we boarded the train.”

  The Inspector grunted, flipped the perforated pages of the old ticket-book. Its edges were dog-eared. On the cover of the book and inside were numerous idle scribblings; some traced the shapes of punch-marks; others traced printed words - geometric designs throughout, an indication of DeWitt’s precise mentality. Most of the tickets had been tom out. He examined the new ticket- book. It was intact, unpunched, just as DeWitt had bought it in the terminal, said Lane.

  “Who’s the conductor here?” asked Thumm.

  The old man in the blue conductor’s uniform replied. “I am. Pop Bottom- ley’s the name. Senior on this run. What d’ye want to know?”

  “Recognize this man?”

  “Well,” drawled Bottomley, “I was remarkin’ to Mr. Lane over here before you came that his face looked kind of familiar. I remember now he’s been takin’ this train on and off for years, seems like. West Englewood, ain’t he?”

  “Did you see him on the train tonight?”

  “I did not. Wasn’t sittin’ in my end, where I was collectin’ tickets. You see him, Ed?”

  “Not tonight, I didn’t,” said the husky junior conductor timidly. “I know him, all right, but I didn’t see him tonight. When I got to that car up forward, there was a party there, and one man, tall feller, handed me six tickets for the party, said there was another one had stepped out for a minute. Never did see him after that.”

  “You didn’t get to him, eh?”

  “Hell, I didn’t know where he was. Thought he was in the toilet, most likely. Never thought of this dark car. Nobody ever goes in here.”

  “You say you knew DeWitt?”

  “That his name? Well, he took this train pretty often. Remember him, all right.”

  “How often?”

  Ed lifted his cap and patted his bald head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Cap. Can’t say how many times. Just on and off, I guess.”

  Pop Bottomley thrust his energetic little body forward. “Guess I can settle that for you, Mister. Y’see, pardner and I take this midnight run every night, so we can tell how many times this man took our train. Here, lemme have that old tripbook.” He snatched the dog-eared book from Thumm’s fingers, opened it and held it up for Thumm’s inspection. The others crowded around, looking over the Inspector’s shoulder. “Now, y’see,” said Bottomley officiously, pointing to strips which had bordered the missing tickets, “we take out the ticket on each trip and punch the ticket and stub along the side to make sure. All you got to do is add up the number of circle-marks - they’re my punches; see ’em? - and the number of cross-marks - they’re Ed Thompson’s here - and that’ll tell you how many times he took this p’ticular train, because we’re the only men on this run. Get me?”

  Thumm studied the old book. “Pretty cute at that. Forty punched altogether. Of the forty let’s say half covered trips to New York - different punches, eh?”

  “Yep,” said old Bottomley. “The morning trains - different conductors, and every conductor has a different punch.”

  “All right,” continued Thumm, “that leaves twenty on the trip back to West Englewood nights. Of the twenty-” he counted rapidly, “let’s see now, thirteen punched by your partner and you. Thirteen times, then. Means he took this train oftener than the regular commuting train around six…

  “Regular detective, I am,” grinned the old man. “You got it, Mister. Punches don’t lie!” and he cackled with glee.

  Bruno frowned. “I’ll wager the murderer knew DeWitt was in the habit of making this particular train oftener than the regular commuting train.”

  “Might be.” Inspector Thumm threw back his wide shoulders. “Here now, let’s get some other things straight. Mr. Lane, just what did happen here tonight? How did DeWitt happen to get into this car?”

  Drury Lane shook his head. “What actually occurred I do not know. But not long after the train left Weehawken, Michael Collins-”

  “Collins!” shouted Thumm. Bruno edged forward. “Is Collins in on this thing, by God? Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “Please, Inspector. A little self-control… Collins either got away or he did not. As soon as we discovered DeWitt’s body the conductors made sure that no one could leave the train. Even if he left before the discovery of the body, he cannot run away.” Thumm grunted, and Lane in an even tone related what had occurred in the car when Collins pleaded with DeWitt for a final private conversation.

  “And they went into this car, hey?” demanded Thumm.

  “I said nothing of the kind, Inspector,” retorted Lane. “You are assuming that. It may be true, but we saw merely that the two men crossed the rear platform to stand on the front platform of this car.”

  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.” Thumm dispatched several detectives with orders to search the train for the missing man.

  “You want to keep the body here, Thumm?” asked Dr. Schilling.

  “Let him be,” grumbled Thumm. “Let’s go up ahead and ask some questions.”

  They trooped out of the death-car, leaving a detective on guard beside the dead man.

  Jeanne DeWitt was crumpled on a seat, sobbing against Lord’s shoulder. Ahearn, Imperiale, Brooks sat stiffly, stunned.