ARTHUR PORGES
In Compartment 813
We confess to a special fondness for stories in which two (or more) strangers meet in a train compartment—meet briefly and perhaps never see each other again; and in this brief (and strange) interlude a revelation comes to pass—preferably the solution to a long-unsolved mystery.
You share our fondness for this kind of story? Then join us in eavesdropping’. Meet a young man and an old man in Compartment 813 of the Cote d’Azur Express—and enjoy yourself. For there is something “extra” in this little tale of crime and detection . . .
* * * *
There were two men in Compartment 813 of the Cote d’Azur Express as that famous train sped through the night. One was very old, with a halo of fluffy, bone-white hair. His body was small and shrunken, but his blue eyes glowed and sparkled as if the last of his vital energy was concentrated in those two crannies of his head.
The other man was young, almost a boy; he had a short thick-set body, and seemed well pleased with himself, smiling for no apparent reason, and once even chuckling softly to himself. He didn’t seem to notice his companion’s scrutiny, so steady and intense that it bordered on the impertinent.
Then the old man spoke. His voice, if slightly thin, was steady, and still had a note of authority.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” he said. “If I am to judge by the unusual lobe of your ear and the gold speckling of your eyes, you must be related to the Marquise de Monsoreau.”
The young man raised his eyebrows, studied the old man for a moment, then replied, “A very creditable deduction. She was my grandmother. I am Bertrand de Monsoreau. And you?” he added pointedly.
“I was—I am Monsieur Sernine. Perhaps Cécile mentioned me.”
The young man reflected for a moment. “I seem to recall the name. But grandmother died when I was quite young. So you see . . .”
“I knew her well,” Sernine murmured. “She was a lovely woman.” Then in a sharper voice: “If Le Temps is not in error, surely you were one of those at the Baron Duclaux’s dinner—when the famous Tiger’s Heart ruby vanished so mysteriously.”
“That is so,” Bertrand said, a little stiffly.
“Then there was a reconciliation?”
The young man gave him a swift glance of surprise.
“How did you know—?”
“I recall that the Baron treated your mother very badly at one time. He thought that as a De Tournay she married below her station.”
“That is true,” Bertrand admitted. “I do not think,” he added, with a wry smile, “that I was a welcome guest on that occasion. I came, one might say, under the aegis of Monsieur Valind, whom the Baron is disinclined to offend.”
“Ah—the matter explains itself, then.” The blue eyes were smoldering. “I wonder if you would indulge an old man. We have some hours to dispose of, and I’ve never been one for reading. I should like to hear your account of the crime. It might even be that I could suggest a solution.”
The young man cocked his head, his eyebrows rising again. He didn’t know that the mannerism had once made his grandmother even more devastating than her gamine smile and charming grace.
“If you can do that,” he said, mildly ironic, “you are better than the Sûreté, since they admit to being quite baffled.”
“In my prime—-now, hélas, long gone,” Sernine told him, “I knew something of criminal tactics. Well, tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe. My spirit still burns strongly, but the flesh is feeble indeed.”
Surely a petty clerk of some kind, Bertrand told himself. But I shan’t ask any questions; they easily become garrulous, these old ones. Then he said politely, “I am happy to oblige a friend of grandmother’s, Monsieur. As you say, we have time on our hands. Where shall I begin?”
“According to Le Temps it was a small group—six people, I believe. The servants had gone, and the Duclauxs, of course, have no children.”
“Ah, no human children, but how they dote, the imbeciles, on pets—a parrot, a cat, and a poodle. I love animals, myself, but there is a limit. However . . . there were, as you say, only six persons present. After dinner somebody—I forgot who—urged the Baron to give us a glimpse of the Tiger’s Heart, a fabulous ruby which he had just bought for two million francs. He was only too glad to oblige; he has always been vain and purse-proud.
“Well, the magnificent ruby was passed from hand to hand; the light was pleasantly dim, you understand; there was lively talk; and voilà!—all at once no one had the ruby! It was gone.”
“Ah!” the old man said, nodding wisely. “I know that trick well. One should never allow a valuable gem to circulate so carelessly. But I interrupt you, Monsieur; please go on.”
“There is really so little to tell. One moment the ruby was there, the next moment it had disappeared. Naturally we were all requested to remain in the room while the Baron phoned the Sûreté. Experienced detectives came quickly, such is the power of the name Duclaux. They searched us—a matron came, too—and the room itself with the greatest of care, but found nothing. The ruby had utterly vanished.”
“The theft of the Tiger,” Sernine murmured.
Bertrand gave the old man a crooked smile. “Quite classical, n’est-ce pas? A small group of people, none of whom had left the scene, yet the priceless jewel was gone. Obviously one of the six took it, but how could he hope to bring his prize away from the house? That is what so infuriated the gentlemen of the Sûreté.”
“Whom you do not admire,” Sernine remarked shrewdly. “Definitely not. They had the audacity to consider me their leading suspect, an honor I was more than willing to forego.” He chuckled. “Well, Monsieur Sernine, do you still think you can solve the mystery?”
“Perhaps,” was the reply, spoken in a level voice. “Permit me to ask a few questions.”
“I am at your service.”
“You spoke of certain pets in the household. It is perhaps only the logic of probability, but I should like to begin with the cat. One does not allow a dog the same freedom as a cat. You take a poodle out for air—and other canine needs; but le chat, he promenades alone.”
Bertrand was sitting stiffly upright, his face pallid.
“Mon dieu!” he exclaimed. “Just like that! Why?”
“This cat, perhaps he has long hair?” Sernine persisted, apparently oblivious of the young man’s reaction. “And possibly an old one—lazy, slow, amiable—they get that way after many years.”
“What are you suggesting?” Bertrand demanded, regaining control of himself. “I don’t follow this logic of yours.”
The old man sighed.
“People like the Baron—I know the type—a jumped-up petit bourgeois with a purchased title, hein? They never change. With a cat, one has a little swinging door—a cat-hatch, I believe it is called—that permits the pet to go out at all hours. The thief is aware of the situation; all is carefully planned. He fondles the creature, either on his lap, or possibly out of sight under the table. With gum or something similar he sticks the ruby deep into the long fur. Eventually the old cat will lick it out, but this is no active kitten; it never hurries; there is time. In all the excitement—people being searched, loud flics talking—no cat worthy of the name stays; they are fastidious creatures. This one leaves the room—and the house—by its little private door. And outside—ah, outside the thief’s accomplice—wife? sweetheart?—is waiting to appropriate the gem. Perhaps she has a bit of fish for puss; maybe no bribe is needed; the cat is old and friendly.”
Bertrand was staring at him open-mouthed.
“This is quite incredible,” he muttered finally. “In ten minutes, without even seeing the place, he knows—he knows! Yes,” he said excitedly, “I admit it. That’s how the thing was done. But how did you know?”
“Cécile helped me more than once,” the old man said gently. “Heredity may explain much; like her, you are quickwitted and ingenious.”
“Who are you?” Bertrand demanded.
“Your grandmother knew me as Paul Sernine,” the old man said, a note of pride in his voice. “But I was once known far more widely as—Arsène Lupin.”
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