“Mr. Hunter?”
“Yes?” Ian said. He was stretched out on the chair in the sleeping compartment, his feet propped up on the mattress across from him. He spoke without cracking open his eyes.
“Can I trouble you for a minute?” Martin asked, more than a bit hesitant. He was swinging his pocket watch like a pendulum without meaning to.
“Trouble away,” Ian sighed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That much was true. Since Ian had escaped while in custody of the marshals, he was technically a fugitive until he could clear his name. Until then, he was confined to the sleeping compartment like a prized stallion to its stable. He was already so bored that he was secretly praying for a knock at the door and the marshals to arrest him again. The fact that the women had gone to dinner and left him alone with the insufferable Martin only made him wish for another round with the marshals.
“Back in the refrigerated car, when I was being questioned by the marshals,” Martin said, “what made you think that I was innocent?”
“I suppose you can just call it woman’s intuition.”
The joke went over Martin’s head. “But you’re a man,” he said, serious.
“I picked up my intuition from my mother,” Ian said, rolling his eyes. “But if you really must know, I paid one of the porters some…”
“Who? George?” Martin interrupted.
Finally opening his eyes, Ian stared at him blankly for a few moments. “Who?”
“You know, George – the one who tends to this car.”
Ian frowned at him. “His name’s Laurence, actually…you do know that George is just a lazy nickname that people give the porters, right?”
“Right, of course,” Martin said in a tone that was not entirely convincing.
“You know, our species wasn’t just dropped on the top of the world. We had to claw our way to the top, and you know how we did that? We observed everything, from the colors of the poisonous fruits to the breathing of a lion in the tall grass to the smell of a wildfire. We only got this far by being painfully aware of everything going on around us. The fact that you didn’t bother to learn the name of a useful man like Laurence bothers me. Anyway, I paid him a bit of money to find you and report your location back to me and only me.”
“Why did you go through all of that trouble over me?” Martin asked.
“Again, we must be painfully aware of everything. Nobody just disappears on a train – you were obviously somewhere that you didn’t want your wife to know about. So while I wanted to know – just out of curiosity, mind you – I thought it would be best to be discreet about it.”
“And I appreciate that.”
“So what were you really doing in the crew’s quarters?” Ian asked in a way that was so casual that Martin almost missed the question.
“I thought we already covered this when the marshals were interrogating me,” Martin replied. “Remember? I was checking the time.”
“No, no – you didn’t set out to do that. You just happened to notice the change in time zones when you had walked into the crew’s quarters. You were there for something else, and you won’t even trust me with the information after I saved your life.”
“And a lot of good you did, saving my life,” Martin said, an answer Ian found to be curious. Just then, the door to the compartment opened. Alert, Ian jumped out of his chair, expecting a confrontation with the marshals. Instead, it was just Nellie and Selina, back from dinner.
Ian breathed a sigh of relief. “Did you bring me any presents?” Ian asked, hopeful.
Nellie, who had part of her wide skirt bunched up in her hand, procured a dinner roll and handed it to him. Ian looked at his meal, downcast. He said heavily, “Just like the dinners my mother used to make.”
“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it. That was all I could smuggle out of the dining car without getting the porters suspicious.”
“You couldn’t get some butter at least?” Ian asked as he chewed on the bread, the hard crust crackling in his mouth. “No offense, but you have more than enough fabric on that skirt to hide some more food, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you calling me fat?” Nellie asked with grinning eyes.
“No, I’m saying you have more than enough fabric on that skirt of yours.”
“And I’m assuming that you need the butter to slick back that hair of yours some more?”
“It’s a good thing I’m supposed to be a cold-blooded killer – otherwise, my feelings would be hurt,” Ian said. “You know, I don’t get why so many people hate me so much.”
Nellie shrugged. “I guess it depends.”
Ian looked perplexed. “It depends on what?”
“Well, how many of those people have you spoken with for more than a minute?”
Ian laughed a little. “Are you saying that I’m a bad conversationalist…?”
The door to their compartment burst open. All four people spun around, not knowing what to expect. But for the second time in as nearly minutes, it wasn’t the marshals. Instead it was the porter Laurence, breathless, his face polished with sweat. Martin said, indignant, “You’re supposed to knock, you know…”
Ian held up a hand to silence him. Whatever Martin had to say, Ian had a feeling that Laurence had something more important to share. “What is it, Laurence?” Ian said, offering the porter a seat. He saw the look on the porter’s face before, when a person struggled to put a tragedy into words.
Laurence cradled his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. Ian put a hand on Laurence’s shoulder and repeated, “What is it?”
The porter looked up at Ian. “You’re going to have to see it to believe it.”