The Convivial Codfish (6 page)

He might have died as a result of that sudden jolting stop, if he’d got thrown back against the iron plates of the cab wall. But he hadn’t. There was no wound on the back of his head, no bleeding from the mouth or nostrils. What this looked like was one of those wartime movies where the commando climbs into the locomotive, gives the engineer a quick chop across the hyoid bone with the heel of his hand, and takes over the train. Max’s previous experience hadn’t ran to hyoid bones, but it did look to him as if Wouter Tolbathy’s Adam’s apple had an awfully ominous dent in it.

He thought he wouldn’t say so just yet to Tom Tolbathy. The brother was having all he could do to function rationally as it was. Tom looked like death himself when he pulled his head back into the cab.

“We’re right at the far end of the loop, about two miles from the house.”

“Is there any place near here where we could make a phone call?”

“No, it’s all conservation land. I’ll have to take her back to the station. That’s the closest phone. Let’s hope to God she still runs.”

As Tom turned to the instrument panel, he stumbled over his dead brother’s body. Max thought he was going to faint.

“We’ve got to get Wouter out of here. Take his feet, will you, Max? We’ll stretch him out in the tender and cover him with a tablecloth till—”

“I don’t think we ought to move him, Tom,” Max had to answer.

“For God’s sake, why not? I can’t stand to leave him like this. It isn’t decent. Oh, Christ, how did this have to happen?”

“It looks to me as if we’ll have to take that question up with the police.”

“What do you mean? Why should a heart attack have anything to do with them?”

“You always call the police in a case like this. Besides, I’m afraid it wasn’t a heart attack. His windpipe’s been smashed.”

“His windpipe? You mean—but how could that happen? Unless he got dizzy or something and slammed on the brakes too fast and the jolt—”

“The jolt could have killed him, I’ll grant you that. I’d much rather believe it had, if only he’d got a cut on his forehead, or a bloody nose, or even a black eye. But I’m damned if I can see anything in this cab that could have dealt him a clean swipe across the throat and not left him with so much as a scratch on his chin. It’s far more likely, in my opinion, that he was dead before the train stopped, and I’m afraid we’re going to get into even worse trouble than we are now if we move the body before the police get a chance to see it.”

Tolbathy looked at Bittersohn for a moment without speaking. Then he nodded, leaned over his dead brother’s body in an awkward stoop, and reached for the starting lever.

“Wouter?” Somebody was trying to get into the cab. “Wouter, are you there?”

“I’m here,” said Tom. “What is it, Quent?”

The door opened and a head appeared. “Hester sent me to find out what’s happening. Some of the passengers got shaken up, and she thinks old Wripp may have broken something. What shall I tell her?”

“Tell her Wouter’s had a—an accident, and we’re going back to the house to call a doctor.”

“What happened to you, Wouter?” This was the man in the thick glasses who’d thought back on the bus that Max was his madrigal-singing acquaintance Ernest. Max glanced at Tolbathy for a cue.

“Let him alone, Quent,” Tom obliged him by saying. “He’s still stunned. I believe he saw a deer on the track, braked too abruptly, and banged his head. We’ve had problems with them this year. I only hope the engine isn’t damaged. Make sure nobody else comes in here, will you? I—want Wouter to get some rest.”

Durward said, “Of course,” and disappeared. Tolbathy threw the starting switch. The engine came alive instantly. They moved along the track for twenty feet or so, then slowed down and came to a full stop.

“What’s the matter?” asked Max.

“Nothing, thank God. I wanted to test the brakes before I put on speed. It could have been a deer, you know.” Tolbathy’s voice was almost pleading. “We should have looked for tracks in the snow.”

“Wouldn’t you have noticed them when you looked out back there to get your bearings?”

Tolbathy didn’t answer, just started the train again. Max decided it was time to come clean.

“Look, Tom, I’d better explain why I’m here. The thing is, I’m not exactly Jem Kelling’s nephew. I’m his niece Sarah’s husband. My name is Max Bittersohn and I’m a private investigator by profession. The reason I crashed your party tonight is that Jem’s so-called accident was an elaborately rigged attempt to murder or disable him. Whoever fixed the trap didn’t seem to care which, and the only explanation I can think of is that somebody didn’t want him on this train tonight.”

“But why? What could Jem’s not being here have to do with Wouter’s—getting killed?”

“Possibly a great deal. Offhand, I can think of two reasons why Jem might have to be kept away. For one, Jem has an unusual faculty for being able to recognize even casual acquaintances.”

“That’s right, he does. But we’re not casual acquaintances here. We’re all old friends.”

“Are we? What about the bartender, or the waitresses? What about me, if it comes to that? You accepted me at face value because I came with your friend Marcia Whet and was introduced as Jem Kelling’s nephew. In fact, she’d never met me before tonight, and didn’t even have her facts straight. I showed up in a taxi, told her Jem had sent me to bring her to the party, and she believed me because she wanted to. You see how easy it could be to crash a party?”

“But my wife and I greeted everyone personally.”

“Did you? There was a crush when we all piled off the bus at the same time and hurried to get on the train because it was cold outside. Inevitably, some of your guests received more attention than others. Mr. Wripp, for instance. You helped him up the steps and your wife made a big fuss over him, as people naturally do with someone so old. If somebody had squeezed past while you were getting Wripp settled, you’d have been too busy to stop and shake hands or whatever. If you didn’t recognize the person, you’d have assumed it was because he or she was in costume, if you thought about it at all.”

“I suppose such a thing could have happened,” Tolbathy admitted, “but I can’t recall that it did.”

“That’s my whole point. You wouldn’t have noticed. But Jem Kelling would. Furthermore, Jem would have been sure to spot his own ceremonial chain of office, or whatever the hell you call that codfish thing he lost at your meeting yesterday.”

“The Great Chain? Why do you bring that up?”

“Because that man who brought out the caviar was wearing it tonight.”

“What man? Oh, you mean the wine steward. Nonsense, Bittersohn. That was merely someone from the caterers. It’s quite customary, you know, for sommeliers to wear such chains.”

“Not such chains as that one. The codfish pendant had been removed and a silver corkscrew put in its place, but the chain itself was identical to the one Jem assumed when he took office. Take my word for it, Tom. It’s a superb and I should say almost unique piece of craftsmanship. Stolen jewelry happens to be one of my specialties, and I have an excellent eye for detail.”

“Oh, now I’ve placed you. You’re the man who got involved with young Sarah over that business of the Kelling rubies. I didn’t realize she’d married you.”

Tolbathy’s tone was now carefully polite. Even straddling his dead brother’s body to get at the controls, he couldn’t forget who he was and who Bittersohn was. Sarah complained that she got the same kind of treatment from Max’s mother.

“I’m afraid I don’t at all understand what you’re driving at,” he went on. “Why should some stranger sneak into the party and put on the Great Chain to murder my brother? Why would anybody kill my brother?” Brusquely, Tom Tolbathy cleared his throat. “Wouter was the gentlest chap imaginable. He hadn’t an enemy in the world. That sounds trite, but it’s true of Wouter. Believe me, I’d have known. Wouter and I have always been,” his voice quivered again, “very close.”

It was hateful having to badger the man at a time like this, but Max persisted. “Did he live near you?”

“With us, actually. Wouter never married. Never did much of anything, I suppose, when you come right down to it, except putter around and play with his trains. But Wouter was a happy soul. It was enough, just having him around. When the children were young he’d tell them stories, take them for walks in the woods, teach them to run the trains. God, how am I going to tell them?”

That was Tom’s problem, not Max Bittersohn’s. “I understand your brother was in business with you.”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he was. “Tolbathy sounded somewhat surprised to be reminded.

“What was his position in the firm?”

“That’s rather a hard one to answer. Ours is a smallish family concern, you know. We don’t go in for organization charts. Wouter’s official title was vice-president, but he liked to dabble in this and that. He’d simply drift around and lend a hand where one was needed.”

Sorted the mail and unpacked the chocolate Santa Clauses, no doubt. Max had done business with old family firms before, and he’d never yet found one that didn’t have a Wouter or two on the payroll. They were often incompetent, sometimes nuisances, but seldom such festering thorns that they became targets for elaborate and risky murder plots. By and large, Wouter Tolbathy sounded like an improbable victim. But there he lay, huddled at his brother’s feet with an expertly broken neck. Did his being Wouter Tolbathy have anything to do with his being killed? If not, what was the point?

In the movies, the engineer got scragged because either the good guys or the bad guys needed the train to take them somewhere for some noble or nefarious purpose, depending on which side they belonged to. But this train didn’t go anywhere and appeared to have no purpose, except to provide an expensive source of amusement for the Tolbathy’s and their friends. It hardly seemed likely some Comrade of the Convivial Codfish had got so caught up in the spirit of Scrooge Day that he’d nobbled the Exalted Chowderhead and assassinated the brother of Marley’s Ghost just to provide a dramatic windup to their Christmas party. Max sighed and went on asking questions.

“Who, other than yourself and your brother, would know how to operate this train?”

“Almost anybody, with a little instruction,” Tom Tolbathy replied. “These controls are elementary, really. Wouter and I would have preferred a real old steam-driven locomotive, but it simply wasn’t practical. They take so long to fire up, you know. Then you’ve got the smoke and the mess from the coal and the danger of sparks setting fire to the woods, not to mention the shoveling. That means a two-man crew, which is no good if one of us wants—wanted—to take her out single-handed. So we compromised by having this one built. It looks like an old-timer but runs on batteries, actually. That’s why we have space behind the cab for a cloakroom or what have you. We stuck in that old potbellied stove to provide the atmosphere and manufacture some real smoke for the smokestack. Silly make-believe, I suppose, but there it is.”

He reached over and fiddled with one of the switches. “Most of our friends have taken a shot at running her one time or another.”

“So in fact,” said Max, “that quick speedup and jolting stop could have been engineered by whoever had entered the cab and killed your brother.”

“Oh yes, no problem. You could do it yourself, I expect, just from watching me. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I expect that was what happened. Wouter wasn’t the type to play nasty practical jokes, especially when we had guests aboard. He was never much for parties himself, but he knew how eager Hester was to have everything go with a swing. I couldn’t think why he’d pull such a stunt on purpose. Oh, God, if I’d only come forward sooner! If I hadn’t lost my balance when we stopped short—”

“Who didn’t?” Max reminded him. “That could be why it was done, to give the killer a chance to escape while we were all trying to pull ourselves together. After we’ve got the passengers unloaded and the rest of it taken care of, it mightn’t be a bad idea to come back out to the place where we stopped and check around for footprints in the snow.”

“I daresay I can find someone to run the train for you.” Tolbathy was still polite but sounded desperately tired. “I doubt whether I myself will be free to do it. Aside from everything else, nobody’s had any dinner yet and the passengers will have to be got home one way or another. People didn’t bring their own cars, and I don’t suppose anyone will feel like trekking back via Lincoln Station. By the way, didn’t Quent say something about Wripp’s being rather badly hurt?”

“Yes, he did. Quent is Comrade Durward, right? He seems to be under the impression we’re old buddies, but I don’t recall having met him before.”

“He’s confused you with somebody else, that’s all. Quent’s eyes are so bad he’s always getting people mixed up. I shouldn’t rely on him as a witness, but Quent’s a good chap. He and Wouter were great pals. Your uncle Jem knows him, of course. Sarah’s uncle, I should say. Max, would you do me a favor and go find out what’s happening back there?”

“You don’t mind being left alone with—”

“No.”

Tolbathy’s face was set hard, his eyes fixed on the tracks that had been so carefully plowed clean of snow. How was he going to feel about his precious toy from now on? This might be the last run he’d ever make. Damn shame, Max thought, as he stepped back into the make-believe coal tender.

There wasn’t a great deal of extra space here, with the little stove needing its stack of firewood nearby and its zinc platform to keep it from setting fire to the wooden floor. The coat rack was attached to the wall, as faraway from the heat as possible, and the wraps it held had not been thrown down by the jolting stop, unless somebody had bothered to come and put them back. Max went over to have a look.

The hooks were jammed full of men’s bulky overcoats, women’s ancient minks, ratty beavers, voluminous capes of wool or velvet; plenty of things to hide behind if you needed to get out of sight in a hurry. There was nobody here now. Max went along the rack poking at every wrap to make sure.

Then he lifted the bubbling iron teakettle off the top of the stove and looked in. All he could see was a red-and-yellow shimmer, but that didn’t mean somebody hadn’t got rid of something here lately. These airtight stoves burned awfully hot. There’d been plenty of time since the crash for anything flimsy, such as a false beard, to have been totally incinerated. With some regret, Max peeled off his own dapper mustache and dropped it in to make sure. It flared up and vanished almost before it hit the coals. If there was anything to be found here, it would have to be sifted out of the ashes after the stove cooled down.