The Rome Express
visit the actual theatre ofa crime and overhaul it inch by inch,--seeking, searching,investigating, looking for any, even the most insignificant, traces ofthe murderer's hands.
The sleeping-car, as I have said, had been side-tracked, its doors weresealed, and it was under strict watch and ward. But everything, ofcourse, gave way before the detective, and, breaking through the seals,he walked in, making straight for the little room or compartment wherethe body of the victim still lay untended and absolutely untouched.
It was a ghastly sight, although not new in M. Flocon's experience.There lay the corpse in the narrow berth, just as it had been stricken.It was partially undressed, wearing only shirt and drawers. The formerlay open at the chest, and showed the gaping wound that had, no doubt,caused death, probably instantaneous death. But other blows had beenstruck; there must have been a struggle, fierce and embittered, as fordear life. The savage truculence of the murderer had triumphed, but notuntil he had battered in the face, destroying features and renderingrecognition almost impossible.
A knife had given the mortal wound; that was at once apparent from theshape of the wound. It was the knife, too, which had gashed and stabbedthe face, almost wantonly; for some of these wounds had not bled, andthe plain inference was that they had been inflicted after life hadsped. M. Flocon examined the body closely, but without disturbing it.The police medical officer would wish to see it as it was found. Theexact position, as well as the nature of the wounds, might affordevidence as to the manner of death.
But the Chief looked long, and with absorbed, concentrated interest, atthe murdered man, noting all he actually saw, and conjecturing a gooddeal more.
The features of the mutilated face were all but unrecognizable, but thehair, which was abundant, was long, black, and inclined to curl; theblack moustache was thick and drooping. The shirt was of fine linen, thedrawers silk. On one finger were two good rings, the hands were clean,the nails well kept, and there was every evidence that the man did notlive by manual labour. He was of the easy, cultured class, as distinctfrom the workman or operative.
This conclusion was borne out by his light baggage, which still layabout the berth,--hat-box, rugs, umbrella, brown morocco hand-bag. Allwere the property of some one well to do, or at least possessed ofdecent belongings. One or two pieces bore a monogram, "F.Q.," the sameas on the shirt and under-linen; but on the bag was a luggage label,with the name, "Francis Quadling, passenger to Paris," in full. Itsowner had apparently no reason to conceal his name. More strangely,those who had done him to death had been at no pains to remove alltraces of his identity.
M. Flocon opened the hand-bag, seeking for further evidence; but foundnothing of importance,--only loose collars, cuffs, a sponge andslippers, two Italian newspapers of an earlier date. No money,valuables, or papers. All these had been removed probably, andpresumably, by the perpetrator of the crime.
Having settled the first preliminary but essential points, he nextsurveyed the whole compartment critically. Now, for the first time, hewas struck with the fact that the window was open to its full height.Since when was this? It was a question to be put presently to the porterand any others who had entered the car, but the discovery drew him toexamine the window more closely, and with good results.
At the ledge, caught on a projecting point on the far side, partly in,partly out of the car, was a morsel of white lace, a scrap of feminineapparel; although what part, or how it had come there, was not at onceobvious to M. Flocon. A long and minute inspection of this bit of lace,which he was careful not to detach as yet from the place in which hefound it, showed that it was ragged, and frayed, and fast caught whereit hung. It could not have been blown there by any chance air; it musthave been torn from the article to which it belonged, whatever thatmight be,--head-dress, nightcap, night-dress, or handkerchief. The lacewas of a kind to serve any of these purposes.
Inspecting further, M. Flocon made a second discovery. On the smalltable under the window was a short length of black jet beading, part ofthe trimming or ornamentation of a lady's dress.
These two objects of feminine origin--one partly outside the car, theother near it, but quite inside--gave rise to many conjectures. It led,however, to the inevitable conclusion that a woman had been at some timeor other in the berth. M. Flocon could not but connect these two findswith the fact of the open window. The latter might, of course, have beenthe work of the murdered man himself at an earlier hour. Yet it isunusual, as the detective imagined, for a passenger, and especially anItalian, to lie under an open window in a sleeping-berth when travellingby express train before daylight in March.
Who opened that window, then, and why? Perhaps some further facts mightbe found on the outside of the car. With this idea, M. Flocon left it,and passed on to the line or permanent way.
Here he found himself a good deal below the level of the car. Thesesleepers have no foot-boards like ordinary carriages; access to them isgained from a platform by the steps at each end. The Chief was short ofstature, and he could only approach the window outside by calling one ofthe guards and ordering him to make the small ladder (_faire la petiteechelle_). This meant stooping and giving a back, on which little M.Flocon climbed nimbly, and so was raised to the necessary height.
A close scrutiny revealed nothing unusual. The exterior of the car wasencrusted with the mud and dust gathered in the journey, none of whichappeared to have been disturbed.
M. Flocon reentered the carriage neither disappointed nor pleased; hismind was in an open state, ready to receive any impressions, and as yetonly one that was at all clear and distinct was borne in on him.
This was the presence of the lace and the jet beads in the theatre ofthe crime. The inference was fair and simple. He came logically andsurely to this:
1. That some woman had entered the compartment.
2. That whether or not she had come in before the crime, she was thereafter the window had been opened, which was not done by the murderedman.
3. That she had leaned out, or partly passed out, of the window at sometime or other, as the scrap of lace testified.
4. Why had she leaned out? To seek some means of exit or escape, ofcourse.
But escape from whom? from what? The murderer? Then she must know him,and unless an accomplice (if so, why run from him?), she would give upher knowledge on compulsion, if not voluntarily, as seemed doubtful,seeing she (his suspicions were consolidating) had not done so already.
But there might be another even stronger reason to attempt escape atsuch imminent risk as leaving an express train at full speed. To escapefrom her own act and the consequences it must entail--escape fromhorror first, from detection next, and then from arrest and punishment.
All this would imperiously impel even a weak woman to face the worstperil, to look out, lean out, even try the terrible but impossible featof climbing out of the car.
So M. Flocon, by fair process of reasoning, reached a point whichincriminated one woman, the only woman possible, and that was thetitled, high-bred lady who called herself the Contessa di Castagneto.
This conclusion gave a definite direction to further search. Consultingthe rough plan which he had constructed to take the place of the missingtrain card, he entered the compartment which the Countess had occupied,and which was actually next door.
It was in the tumbled, untidy condition of a sleeping-place but justvacated. The sex and quality of its recent occupant were plainlyapparent in the goods and chattels lying about, the property andpossessions of a delicate, well-bred woman of the world, things stillleft as she had used them last--rugs still unrolled, a pair ofeasy-slippers on the floor, the sponge in its waterproof bag on the bed,brushes, bottles, button-hook, hand-glass, many things belonging to thedressing-bag, not yet returned to that receptacle. The maid was no doubtto have attended to all these, but as she had not come, they remainedunpacked and strewn about in some disorder.
M. Flocon pounced down upon the contents of the berth, and commenced animmediate search for a lace scarf, or any wr
ap or cover with lace.
He found nothing, and was hardly disappointed. It told more against theCountess, who, if innocent, would have no reason to conceal or make awaywith a possibly incriminating possession, the need for which she couldnot of course understand.
Next, he handled the dressing-bag, and with deft fingers replacedeverything.
Everything was forthcoming but one glass bottle, a small one, theabsence of which he noted, but thought of little consequence, till, byand by, he came upon it under peculiar circumstances.
Before leaving the car, and after walking through the othercompartments, M. Flocon made an especially strict search of the cornerwhere the porter had his own small chair, his only resting-place,indeed, throughout the journey. He had not forgotten the attendant'scondition when first examined, and he had even then been nearlysatisfied that the man had been hocussed, narcotized, drugged.
Any doubts were entirely removed by his picking up near the porter'sseat a small silver-topped bottle and a handkerchief, both marked