An Affair For the Baron Read Free

her, probably curious because she kept looking back up the steps. One man took her ticket, glanced at it, and said: “Car 178, miss – right next to the diner. Two cars that-away.” He pointed.
    She walked along the platform, mammoth silvered carriages towering above her. Even in its own right, this subterranean part of the station – which seemed so dark with its enormous cars, the wheels and undercarriages of which were on a level with her waist – would have been strange and alarming; now it added to her apprehension and to the shock of what had happened.
    Another porter, very dark-skinned, looked at her and asked offhandedly: “What car, miss?”
    â€œNumber 178, please.”
    â€œOkay. What bedroom?”
    â€œI—I’m not sure.” She handed him the ticket.
    â€œThat’s okay, miss – Room H. Just follow me.” Slow moving, he led the way up the iron steps, into the carriage, along a narrow corridor. Two or three doors were open, including one with a sign outside it saying ‘H’. “How about your baggage, miss?”
    â€œI—I haven’t any.”
    â€œYou mean it ain’t arrived yet?”
    What was the use of trying to explain that she had come here at a minute’s notice, not daring to go back to her hotel room, where her luggage was? Once again she took the line of least resistance, saying: “I hope it will catch up with me soon.”
    â€œI’ll bring it right along, miss.” The porter turned away, leaving her alone in a tiny bedroom with metal walls, two chairs, innumerable lights and switches and gadgets; everything was painted grey-green. The blind at the window was down, and she pulled it up to see a porter trundling a large truck, crammed full of suitcases. The station looked gloomy and dirty, and also very different from an English station. Feeling suddenly homesick for familiar things, she closed the narrow door and dropped into a chair.
    Exhaustion overwhelmed her, for she had flown from England only that morning, and for a few moments she leaned back, her eyes closed. Then, drowsily, she opened her bag and took out the printed note the porter had given her:
    GO ON TO CHICAGO – YOU’LL GET YOUR CASE BACK THERE.
    The man who had taken the case must have felt absolutely sure he would get it from the thief, to write such a note beforehand. How had he known about the case? Who was he? A vague picture of a handsome man with an easy smile hovered in her mind’s eye – and then she fell asleep.
    When she woke, the train was moving.
    She started up, astonished, leaned forward and pulled up the blind. Beyond a black void was a peppering of tiny, very bright lights. The train did not seem to be going very fast, its motion remaining smooth and comfortable. She glanced at her watch.
    It was after eight o’clock.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” she said aloud. “Goodness! I’m even hungry!”
    She felt rested, and surprisingly free from depression as she began to look about her. A narrow door led to a tiny W.C. compartment, a hand-basin opened out of the side of the carriage by the window, paper cups were in a metal holder close to a tap marked ICE WATER. She ran some, childishly delighted to find that it was ice cold. For the first time, she felt a touch of exhilaration, anxiety was shelved to the back of her mind. She could even think composedly of last night’s transatlantic telephone call from her father, his request for her to bring him the packet in the briefcase, her hurried telephoning to arrange the flight by B.O.A.C. VC-10, another telephone call from her father soon after she had reached the New York hotel to which he had told her to go.
    â€œDid you bring the packet, Ethel?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œI can’t come to New York, after all, I’m sorry. If I did, I would be exposed to unnecessary danger. I want you to bring it to me in Chicago –