Death on the Last Train Read Free Page B

illuminated by a solitary bleak electric lamp shaded by a hideous old-fashioned bell-shaped affair of opaque glass.
    Tea arrived in a large brown teapot with thick cups and huge saucers. There was a bottle of rum on the tray. The atmosphere took a turn for the better.
    Midnight is a bad time to start investigating sudden death. The best that Kenneth Forrester could do was to send for the police surgeon and ask him to make sure at once that it was suicide, as indicated by all the evidence, and gather the names of as many travellers on the trainand of station personnel as possible. An immediate interview with Bessie Emmott was also desirable. Littlejohn had mentioned that the large blonde had seen Timothy off at Mereton. No need to say more. All Salton knew about Timothy and Bessie.
    They had hardly settled down after putting their wet clothes to dry in the charge room, before Dr. Cooper was in after making his preliminary examination of the body.
    â€œThought I’d better let you know all’s quite consistent with suicide. I’ll make a proper job of it later, but superficially the wound could very well have been self-inflicted. And in the circumstances …”
    Cooper pulled up a chair to the table, poured himself a cup of dark-coloured tea and laced it well with the rum.
    A phlegmatic physician of the old school, about sixty years of age and running a large practice as well as serving the police. Tall and as heavy as the Chief Constable, but whereas Forrester was fair and ruddy, Cooper had a good shock of grey hair and a sallow complexion. He looked like a white nigger, with his thick lips, heavy snub nose, dark eyes and clean ready smile. He was well-groomed and, considering the late hour, looked very fresh and alert.
    â€œ. . . Position of body, gun fallen from his hand, angle the bullet entered the temple and powder burns, seem conclusive.”
    â€œAll the same, I’m worried, doctor,” answered Forrester. “You know how Bellis has been of late.”
    Forrester turned to Littlejohn.
    â€œI admit the doctor’s case, Inspector. Tarrant, Bellis’s man, identified the revolver as his master’s, but swore by all his gods that it wasn’t suicide. That, of course, doesn’t count for much against the circumstances and Dr. Cooper’s report, but what worries me is that I feel responsible for it in a way …”
    â€œResponsible?” asked Littlejohn. He was wondering what all the fuss was about and why he’d almost forcibly been retained in the case.
    â€œNow, don’t be silly, Forrester,” said Cooper bluntly.“You’ve been up all night and you’ll feel better in the morning. How can you be blamed if a fellow kills himself on a moving train? We know that since his wife died Bellis has gone downhill. He treated her damn badly during her life-time, but down at bottom he must have thought a lot of her. Folks are funny, aren’t they? He must have got to the far end and taken the quick way out.”
    â€œIt’s just this, gentlemen,” replied Forrester miserably. “In my view Bellis was driven to suicide. I knew he was being driven and I’ve done nothing to prevent it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    The Chief Constable opened a file at his elbow and took out six sheets of cheap paper. Common stuff with messages typed across it.
    â€œJust after his wife’s death, Bellis received that letter. No finger prints on it except his own; no means of tracing whence it came. The other five were equally uninformative.”
    Littlejohn took the paper, scrutinised it and passed it to Cooper.
    YOU KILLED YOUR WIFE, BELLIS, AND NOW, BY GOD, YOU’LL PAY.
    â€œJust the usual vindictive, anonymous letter, eh?” muttered the surgeon. “Written by the usual amateur purveyor of justice …?”
    â€œYes, but wait a minute. Here’s another.”
    I’VE TOLD YOU YOU’D PAY. YOU’VE NOT FINISHED