The Mystery Megapack Read Free Page A

crossing had been less than acceptable. Caroline had seemed to turn an even whiter shade of pale when the little English girl across the aisle had thrown up into a paper cup, and with the woman behind them, another American, quietly chanting that she was going to be sick, going to be sick, in perfect time with the rise and fall of the ship, Edward had himself felt ill—both nauseous and annoyed.
    The next turn in the hallway brought them to the end of the labyrinth and the beginning of two short lines. Edward chose the one on the right because at the rear of the left one stood the Boxer. At least that was how Edward had thought of him with his crew cut and his squat bulky build and his arrogant cockney accent. They had heard him earlier at Victoria Station, talking brashly to the woman with him, a blond frizzy-haired piece. Edward had heard the word “kissy-face” and the two of them had puckered their lips at each other in such a way that he was certain that her name was Felicia or Patsy or Krissy with a K. And he was certain now, looking at the man again, that the Boxer would not be a boxer at all but just a boxer’s sparring partner or perhaps merely an actor playing one, an extra who had a cartoon name like Brutus and only got to stand in the back and frown. They were at the head of the line then. The customs official gave a perfunctory glance at the passports—a courtesy which Edward attributed to the woman’s sympathy for everyone’s pallor—and they found themselves on the platform at last.
    “Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits,” said Edward, stopping to read the shining gold letters in a fine French accent. “Des Grands Express Européens.” The sun was beginning to set over Boulogne and in the twilight, the train appeared exceptionally regal. Its gleaming white roof seemed recently polished and its deep blue sides shone even more brightly up close than in his glimpses before. White-gloved porters stood attentive near the ends of each car, ready to assist with a small bag or a lady’s boarding, and a bright red carpet stretched before them along the length of the platform. Edward pictured himself and Caroline as characters in a Fitzgerald novel—but only in the happier scenes—or perhaps a story by James. This was much better, he thought and said as much aloud.
    “Beautiful,” echoed Caroline, and Edward looked down to find her face still pale beneath her short blond hair, her eyes still closed. She hugged herself closer to him and scrunched up her tiny nose. “Can we find our cabin? I’d like to wash up.” She seemed so pitiful that he felt a softness fall over him and a desire to comfort her. He began immediately to move along the walkway.
    Though they were only going to Paris, he was pleased they had been given a cabin instead of a table in the dining car—the usual custom waived due to the availability of rooms—but as he followed the letters hung on temporary cardboard banners from the windows of each car, he wondered why they hadn’t used the four-digit numbers or the names which were already there, lettered in gold along the panels; he would much rather have been searching for “Carrozza-Letti” or even “3555” than looking for the prosaic “B.” His only other thought as he walked his new wife along the platform was his hope that she would open her eyes: the red carpet seemed to pass so swiftly beneath their feet.
    * * * *
    They had been married for less than a week and he had swept her a world away from the Church of the Good Shepherd and the reception at the Cardinal Club on what he hoped would be the trip of a lifetime. This was their first excursion to Europe together and he made sure their stay in London was an elegant one. They had taken a suite at the Berkshire and shopped at Marks and Spencer down the street and strolled through Harrods. They had eaten in the cozy intimacy of Veronica’s and, at the suggestion of the concierge, had taken in “Don’t Dress for