Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

The Horror on the Night Express

THE TRAIN hurtled through the black night toward the Swiss frontier. My three companions in the compartment, an elderly gentleman and a young couple, were not asleep. From time to time, the young woman, almost a girl, spoke a few words to the young man, who answered with a nod or a gesture. Then all would be silent again.

I suppose it is impossible for a man to get away from his profession. I was going to Switzerland on a much-needed vacation. Aside from my private practice as a physician, my services had been called for several times during the preceding months as medical expert for the Paris Police. Upon concluding my work on the last case, some hours before, I had thrown a few belongings into a bag and started off. Yet I found myself speculating as to the identities, background, and professions of those forced into almost intimate contact with me for the duration of the voyage, due to the division of a railroad car into compartments prevailing on European lines.

I dismissed the elderly gentleman very soon as an ordinary type; the sort of well-to-do old chap, retired from active business, that one might expect to find traveling for his pleasure in a first-class compartment. The girl was pretty, sweet, but obviously without individuality, for the present at least, for she was engrossed in her husband. I assumed that they were on a wedding trip.

The young man held my attention longer. He was a handsome fellow, perhaps thirty years old, solid yet dapper, with a fine, energetic face, soft eyes and an expression of gentleness that increased when he glanced at his beautiful companion. Thus far, beyond the banal words of politeness when adjusting baggage or shifting positions on the seats, there had been no conversation.

It was about two o’clock; the train passed by a small station without slowing. The lights flickered swiftly, darted through the windows, as our car jostled over turning plates. This jarring, this noise, aroused the girl, who had been drowsing. At her slight movement, the young man smiled, wiped the plate glass with the fingers of his gloved hand, leaned to peer out. But the station clock, the lamps, the name of the depot had flashed out of sight.

“Where are we, Jacques?” the young woman asked in a weary voice.

“I don’t know exactly,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Pontarlier is the next stop.”

“We’re not there yet,” the old gentleman said. He had been waiting for a chance to talk, to while away the minutes, and took the slight opportunity:

“We have not passed through the tunnel yet.”

“This trip is endless,” the girl sighed. “I can’t sleep. If only you had thought of buying papers or magazines—”

“Allow me?” the old gentleman said eagerly, holding out several newspapers.

She accepted with a grateful smile. Her husband drew a blanket over her knees, adjusted the lamp so that the light would be easier on her eyes. She opened one of the papers and soon was absorbed in what she was reading. The young man drew a cigarette case, which he snapped open and held out to his neighbor: “A cigarette, Monsieur?”

“With pleasure—”

“Really, I’m much obliged to you, sir. This trip is long and hard, especially for my wife who is not used to traveling at night.”

“Especially as day breaks so late at this season,” the old gentleman replied courteously. “So late it will be dark when we reach Vallorbe, where we must go through the customs. I take it you’re going to Italy?”

“My wife is not well, and the doctors have advised mountain air, so we’re going to Switzerland. However, if it is too cold up there, we shall go down to the lakes. She needs care, rest, and as for myself I’ve been so occupied in the past few weeks that I need a vacation.”

I refrained from smiling. There is something about travel in a compartment that renders men loquacious. Enough to give to an absolute stranger, whom one is not likely to meet again, information withheld from all but the most intimate friends at home. I knew it was inevitable that I should be drawn into the conversation, and wondered just how that would be effected.

Within a few minutes, the young woman dropped the paper.

“Nothing in all that,” she said with visible disappointment, adding in rapid apology to the kind old man, “I mean nothing on what I’m interested in. You see, I’m following that crime as one follows a fiction story—a mystery serial—”

“The murder in Pergolese Street?” the old gentleman asked, unwilling to drop the conversation.

“Yes, Monsieur. Isn’t it fascinating?”

“Extremely fascinating, yes—”

“I don’t see what’s so intriguing about it,” the husband said with a shrug.

“What’s intriguing?” she exclaimed. “Why, everything about it! The skull of the murderer, the mystery—the—well, everything—”

“I dare say.” The young man picked up a newspaper. He opened it and spoke without lifting his eyes: “But I don’t know anything about it, darling.”

“You don’t know? You read about it as I did. Remember, between the acts at the theatre, the other night? This morning, before we left—”

“Come!” He dropped the paper and looked at her in amazement. “Are you losing your mind? As long as I tell you I didn’t read it, it means I didn’t read it!”

I noted that this man, who appeared so soft and tender, was not patient and could not bear contradiction, for he uttered the words in a hard voice, almost harshly. His eyes, so caressing a moment before, suddenly turned to a sharp, blue glitter which embarrassed me. I thought I guessed his motive; his wife was nervous and he did not like to have her discuss such a gruesome subject with strangers. I could have told him that the best course would have been to humor her. He must have noticed my surprise, my instinct to give advice, for he resumed in a lighter tone:

“Of course I saw something of it in the papers. Who didn’t? Some lady of easy virtue stabbed in the middle of the night—”

“In broad daylight,” his wife corrected him.

“In broad daylight, as you wish. Money, jewels stolen—such crimes occur every day—”

“It’s very mysterious,” she insisted.

“Ah!” he sighed, “how you do love mystery!”

And he resumed reading Le Temps. His wife addressed the other traveler, eager to prove her point:

“To think that someone rang the poor woman’s door while she was being killed!”

“Eh? What makes you think that?” the old gentleman asked.

“That’s probable,” she declared. “Not a jewel missing, yet they were right there, within reach. Two magnificent rings were found on her dressing-table, with a gold purse and a diamond pin. Not a single one of the precious trinkets on the shelves was touched or taken. Only the money. There was no disorder. The murderer must have been frightened away by some noise, for he fled without taking time to collect all the loot. The crime did not earn him much!”

“Oh, yes, Madame, it did!” The old man nodded in selfapproval. “It was one of the most profitable crimes committed in recent years. And the assassin took his time, believe me.”

“Then why did he leave the jewels?”

“Simply because he was an intelligent man who reasoned that the coin and banknotes he stole could not be identified, while jewels, whether you keep them or sell them, lead to eventual discovery and arrest. The telegraph, telephone, radio, have complicated the task of the criminal. Just remember that he can be reported at once to ships at sea, arrested, and held before having a chance to land in a country refusing extradition.”

“And this murderer,” the wife resumed, “figured out this job in advance so thoroughly that he will not be found for a long time?”

“He—” the old gentleman paused, smiled quietly—”will never be caught.”

I had been amused by my companions’ eagerness to talk. I had expected to be drawn in by a question, a glance. To my own astonishment, I spoke without thought, unguardedly. Perhaps I can stand isolation no better than the next man, perhaps lingering vanity, the pride of having something new, authentic to bring into the discussion, prompted me.

“That’s not so certain as it was yesterday,” I declared.

They had not expected me to speak. The young woman started, the old man turned toward me suddenly, and the young man’s eyes met mine above the newspaper.

“Yet,” insisted the old man, “I’ve read everything concerning this case, followed it with great attention in a dozen newspapers and failed to see anything to make me believe that—”

“Because the clue of which I speak is most recent,” I replied. “It will not be in the papers until tomorrow.”

“Are you a reporter, Monsieur?” the young woman asked me with quick curiosity.

“No, Madame. But I’m well informed, nevertheless. I was called in as medical expert. During the first inspection of the premises, only one fact was evident, for the room in which the woman was killed happened to be quite dark, and that was that the victim had been slain with a single stabbing blow in the chest.

“But when the corpse was brought to me for autopsy at the morgue, I discovered a rather large stain under the left breast, a reddish spot that appeared to be shaped like a hand. I took a photograph of this stain, treated the negative to make it sharper, clearer, and when I obtained a print, I saw that it was indeed the design of a human hand, of a long, slim hand, so precise that not a detail, not a crease, not a line, not a single fingerprint was lacking.”

“Perhaps one of the policemen who lifted the body touched it,” the old gentleman said slowly. “Such people wear no gloves. I grant that it may be the trace of a dirty hand, but admit it may be that of an innocent hand.”

At this, the young man who was reading laughed. I did not take offense, aware that it was customary to laugh at the theories of physicians in general and of medical experts in particular. Moreover, I was sure of my facts, so I continued my demonstration.

“Where the human eye might be mistaken, chemistry makes no error. That stain was made by blood. It is very faint, I admit, but it is a bloodstain nevertheless. Naturally, I immediately ascertained that it did not match the hand of any of the persons who had entered the room since the discovery of the crime.

“Also, a moist towel was found on the washstand, very soiled, and it did not take much imagination to reconstruct that part of the crime. The murderer killed with a single, clean stab, that is true, but he found his right hand covered with blood. He wiped it on the towel. When about to leave, he wished to make sure that his victim was quite dead, ready to dispatch her with another blow.

“He laid his hand over her heart. When he did not feel the slightest beat, he left as he had come, noiselessly. Unfortunately for him, he had forgotten that blood sticks to skin tenaciously, and that, without knowing it, he had placed on his work the least questionable of signatures.”

“Extraordinary,” the young woman breathed.

“Very curious, as a matter of fact,” her husband added.

As for the old gentleman, he murmured: “Bah! Unless the killer’s fingerprints are on record in the police files, that’s a worthless clue. If I were the assassin, I would sleep in peace!”

“Tonight, perhaps!” I resumed. “But not tomorrow. For all the newspapers will reproduce the picture I took in the morning. Throughout France tomorrow, throughout Europe within two days, that hand will be known and sought for. And the murderer will be betrayed by his right hand, unless he decides to wear gloves all his life, or, showing heroism in his own fashion, he strikes it off himself at the wrist.

“For that hand, aside from the characteristics that would be sufficient for any expert to know it from all other right hands, has a marking that calls attention when you see it. A scar, running from the end of the ring-finger to the base of that line which palmistry terms ‘life-line.’ A scar which must be so plain that it cannot be unnoticed. So, God forbid, if one of us were the murderer and chanced to draw off his gloves, there would be every chance in the world for you, gentlemen, for me, to identify that hand immediately and ask for the man’s arrest at the next station.”

“Oh!” the young woman gasped.

The two men stared at their gloved hands instinctively.

“And,” the younger man spoke, “that photograph is to appear in the morning papers?”

“We’ll see it when we arrive?” the old gentleman wondered.

“No,” I explained, “the print was given to the press only tonight, and the Paris papers won’t reach us until tomorrow.”

My information appeared to have disturbed the young woman. She spoke after a moment of hesitation, yielding to curiosity:

“I’d like to see it.”

“Nothing easier than that,” I assured her. “I have a print in my briefcase. Here it is.”

She took it.

Her husband looked over her shoulder. The old gentleman, after murmuring: “Will you permit me?” crossed the compartment and sat at her side for a closer glance. All three stared at the print intently. Such attention tensed their faces that I might have believed they were staring at the real hand. But as the light was not too strong, I leaned over to indicate the details.

“See that white streak? Isn’t it clear? That’s the scar, see? And over here—”

“Growing stuffy in here,” the young man said. “Mind if I open the window?”

He slid the pane of glass into its groove in the door panel, and cool air rushed in. The old man wiped his forehead and said: “Oh, how good that feels!”

I was about to go on with my explanation, but at this moment the locomotive shrilled piercingly and a formidable uproar started. I spoke loudly, for the tumult increased and covered my voice: “We are entering the tunnel. I shall resume when we’re out of it—can’t hear anything now—”

The old gentleman sank back on the seat. The young woman kept her eyes on the photograph. The husband leaned against the side of the car, and I saw his lips move, guessed the words: “It’s stuffy.”

And he leaned out of the window, as if to place his face in the rush of air. It seemed to me then that I heard an odd sound, something like a muffled cry or a moan, with another, slighter, indescribable noise, a crunching, squishing sound. My companions must have heard it also, through that thunderous din, for all three lifted their heads questioningly. Then, as it was not repeated, we looked at the print again. For a minute, the train crashed on in the tunnel, then the sounds lessened, the air felt lighter, and the steam which had whirled into our compartment through the open window drifted and dissolved. We were rolling under the open sky again.

But as I was about to resume my explanation, I suddenly noticed that the young man, braced in his corner near the window, one arm hanging outside, had grown dreadfully pale. He swept us, his wife, with an insane stare.

“You feel faint, Monsieur?” I risked.

He lurched, and I scarcely had time to catch him as he fell face forward. It was then that I noticied at the end of his right arm something bloody, broken, shapeless, a mass of flesh and smashed bones dripping blood.

“Oh! The poor fellow!” the old gentleman cried out. “He slipped and struck the wall of the tunnel. His hand’s gone!”

The young wife rose.

Already, ripping the sleeve of the wounded man, I was applying a tourniquet improvised with my handkerchief to stop the spurting blood. He opened his eyes, his bewildered eyes, and his glance swept down his arm to his horrible wound. Then he looked wildly at the motionless girl. She dropped back on the seat, and with chattering teeth she clutched him against her breast without speaking a word.

Suddenly, the old man’s sentence echoed in my ears: His hand is gone. And I looked down at the photograph fallen to the floor of the car. The wounded man followed my eyes with his own. And I remembered that I had said: he will be discovered unless he strikes off his hand at the wrist.

The suspicion, then the certainty, entered my consciousness almost together. But before those pleading eyes in the tortured face, I had neither the will, nor perhaps the wish, to speak. And we waited for daylight without exchanging another word.

As it was still dark when the train reached Vallorbe, the wounded man was not taken off the train until we arrived at Lausanne. I never heard of him again.

But I know that the murderer of Pergolese Street was never found.