Murder For Love

The train was the Crescent Limited, making stops in Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Charlottesville, Spartan-burg, Greenville, and Atlanta, before its scheduled arrival in Chattanooga at 10:10 tomorrow night. We figured Chattanooga was far enough away. The total one-way fare came to $41.29 for each of us. The train was scheduled to leave at 8:40.

A black porter carried our bags into the compartment, told us he'd make up the berths for us whenever we liked, and then inquired as to whether we'd care for any kind of beverage before we retired.

The "any kind of beverage" sounded like a code, but I wanted to make certain.

"What kind of beverage did you have in mind?" I asked.

"Whatever sort of beverage might suit your fancy," he said.

"And what sort of beverage might that be?"

"Well, suh," he said, "we has coffee, tea, and milk…"

"Uh-huh."

"And a wide variety of soft drinks," he said, and winked so broadly that any Prohibition agent wandering past would have arrested him on the strength of the wink alone. Dominique immediately pulled back her skirt, took a silver flask from where it was tucked into her garter, and asked the porter to fill it with any kind of colorless soft drink, please. I took my flask from my hip pocket and told him I'd have the same. He knew we both wanted gin. Or its vague equivalent.

"That'll be twenty dollars each t'fill dese flasks here," he said.

"We'll need some setups too," I said, and took out my wallet and handed him three twenty-dollar bills. He left the compartment and returned some ten minutes later, carrying a tray on which were a siphon bottle of soda, two tall glasses, a bowl of chipped ice with a spoon in it, a lemon on a small dish, a paring knife, and ten dollars in change from the sixty I'd given him. He put the tray on the table between the two facing seats, removed the two filled flasks from the side pockets of his white jacket, put those on the table as well, asked if there was anything else we might be needing, and then told us again that he would make up the berths for us whenever we were of a mind to retire. Dominique said maybe he ought to make them up now. I looked at her.

"No?" she said.

"No, fine," I said.

"Shall I makes 'em up, den?" the porter asked.

"Please," Dominique said.

The porter gri

I looked at my watch.

It was already ten minutes to nine.

"I'm very frightened," she said.

"So am I."

"You?" She waved this away with the back of her hand. "You have been in the war."

"Still," I said, and shrugged.

She did not know about wars.

Inside the compartment, the porter worked in silence.

"Why aren't we leaving yet?" Dominique asked. I looked at my watch again.

"There you go, suh," the porter said, stepping out into the corridor.

"Thank you," I said, and tipped him two dollars.

" 'Night, suh," he said, touching the peak of his hat, "ma'am, sleep well, the boths of you."

We went back into the compartment. He had left the folding table up because he knew we'd be drinking, but the seats on either side of the compartment were now made up as narrow beds with pillows and sheets and blankets. I closed and locked the door behind us.

"Did you lock it?" Dominique asked. She was already spooning ice into both glasses, her back to me.

"I locked it," I said.

"Tell me how much," she said, and began pouring from one of the flasks.

"That's enough," I said.

"I want a very strong one," she said, pouring heavily into the other glass.

"Shall I slice this lemon?"

"Please," she said, and sat on the bed on the forward side of the compartment.

I sat opposite her. She picked up the soda siphon, squirted some into each of the glasses. Her legs were slightly parted. Her skirt was riding high on her thighs. Rolled silk stockings. Garter on her right leg, where the flask had been. I halved the lemon, quartered it, squeezed some juice into her glass, dropped the crushed quarter-lemon into it. I raised my own glass.

"Pas de citron pour toi?" she asked.

"I don't like lemon."

"It will taste vile without lemon," she said.

"I don't want to spoil the flavor of premium gin," I said.

Dominique laughed.

"À votre santé," I said, and clinked my glass against hers. We both drank. It went down like molten fire. "Jesus!" I said. "Whoooo!" she said. "I think I'm going blind!" "That is not something to joke about." The train began huffing and puffing. "Are we leaving?" she asked. "Enfin,"I said.

"Enfin, d'accord," she said, and heaved a sigh of relief. The train began moving. I thought of the train that had taken us from Calais to the front. "Now we can relax," she said. I nodded.

"Do you think he'll send someone after us?" "Depends on how crazy he is." "I think he is very crazy." "So do I."

"Then he will send someone." "Maybe."

Dominique drew back the curtains on the outside window, lifted the shade. We were out of the tu

"Best to just sip this stuff," I said. "Otherwise…"

"Ah, oui, bien sûr," she said.

We sipped at the gin. The train was moving along swiftly now, flashing southward into the night.

"So you learned some French over there," she said.

"A little."

"Well… à votre santé… enfin… quite a bit of French, no?"

"Only enough to get by on."

I was thinking of the German who had mistaken us for French troops and who'd pleaded with us in broken French to spare his life. I was thinking of his skull exploding when our patrol sergeant opened fire.

"This grows on you, doesn't it?" I said.

"Actually, I think it's very good," she said. "I think it may even be real gin."

"Maybe," I said dubiously.

She looked over her glass at me. "Maybe next time there's a war, you won't have to go," she said.

"Because I was wounded, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Maybe."

The train raced through the night. The New Jersey countryside flashed by in the darkness. Telephone wires swooped and dipped between poles.

"They say there are thirty telephone poles to every mile," I said.

"Vmiment?"

"Well, that's what they say."

"Turn off the lights," she said. "It will look prettier outside."

I turned off the lights.

"And open the window, please. It will be cooler." I tried pulling up one of the windows, but it wouldn't budge. I finally got the other one up. Cool air rushed into the compartment. There was the smell of smoke from the engine up ahead, cinders and soot on the night.

"Ahhh, yes," she said, and sighed deeply. Outside, the world rushed past. We sat sipping the gin, watching the distant lights. "Do you think Mr. Diamonds will have us killed?" "Mr. Diamond," I said. "Singular. Legs Diamond." "I wonder why they call him Legs." ("I don't know."

She fell silent. Staring through the window. Face in profile. Touched only by starshine.

"I love the sound of the wheels," she said, and sighed again. "Trains are so sad."

I was thinking the very same thing.

"I'm getting sleepy, are you?" she asked.

"A little."

"I think I'll get ready for bed."

"I'll step outside," I said, and started to get up.

"No, stay," she said, and then, "It's dark."

She rose, reached up to the overhead rack, and took down her suitcase. She snapped open the locks, and lifted the lid. She reached behind her, then, and unbuttoned the buttons at the back of her dress and pulled the dress up over her head.