Only one man in the world knew where Duncan was. He was a colored redcap at the Union Station. He didn’t come forward at the inquest to give his evidence because it might have cost him his job. But later he told his wife about it.
About four o’clock in the afternoon George Brown went down to the basement of the station. George was getting too old for his job, and he knew of a small storage room where he could go for a nap between trains.
Halfway down the stairs he caught sight of a man at the bottom. He was quite a young man, rather short and fat, and he wore a silk hat and striped pants and a wilted carnation in the buttonhole of his coat. In one hand he carried an imitation-leather knitting bag. With the other he clung to the brass railing of the stairs.
George classified him instantly as a big tip and hurried down to take the knitting bag from his hand. But the young man turned out to be very drunk, and with the tenacity of the very drunk he clutched the bag with both hands.
George said, “Taking a train, sir?”
Duncan focused his eyes with an effort on the redcap.
“I am on a mission,” he said gravely. “I am on a great and important mission.”
“Yes sir,” George said. “Taking a train?”
Duncan thought for a minute. “Possibly, Rastus, possibly I shall get into a train and ride into the sunset.” There’s no big tip here, George thought, and turned to go away. But the young man put a hand on his shoulder and held him back.
“See this bag, Rastus?”
“Yes sir,” George said.
“Guess what’s in it.”
“A bottle, sir.”
“You’re getting warm, Rastus, you’re getting warm. Try again.”
“Two bottles, sir?”
Duncan let out a howl of delight. “Psychic! You niggers are all psychic. Two bottles. One for you, one for me.”
“Never touch it, sir,” George said.
“I’m going to drink my bottle, Rastus. Take yours home to the wife and kiddies. But I’m going to drink mine right here. I’m going to get boiled and then I’m going to lie down on the tracks and go to sleep.”
“You can’t get up to the tracks without a ticket.”
Duncan fumbled in his vest pocket and brought out a ticket.
“Got you there, Rastus. I have a ticket. A ticket to” — he peered down at the card in his hand — “to Mimico.”
George reached for the ticket. “Better let me keep it for you, sir. That train pulls out in twenty minutes.”
“I said I was going to lie down on the tracks, Rastus. I said it and I meant it.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
Duncan leaned forward, grabbing George’s coat by the sleeve. George got an overpowering scent of whisky.
“My name,” Duncan said, “is Aram.”
“Aram what, sir?”
“Just Aram.”
Ten minutes had been wasted. George disentangled his coat sleeve. “Sorry, sir, this is my time off. Come along if you want to. You can sober up.”
When they got inside the small storage room George pulled a crate over against the door. Duncan sat down on the floor with the knitting bag on his lap, and George sat down beside him. They both looked tired and a little sad.
“You see, Rastus,” Duncan said, “if anyone wants to murder you, you’ve got to take steps. You’ve got to foil them.”
“Yes sir,” George said. “Certainly do.”
“And the best way to foil them is to murder yourself first. Take it from me, Rastus.”
“That would only do them a favor, sir,” George said wearily.
Duncan smiled craftily, wagging his forefinger under George’s nose. “We shall see. We shall see.”
He’s drunker than I thought, George decided. He’s drunk enough to do it. I’ll have to take away his ticket. I’ll have to find out who he is and send him home. Maybe I’ll get a reward.
“Is somebody going to murder you, sir?”
“No,” Duncan said. “I’m foiling them.”
He’s one of these swells with a lot of money, George thought, and he thinks everyone is trying to get it away from him.
“Better give me your ticket, sir,” he said.
“Rastus, you’re a nagger,” Duncan said. “I’ve got a sister like you, Rastus, a nagger. She’s going to get the surprise of her life. Want to do me a favor, Rastus?”
“No sir. This is my time off.”
“After the train goes past and I am a battered, bloody pulp, you go and tell my sister that I think — that I thought, that is — that she’s a nagger. You do that, Rastus. I’ve got fifty dollars that wants you to do that.”
“What’s your sister’s name, sir?”
“Jane. T hat’s her name,” Duncan said.
“Jane what, sir?”
“Aram. Jane Aram.” Duncan laughed, tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping onto the knitting bag.
“Better give me your ticket,” George said again. “We don’t want any trouble at the station.”
Duncan had stopped laughing and his face looked suddenly ugly. “Hands off me, nigger.”
But George already had his hand in Duncan’s vest pocket and had hold of the ticket. He brought it out. Duncan made a grab for it and George hit him on the point of the chin. He hadn’t meant to hit him, but he did. Duncan slumped sideways and his silk hat rolled off into a pile of sawdust.
He’ll sleep it off now, George thought uneasily. I better find out who he is.
He went through all of Duncan’s pockets. There were no letters, no registration card, not even a driver’s license. But the silk handkerchief had “D.S.” embroidered in one corner.
So his name isn’t Aram, George thought. He just made that up.
The knitting bag was lying between Duncan’s legs. George opened it and found two bottles of scotch. There was also a gun, a small pearl-handled gun with “D.S.” engraved on the handle.
George took the gun out carefully. It was heavier than it looked. Maybe it was loaded. He put the gun in Duncan’s pocket, peeled a five off the roll of hills he’d found, and closed the knitting bag. Then he slid the crate away from the door and went out, holding the bag under his arm as inconspicuously as he could. Nobody noticed him.
Shortly before seven o’clock Miss Jane Stevens was being assisted into Nora’s coupe by a nurse. Nora had brought along Jane’s clothes, a soft blue wool dress, a scarf to tie over her head, her mink coat.
Jane huddled in the seat and thanked the nurse with a wan smile. She was very pale and there were blue shadows under her eyes and a faint bruise on one cheek. She leaned back with her eyes closed.
Nora glanced at her sharply. The child looked really ill. She shouldn’t be allowed to go home.
“Janie,” she said, “wouldn’t it be better if you stayed at the hospital for another day?”
Without any warning Jane burst into tears, not her usual facile tears but deep sobs that shook the seat of the car. Nora let her cry, watching her quietly. The sobs went on, interspersed with broken words: “Duncan — all alone — cares at all.”
She cried nearly all the way home, wiping the tears away with the blue scarf. But by the time she entered the house Jane had composed herself somewhat. She stood in the doorway of the drawing room, clutching the knob as if she were too feeble to stand alone. Her smile was very, very brave.
“You were terribly sweet to wait dinner for me. I could have managed.”
Dinah groaned aloud and finished off her cocktail.
Jane suffered the perfunctory embrace of Mrs. Shane and the warm one of Aspasia. Dennis Williams said, “Hello,” in an embarrassed voice.
Jane noticed his eye and gave a little cry, “Dennis, you’ve been hurt too!”
There was an adroit accent on the “too” which, Prye decided, was meant to imply that Dinah was responsible for both incidents.
Dinah refused to take the bait. She got up, yawning. “The corpse has arrived. So let’s eat.”