I was watching the scene from the kitchen end of the dining car, standing just behind Emil, Cathy and Oliver. I could see Xanthe's troubled face clearly, and also Filmer's beside her. He seemed to me to be showing diminishing interest in the enquiry, turning his tidily brushed head away to look out of the window instead. There was no tension in him: when he was tense there was a rigidity in his neck muscles, a rigidity I'd watched from the depths of the crowd during the brief day of his trial and seen a few times since, as at Nottingham. When Filmer felt tense, it showed.
Even as I watched him, his neck went rigid.
I looked out of a window to see what he was looking at, but there seemed to be nothing of great note, only the racegoing passengers streaming off their forward carriages en route to write postcards home from the station.
Filmer looked back towards Xanthe and the investigator and made a small gesture of impatience, and it seemed to trigger a response from the investigator because he said that if anyone remembered any helpful detail, however small, would they please tell him or one of his colleagues, but meanwhile everyone was free to go.
There was a communal sigh as the real-life investigation broke up. Zak, I thought, would be finding the competition too stiff, the fiction an anti-climax after the fact. He hadn't appeared for this scene: none of the actors had.
Most of the passengers went off to don coats against what appeared to be a cold wind outside, but Filmer climbed down from the door of the dome-car end of the dining car without more protection than his carefully casual shirt and aristocratic tweed jacket. He paused irresolutely, not scrunching, as the others were beginning to, across the two sets of rails between our train and the station but meandering at an angle forwards in the direction of the engine.
Inside, I followed him, easily keeping pace with his slow step. I thought at first that he was merely taking an open-air path to his own bedroom, but he went straight past the open door at the end of his sleeping car, and straight on past the next car also. Going to see his horse, no doubt. I went on following: it had become a habit.
At the end of the third car, just past George Burley's office, he stopped, because someone was coming out from the station to meet him: a gaunt man in a padded short coat with a fur collar, with grey hair blowing in disarray in the wind.
They met between George's window and the open door at the end of the car and although at first they looked moderately at peace with each other, the encounter deteriorated rapidly.
I risked them seeing me so as to try to hear, but in fact by the time I could hear them they were shouting, which meant I could listen through the doorway without seeing them or being seen.
Filmer was yelling furiously, 'I said before Vancouver.'
The gaunt man with a snarl in his Canadian voice said, 'You said before Winnipeg, and I've done it and I want my money.'
'Cooee' trilled Daffodil, teetering towards them in chinchillas and high-heeled boots. 'Are we going to see Laurentide Ice?'
Chapter Ten
Blast her, I thought intensely. Triple bloody shit, and several other words to that effect.
I watched through George's window as Filmer made great efforts to go towards her with a smile, drawing attention away from the gaunt-faced man, who returned to the station.
Before Winnipeg, before Vancouver. Julius Apollo had mixed them up yet again. 'You said before Winnipeg, and I've done it. I want my money.' Heavy words, full of threat.
What before Winnipeg? What had he done?
What indeed.
It couldn't have been the Lorrimores' car, I thought. Filmer had shown no interest and no tension; had been obviously uninvolved. But then he would have been calm, I supposed, if he hadn't been expecting anything to happen except before Vancouver. He hadn't been expecting the Lorrimores' car to be uncoupled before either city, of that I was certain. He had instead been cultivating his acquaintanceship with Mercer, a game plan that would have come to an abrupt end if the Lorrimores had deserted the trip, which they would have done at once if the Canadian had ploughed into their home-from-home.
If not the Lorrimore's car, what else had happened? What had happened before Winnipeg that Filmer had intended to happen before Vancouver? In what way had the gaunt man already earned his money?
Anyone's guess, I thought.
He could have robbed someone, bribed a stable lad, nobbled a horse…
Nobbled a horse that was going to run at Winnipeg, instead of one running at Vancouver?
From the fury in their voices, the mistake had been devastating.
Only Flokati and Upper Gumtree were due to run at Winnipeg… Laurentide Ice was running at Vancouver against Voting Right and Sparrowgrass… Could Filmer have been so stupid as to get the horses' names wrong in addition to the cities? No, he couldn't.
Impasse. Yet… gaunt-face had done something.
Sighing, I watched the Youngs walk past the window en route, I supposed, to the horse car. Soon after, the Unwins followed. I would have liked to have checked at once on the state of the horses, but I supposed if there were something wrong with any of them I would hear soon enough.
I wished I'd been able to take a photograph of gaunt-face, but I'd been more keen to listen.
If he'd done something to or around the horses, I thought, then he had to have travelled with us on the train. He hadn't just met us in Thunder Bay. If he'd been on the train and had walked with the other racegoers towards the station, Filmer could have seen him through the window… and just the sight of him had caused the tensing of the neck muscles… and if Filmer hadn't yet paid him for whatever… then he would come back to the train…
I left George's office and went two doors along to my roomette to dig my telescopic-lens binoculars-camera out of Tommy's holdall, and I sat and waited by the window for gaunt-face's return.
What happened instead was that after a while Filmer and Daffodil appeared in my view, making a diagonal course towards the station buildings, and pretty soon afterwards, accompanied by a lot of bell-ringing and warning hooters, a huge bright yellow diesel engine came grinding and groaning past my window followed by long corrugated silver coaches as the whole of the regular Canadian rolled up the track next to the race train and stopped precisely alongside.
Instead of a nice clear photographic view of the station, I now faced the black uninformative window of someone else's roomette.
Frustration and damnation, I thought. I tucked the binoculars into the holdall again and without any sensible plans wandered back towards the dining car. If I went on like this, I would fulfil the gloomiest fears of Bill Baudelaire, the Brigadier and, above all, John Millington. 'I told you we should have sent an ex-policeman…' I could hear his voice in my ear.
It occurred to me, when I reached Julius Apollo's door, that the Canadian would be standing where it was for the whole of the twenty-five minutes of its daily scheduled stop. For twenty-five minutes… say twenty-two by now… Filmer would stay over in the station. He would not walk round either end of the lengthy Canadian to return to his room.
Would he?
No, he would not. Why should he? He had only just gone over there. I had twenty minutes to see what I could do about his combination locks.
If I'd paused for more thought I perhaps wouldn't have had the nerve, but I simply opened his door, checked up and down the corridor for observers (none) and went inside, shutting myself in.
The black briefcase was still on the floor at the back of the hanging space, under the suits. I pulled it out, sat on one of the armchairs, and with a feeling of unreality started on the right-hand lock. If anyone should come in, I thought confusedly… if the sleeping-car attendant for instance came in… whatever excuse could I possibly find?