The Night Train: A Novelette (The Strange Files of Modesty Brown Book 1) (4 page)

"You
bet, Miss. Right this way."

"All
right, Pilgrim. Get yourself settled, take your coat off and stay a while. I'll
be back in two shakes."

PART
TWO
.

Hear
the hum and the sway and the clatter of the train. Hear the muffled chatter of
the Club Car: the clink of glasses, of flatware as Bill wipes them with his
cloth and puts them away. See him cut his eyes to the two women in the booth. See
him tug on the cuff of his shirt. He is watching them, but not for the reasons
you think.

Now
my friends, we're are at the finish of our beginning, the end of our
start.  We've had the glamorous riot of a jazz band, feather boas and
French liquor in flasks. And we've seen a man with teeth as white as piano
keys, his violence thrumming beneath the surface of his big-toothed smile, his
meaty hands, his
sweetheartbabyaren'tyouapip.
And in case you haven’t
noticed, we have a very important person holding court behind the doors of the
closed Dining Car in the middle of the night.  And our red-coated heroine,
and the violence just beneath her ill-fitting gloves gripping the handle of her
typewriter case.

And
as you might expect, at this point in our story, something unexpected is about
to happen.

Modesty
Brown shrugs out of her new red coat and lays it across the back of her own
seat, though it isn't the regal gesture like Pinky’s she was hoping for. She
slides the typewriter case in front of her on Club Car table, and rubs her
hands together gleefully before pushing the latches.

It's
hard to describe the feeling of the moment when moments intersect. The moment
where what you plan for, what you have your eye on, however small -- her own typewriter,
her own money, her own life directed by her very own hand -- meets with the
moment that it begins.

She
will open the case, run her fingers over the gleaming black and white keys, and
do the job quickly, professionally. Competent and capable is our red-coated
heroine.

But
when she opens the case, instead of her gleaming new Underwood Noiseless
Portable she finds something else.

Two
hundred and thirty six Chinese Dominoes.

Of
course she doesn't know the exact number at this moment, but there are enough
of them packed so perfectly tight that they didn't make so much as a rattle.

Panic
floods her face, like hot oil. Her ears burn.  She feels herself go dizzy,
and grips the sides of the table, every cell in her body crying one word, over
and over again. No. No. No.

She
closes her eyes and takes a breath. Then another. Slowly opens them, and looks
everywhere else in the Club Car but at the Wrong Typewriter Case in front of
her. Bill's station is empty, a rocks glass upside down next to a white cloth.
Pinky's coat still draped along the back of the booth across from her.

And
at the next booth the man in the fedora hat reading the paper. Only now does
she notice the headline:

GAMING
COMMISSION INVESTIGATING CURSED DOMINOS, CAUTIONS PUBLIC.

Her
silent hysteria is interrupted by small cluster of large men clattering into
the club car. The Conductor first, then two uniformed policemen.

"No
need to worry folks!" the larger of the two large cops raises a beefy
hand. "Just a precautionary measure. If you'd please produce your tickets
and your identification, we can have you back to your cocktails in a
moment."

Modesty
slams the case shut, slides it onto the seat next her and covers it with her
voluminous red wool coat. Chinese Dominoes. Who would believe it.

Pinky
returns to the Club Car just behind the gaggle of cops. Her smile turns to
stone for split second and then turns to something else. Her eyes, once sharp,
turn vacant in a moment. Her posture turns into something limp and simpering.
Everything that had a moment ago been sharp and quick and glittering at once
turns dull and vague as she slides back into the booth.

"Ladies."

"Officers,"
Pinky says, fumbling for her ticket and identification. "I hope there's no
trouble we should know about?"

"Nothing
serious, Miss. Just making sure everybody on the train is who they say they
are."

Modesty's
jaw clenches, but as long as the name on her ticket and the name on her ID
booklet match, they would just move right along and there would be no problem.
And if they don't see the case, they won't ask.

"Headed
to the City, ladies?" The officer thumbs through their booklets, as the
two women nod mutely.

"And
what's your business there?" His tone is trying hard to be light,
conversational. But there is something behind it, like he is trying some kind
of trick.

"My
business is my own," Modesty snaps, suddenly angry. She snatches her ID
booklet from officer's grip.

"Oh
is that so?" He snatches the booklet back. "I’ll repeat: what
business do you have in the City, Miss....Miss Modesty Brown?"

"I'm
a typist."

"Ah.
A working girl."

Modesty
really doesn't like his tone. She wants to bite him. Right on the meaty part of
his cheek. This is the kind of woman she's turning out to be: the kind that
fantasizes about biting police officers, while hiding a typewriter case filled
with two hundred and thirty six purloined Chinese Dominoes under her new red
coat.

"So
what if I am?"

"You'll
have to forgive my friend, officer," Pinky chirps in a high falsetto.
Suddenly her sentences seem to go up at the end, like a question.  She
sounds like something out of a radio comedy. "But an old school chum of
ours is getting married in the city? And she's not? Well, she's not the easiest
gal to get along with? And our friend Modesty here?" Now Pinky lowers her
voice, and crooks her finger so the officer will lean closer to hear, get
glimpse down her top and smell her Vol de Nuit perfume. "Well, Modesty was
once
engaged
? To the groom?  For about three months?"

"It
was almost a year, Pinky." Modesty amazes herself, how quickly she picks
up this jazzy line.

"Potay-to,
Potah-to. Either way, this trip is not putting her in the best of moods? She's
not even being nice to me, and I'm her oldest friend? I'm sure you
understand?"

The
officer gives a little chuckle under his breath, stifles a snort.

"Understood.
Try and have a good trip, girls. And don't worry, Miss Modesty Brown. You won't
have to be a Career Gal for long. My ma says there's a lid for every pot."

Modesty
thinks about how good her fist would feel connecting with his jaw, the bone
shattering under her knuckles like a teacup.

They
tip their hats and the bluster of men exit the car. Within moments, Bill
arrives and places another Sidecar and another Gibson Girl on the table.

"Brutes,"
he says in a whisper.

Pinky and Modesty raise their glasses to
Bill. "It's good to see a civilizing influence on this train," Pinky
says. "You deserve a raise."

"From
your mouth to Management’s ears, Miss."

Bill
moves away, and Pinky lets out a thin stream of breath. "Well. That was
..."

"Yes
it was."

Modesty
tips up her second Sidecar, and the first part of it goes down easy. The second
part, not so much. She strangles the choke it causes in the back of her throat.

“Take
it easy, Pilgrim! We’ve got all night!”

 Modesty
stands up quickly enough to upset the empty glass, and make her head swim a
bit. She grabs her case from the seat.

"Not
now Pinky. I have to go."

"What,
Pilgrim? Where are you off to? What about my letter?"

"Later.
Just. I have to see about something."

"If
it was those coppers, I wouldn't let them bother you. Unless you've got reason
to be bothered."

"Nope.
Not that, just. I have to go."

And
she slips out of the Club Car, drapes her coat over her arm to hide the
typewriter case thumping against her thigh and scoots off.

Two
cars down, she finds a door with LADIES POWDER ROOM written in gold script. She
goes in and hooks the lock behind her. The carriage sways a little as she puts
the typewriter case on the counter and opens it. To calm her beating heart she
counts them. It takes longer than she anticipates.

"Two
thirty four. Two thirty five. Two thirty six."

They
were heavy, black and red. Dots in unfamiliar configurations. On the back each
was embossed with a long letter "F", in the shape of a snake or a
dragon.

Think,
she says to her pale face in the mirror. Think. It's just a problem. It's just
a problem to solve. I'm not going to the City without my typewriter. She flips
her mind back and back. The Club Car. Bill's white coat. Pinky's pickled onion.
Walking between cars. The Reform School All Girl Orchestra. Piano Teeth.

And
then Modesty Brown remembers, as you my friends are probably remembering now,
that we've seen
two
typewriter cases so far this evening.

 
Maybe
you're a Lady Playwright or a Girl Journalist
, he said.
I know because
I'm a poet, too
he said.
See my soulful, poetic look?

 She'd
moved her case between the two of them. And then he moved it back onto her lap
before things got personal.

 And
then he left when the band came in. And he took his case with him. Or did he
take hers?  She didn't have a clear memory, there was so much commotion,
so much clarinets and trombones and Vol de Nuit that she couldn't be sure. But
it was the only explanation.

And
where is he now? Some big meeting, he said, when he was trying to impress her.
He wasn't in the Club Car, so his meeting couldn't be in there. She would just
have to go the length of the train, looking for him. She knows it is utterly
inefficient, but she needs to make a move. And she needs to do it now. No time
to waste. 

And the night wears on, my friends. And
the Night Train still rides along its back, swaying closer and closer to the city.
And our heroine, the intrepid Modesty Brown, who has her own secrets to keep,
can't afford to keep anyone else's. 236 Chinese Dominoes hum in the case, the
handle burning in her hand.

In
her attempt to find Piano Teeth, she manages to interrupt two poker games and
one game of Canasta; three people in various stages of undress; three more in
compromising positions; some kind of wild party where they drank red liquor and
wore Halloween masks; five stunning Persian women smoking a hookah; and two
different maids stealing jewelry from two different Ladies.

The
doors of the carriages open and close like a camera's aperture, reds and whites
and tones of sepia. Smoke and petticoats and musky perfume. And still, she does
not find the man with the big white teeth who carries her typewriter.

She lands, as everyone on every train must
eventually, back in the Club Car. It is now empty. The man in the fedora hat
has taken himself off, and Pinky is probably off managing her people. Only Bill
is left, covering a rolling service cart with starched white linens. He
arranges a pitcher of Martinis on top, and two silver bowls of peanuts.

And
there's a door here, she hasn't yet gone through. A swinging wooden door with a
round window like a porthole. A paper sign on a string reads: THE DINING CAR IS
CLOSED. She peeps through the porthole window, and lays her hand on it.  

It's
lighter, more responsive than she anticipates, and it swings much wider than
she would like. She catches a quick glimpse of two figures seated at a table
toward the back before the door closes.

"Something
you need in there, doll?"

 She
can't just stroll right in. Bill is standing guard, and besides, Piano Teeth
has already seen her. She can't just walk up, hand him a case full of two
hundred and thirty six Chinese Dominoes and say "Oh, my apologies, I think
these are yours." But there has to be some way.

"Dining
Car’s closed, doll." Carefully, Bill places tiny silver spoons in the
silver bowls of nuts.

"Then
what are you arranging that tray for?"

"Let's
just say, there are some people in this world for whom the Dining Car is never
closed."

Modesty
knows he's right. The Dining Car after hours, on the Night Train to the City –
if she were planning a clandestine meeting, it's exactly the spot she would
pick. She looks at the cart, looks at the porthole window, looks at Bill who is
looking at the cocktail glass he was shining.

"Is
that so?"

“Right
as rain, doll. So just between you, me and the grand piano, there’s
nobody
in that Dining Car right now. Kapiche?”

“Whatever
you say, Bill.”

“That’s
right. And right now, I have to go serve a pitcher of martinis with very
special olives to Absolutely No One in the Dining Car. You’ll keep an eye on
the bar for me?” He waggles his eyebrows at her.

Bill's
eyebrows are not stern, but conspiratorial, almost playful. He's so familiar
with her, she wonders if they know each other from somewhere, but he is no one
she recognizes.

"You
bet,” she says.

“It’s
none of my business what goes on in there. But whatever a person would
overhear, standing right there at the vent – well, that wouldn’t be any of my
business either.”

And
he hooks his finger in the cuff of his shirt and pulls it up, revealing a tiny
tattoo of a keyhole. He gives her a slow, meaningful wink.

Only
she doesn't know exactly
what
it means. She is obviously supposed to
recognize it, but it is utterly unfamiliar. But Bill doesn't have to know that.
She lays a knowing finger to the side of her nose, and nods slowly. She opens
her mouth, starts to say
Thank you
. But Bill stops her with a wave of
his hand.

"I'm
just holding up my end of the bargain."

Bargain?
What bargain?!
She can worry about that later. Later,
after she's got her typewriter back. Later, once she's safely in the City and
this whole thing is over. Later, when every part of her isn't screaming the
word "no".

But
she just nods again, and Bill takes hold of the service cart, backs through the
swinging doors.

"Your
martinis, Mrs. Fong."

Fong.
The matchbook from the file. On the Chinese takeout menu.

"Thank
you, Bill."

A
woman's voice, older. With the chipped cadence of an accent, long lost. And
Bill's footsteps on the carpet.

Modesty
Brown tips her ear to the vent in the wall.

"Thank
you so much for seeing me, Mrs. Fong."

That's
Piano Teeth. He's put on a different voice for her, different from the Hiya
Sweetheart he put on for Modesty before he got himself burned with the business
end of a Chesterfield. Now he sounds more like a dutiful grandson, or favorite
piano student.

"You've
brought me all this way. Now what do you have for me?"

"I
have recovered your Dominoes."

"Recovered?
Is that what you're calling it?"

He
might have sounded like a favorite piano student, but she certainly doesn't
talk to him he is like one. She knows exactly who this character is, and she
doesn't trust him as far as she can spit him out of her mouth.

A
little louder than necessary, she hears Bill. “If that’s everything, Mrs.
Fong?”

“Yes,
William. Thank you.”

“Just
give a shout if you need anything,” Bill says and backs his way out of the
swinging doors, the service cart now empty.

“You
get what you need, there, Sidecar?”

“Yeah,
sure. Hey Bill, tell me something.”

“What’s
that?”

“So
there’s
nobody
in the Dining Car, right?”

“That’s
right. Not a body.”

“So
then,
nobody
in the Dining Car would happen to be carrying a portable
typewriter case, would they?”

His
front teeth come down over his bottom lip, and he takes in a long intake of
breath, a sigh in reverse, like he’s just gotten a paper cut. He nods his head.

“That
would be yes. There is nobody in the Dining Car. And one of them definitely has
a typewriter.”

“Shit.”