She's back. And she has questions. The chortler has been identified. The widow has been assessed. And Madame J has two hours before the locals muck everything up.
Welcome to the second misadventure.
— J
THE MISADVENTURES OF MADAME J
Chortler on a Train
In which our heroine acquires a reluctant companion, discovers a missing man, and adds considerably to her list of suspects.
Madame J grabbed her matching silver dressing gown from where she’d laid it across her feet the night before and flung open the chenille curtain in dramatic fashion. She wanted all eyes on her in an instant so she could gauge reactions: who would look away, who would feign distress, and who would show too much interest.
Mr. Jacoby looked up with a start, then gave her a lecherous smirk, smoothing his comb over again with his sweaty hands. The hiccoughing sobs belonged to a heart-shaped face with large blue eyes lined with thick brown lashes. Her face had the look of a Kewpie doll. Keen and bright eyes stared back at her. The still alert gaze at odds with the sweet face. Madame J gave the woman a rapid assessment: thick, shiny hair in an unimaginative low bun, dowdy brown shoes, and a brown shirtdress to match. The clothes were at odds against the pretty porcelain face. The woman assessed Madame J back, then moved her eyes and fixed her gaze on the handkerchief she was twisting in her white-knuckled hands.
Madame J looked down the aisle, hoping to catch another glimpse of a certain well-tailored uniform, but was disappointed to find it was just the three of them in the train car. Taking stock of the present situation, she put her hand over the woman’s, stopping the twisting and getting her to look up.
“Your hands will ache if you keep that up.”
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”
“Stop that this instant. Dramatics help no one. Pull yourself together, woman.” At that, the bright blue eyes blinked, and the slumped-over body sat straight up. Madame J rubbed her fingertips against the dry handkerchief clutched in the woman’s hands before releasing her.
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Madame J. What’s your relation to the deceased?”
“The deceased…” The woman’s face melted again. Madame J put up a hand to stop the mounting hysterics in their tracks.
“You know my name. Tell me yours. How do you know the dead man?” It was often a tactic she employed with women who pretended to be precious pearl clutches; she would say the rudest thing she could think of to say. Most women had seen many horrors, and their easy offense was a pretense.
“Mrs. Charles Barnes. That’s my husband.” She gestured with her chin towards the man in the navy-blue suit.
“That’s his name. What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Amelia Barnes.”
“Well, Amelia, nice to meet you, except for the present circumstances. What happened to him?”
“I won’t have you botherin’ this poor woman. Her husband just got himself killed.” said Jacoby.
“My dear Mr. Jacoby, I wouldn’t dream of harassing this poor woman. I’ve got her to stop all that noise she was making. Look, she’s calm. Aren’t you dear?” Without waiting for a response, Madame J continued. “Have you found the man in 2A yet, Mr. Jacoby? No, and why not? Because you’ve been here all this time. Well, tsk, best go find him. I will take care of Amelia here. We ladies need to change. You’ll have to exit.” She pushed him towards the same path as the conductor.
Madame J waited until Jacoby crossed to the next car before returning to Amelia. Without waiting to be invited, she sat down and patted her hands again, confirming the handkerchief was dry.
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
“No, I couldn’t. There was a man snoring. The most horrible snores that sounded as if he were choking. At moments, I thought he would stop breathing.”
“Your husband wasn’t the one snoring?”
“No, what do you mean?” Amelia scooted away from Madame J, never getting up from the cramped quarters of the sleeping berth below the one she’d leapt from. Madame J didn’t let her get far and moved to close the distance.
“I don’t mean to pry.” Yes, she did mean to pry. She prided herself on solving little snafus and mysteries, like the one presented to her. Her current role was to dole out the assignments to her agency of bored former female spies, but today she would enjoy showing up the locals. A bit of “keeping your oar in,” as her favorite agent Tabitha would say. She looked down at the small wristwatch she’d slept in. There were two hours to get it done before the locals jumped in and mucked things up. “I just hate to see a woman alone and in such distress. The men will be all over you in a few minutes, and I want to make sure you’ve got your story straight before they do.”
“You don’t think that, I?”
“All I asked you was whether your husband was the snoring man.” Madame J turned her body to face Amelia. Watching her respond. Amelia considered her back with a tilt of her head.
“Didn’t you hear him? How could you not?” said Amelia.
“Hear who? Again, you are answering my question with a question. This is the sort of thing the men don’t like. Let me help you. Was your husband the snoring man?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“See how easy that was? When I first lay down to rest, there was a man making the most horrible racket. I put in earplugs, never travel without them, demo-grade stuff knocks all the noise right out. I only took them out once to overhear the most interesting conversation.”
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“I could tell. You bumped me awake. Were you scheduled to sleep in this berth underneath mine?”
“Yes, and I apologize for bumping you awake. We were scheduled to sleep here, but my husband couldn’t sleep.”
“I don’t see how he could. I’m not sure how both of you would have fit in such a small space.”
“That’s rude. He couldn’t sleep because I forgot his bedclothes, and that man,” she lifted her chin towards the lower berth across from hers, “that man would not stop snoring.”
Madame J looked across to where Amelia’s chin had signaled to look, a “2A” painted to resemble a bronze house number painted to the left of the lower berth. The man in 2A may still be somewhere on the train, and she hoped he was alive and well. The chortler, the world’s worst snorer, was somewhere on the train, and may not have taken to being threatened in the middle of the night. She had already violated her first rule “Never presume or assume.” She had done both in presuming the chortler was the one dead in the fabulous suit.
Lesson number two revealed itself “Never threaten to kill someone with only curtains separating the witnesses, or you just may wind up dead.” Well, maybe not a universal lesson for all situations, but something one could live by if they wanted to stay alive.
“What happened to the man in 2A?”
“My husband shoved him awake. He was quite apologetic and said he would sleep in the dining car. When he left, Charles took over his sleeping berth.”
“Ah, I see. Did you tell Mr. Jacoby where he went?”
“He never asked.”
Madame J stood and climbed back into her berth.
“Where are you going? You can’t just leave me here with him.”
Madame J poked her head back down towards Amelia.
“I can and I will. I must dress and find the man from 2A.”
“Why? Why do you even care?”
“Don’t you care who murdered your husband?”
“Well, yes, that’s not what I meant. Why do you care? You didn’t even know him. If you had, you wouldn’t care to find out who killed him. You’d want to throw them a parade and call out the circus.”
“He sounds delightful. But I don’t choose to solve crimes based upon the pleasantness of the victims. If I did, I would be out of business.” With that, Madame J put her head back into her berth, where she grabbed her overnight bag and made her way to the small ladies’ toilet and dressing room at the far end of the car. A momentary sway of the car and the two women paused in the narrow aisle before resuming their move to the dressing room.
Amelia followed her and stood outside. Madame J exited the dressing room in a smart olive-green suit with matching kitten heels and a green velvet crescent hat across the top of her crown. She always commanded more authority in the right attire. The silk pajamas wouldn’t get her as far as she needed them to, although perhaps the conductor would have admired the cut of her pajamas the way she’d admired his suit. She shook her head and snapped to the present. Amelia gave her a long look and adjusted her brown blouse and skirt.
“Who else was in the car besides you, your husband, and the man in 2A? Anyone else?”
“Not that I recall.”
Madame J heard the man who assented to the assault of the man in 2A. She remembered his words. He said, “If you don’t, I will.” She made a mental note to call him The Assenter, adding him to the list of growing suspects.
Madame J hadn’t time to puzzle Amelia out. She would need to keep her close.
“You may come with me to find the man in 2A. You’ll be able to recognize him faster than I will.”
“Do you think he killed my husband? My husband threatened and shoved him, after all.”
“Yes, well, people have killed for less.”
Madame J stopped to look over Mr. Charles Barnes’ corpse. She pulled on a pair of short calfskin gloves in a rich camel color. Taking stock of the position of the body. He was lying on his back attempting to sleep when it happened. There was bruising along the cheeks and a gaping mouth. Clenched fists stiffened into tight balls after death. Wide, surprised eyes stared out. Tufts of pink scarf and a light rose patterned motif protruded from his constrained mouth. All signs showed that someone surprised him. The killer could not have overpowered him given his size, so the only real weapon besides the scarf had to be surprise. Her inspection done, she pulled the sheet from her own berth down to cover the body and closed the chenille curtains to seal him in. She looked up to find Amelia staring out the window next to the ladies’ dressing room.
“Come along. I hate to see women traveling alone, feigning to be lost and lonely when there isn’t a man to pack for or cater to. No, no, don’t protest; you may show your relief at being unburdened.”
With that, Madame J turned towards the adjoining cars, towards the conductor, Mr. Jacoby, and the mysterious man in 2A.
To be continued…
To read Part 3, click here. We now know who didn't kill Mr. Barnes. That leaves everyone else. If you'd like to talk about what just happened in the comments, I'll be there. See you next week.