Night Train to Paris, page 22
They stumbled out, singed and dazzled; the door swung and slammed as from inside there came the single heart-shaking yell of one who dies in a petrol fire and after that, silence.
Hambledon looked at the lock but it was fastened, and Chadai, inside, had the key—
They rushed up the few steps to the cockpit and already the flames were breaking through the roof. Yudin, demented with terror, was crouched on the coaming gibbering. He was terrified of the river, but behind him there was fire.
“Come on,” said Logan, and pushed him.
“No, no, no!”
“Oh, let him burn,” said Hambledon callously. “Come on, we must swim for it.” He tore off his shoes and coat
“No,” said Logan obstinately, “He murdered my brother and he’s going to hang.”
“What a moment to argue ethics,” said Tommy. “Man, those tanks for’ard will explode in a minute. Chuck him overboard.”
There were three almost simultaneous splashes. Yudin kicked and struggled, so Logan, who knew something about lifesaving, knocked him out and they towed him away between them, swimming hard to get away from the blazing launch, A triangle of lights bore down upon them; a searchlight picked them out and the River Police dragged them out of the water. Yudin was laid gently down.
“Be careful of him,” said Logan, “I suggest handcuffs.”
“Well look after that. Anybody on board that launch?”
“Don’t get too near,” said Hambledon. “The tanks—”
There was a deep explosion, and with it there rose from the launch a great bubble of fire which burst, hurling in all directions gouts of burning petrol which fell upon the river and Boated, little blazing islands upon the dark water. Round the launch there spread a wide pool of leaping flame in the middle of which the boat could clearly be seen, sinking by the head. Her stern came up, the screw came out of the water, she slid forward and went down like a stone. _”Exit the First Murderer,” said Logan contentedly.
“The first? Then where’s the second?”
“Here,” said Logan, pushing with his foot the dripping form of Yudin. “He’ll be all right; we only knocked him out because he struggled,”
“We’ll get you gentlemen ashore,” said the River Police, for Hambledon had given his name. “Dry clothes first, questions afterwards.”
Hambledon rang up Scotland Yard while he and Logan, wrapped in blankets, were awaiting the arrival of dry clothes from their respective homes.
“You know,” said Logan when the telephoning was done, “you lay so still I thought they’d killed you.”
“I thought it best,” said Tommy. “I never believe in inviting trouble, but by heck I nearly gave myself away when you brought out that bit about your twin brother. So that’s why you didn’t know which was your own bedroom.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“At your flat. I didn’t quite believe in your loss of memory till I saw you go into Greene’s room in mistake for yours.”
“That convinced you? How odd, I don’t even remember doing so,”
“But why this memory business at all? I can understand your passing as your brother to the Russians, but—”
“On account of my father’s will,” said Logan, and explained that he was merely a remittance man whose income would stop for good if he returned to England. “I meant to clear up this affair without being too much in the limelight and then retire to France and die at a more convenient moment—as Edward, that is. As Laurence, I should then be all right so long as no one knew I’d been in England. I hadn’t worked out the details, but that’s the general idea, I had to lose my memory to cover the fact that I didn’t know anybody and hadn’t the foggiest ideas about the business. If only you’d been really unconscious—”
“I do apologize, but how was I to know? However, the really important thing is still as dark as ever. Did you find among your brother’s things a strip of sixteen-millimeter film about three inches long or a little less?”
“No. No, I don’t remember noticing anything like that. Why?”
“Because the wretched Stephen Alton, who caused all this trouble in the first place, had those plans, designs or what-have-you microphotographed and destroyed the original papers,”
“And the Russians didn’t know that!”
“No. They were looking for something much bigger, so it’s just possible they overlooked it.”
“Yes,” said Logan, “I suppose so. Well, I’ve got all my brother’s things at the flat; you’d better come and hunt for it yourself, if you will.”
Their clothes arrived almost simultaneously with Superintendent Bagshott, who was given a brief resume of the whole story during dressing operations. He listened in silence until Logan had finished.
“I was reading the other day,” said Bagshott, “an article in some paper about certain savage tribes who always destroy twins as soon as they’re born. I think there is something to be said for the custom. I suppose you realize that you’ve probably rendered yourself liable for heaven knows what penalties for impersonation?”
“I haven’t signed any cheques,” said Logan quickly.
“Oh. Well, I’m glad you had that much sense.”
Logan looked pained, Tommy laughed, and they drove together to the Caroline Mansions flat in a rather chilly silence. Here, as Logan let them in with his latchkey, Bagshott said to himself that this was the first time he had entered that flat to find everything perfectly normal. Greene came in at the further door and gave Logan a letter which had come by post, and it was addressed to Edward J. Logan Esq.:
Dear Logan,
I gather you are now returned from Paris; Cogsworth told me he saw you yesterday. As I am sure you do not wish to remain intestate any longer than is unavoidable, would, you care to make an appointment with me about drafting a new will?
Yours sincerely, H. C. R. Fenchurch
Laurence Logan drew a long breath of profound relief, folded up the letter and put it back in his pocket. So there had been no need for his loss of memory and careful impersonation. Never mind, it had been rather fun. He broke suddenly into a wide and cheerful smile, for was he not Edward’s next of kin?
“Well, now,” he said, “shall we get on with it?”
With Greene helping, they sorted out every single thing which Edward Logan had taken with him and Laurence Logan had brought back; his toilet things, the Penguin book he had been reading in the train, his wallet and diary and, once more, his unfortunate ill-used suitcases. They sent Greene to bed and searched minutely until, at twenty minutes to three in the morning, Hambledon sat down heavily in a chair and said: “Well, that’s that.”
“Edward may have lost it and never knew he had it,” said Laurence. “Or didn’t know it was of any importance and threw it away. Or destroyed it on purpose. I may even have lost it myself. Have some more beer. No, have some Scotch, I’m going to. Lord, I feel as though this day has lasted for weeks.” He yawned widely and poured out drinks for the party.
“I suppose,” said Bagshott, “you didn’t throw out anything from your brother’s effects which you regarded as rubbish? Odd screws of paper, empty cigarette packets, any debris of any kind?”
“My good man,” said Logan, who did not like Bagshott particularly, “you didn’t know my brother. He did not harbour debris, consequently there was none for me to throw away. Talking about cigarette packets,” he added more genially, feeling that he had perhaps been a trifle rude in his own house, “there’s that beautiful silver cigarette case Betty Alton gave Edward. I must send it back—meant to before, but I’ve been rather dodging the lady. She—”
Hambledon came out of his chair in one movement. “The case—where is it?”
“Here,” said Logan, opening a drawer. “Why, I—”
Hambledon snatched it rudely and opened it; there were six cigarettes still remaining.
“Russians, made with a tube,” he said rapidly, and slit one open with his pocketknife. “There were seven, but I pinched one the other day.” He slit open a second. “We had our doubts about you, you know”—he opened up a third—“it wasn’t much to go on, but they were Russians—” He cut open the fourth cigarette and a narrow strip of film sprang out of the cardboard tube and uncoiled itself upon the table while they all stood round and stared at it.
Eventually Hambledon picked it up and held it to the light with Edward Logan’s ivory-handled magnifying glass to help him. After a moment he laid it down again and put the glass over it as though it might otherwise attempt to escape.
“That’s it,” he said, “that’s it. An expensive bit of film, gentlemen, don’t you agree? For what that tiny strip contains Muntz died in the North Sea, Alton on the river and Logan in the train; the car driver Cutler in London, Vladimir and the rat Brachko in Paris. Chadai was burnt to death tonight, and one of these days Yudin will hang by the neck until he also is dead.”
Manning Coles, Night Train to Paris
