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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 10, Issue 8 (November 1, 1935)

Limited Night Entertainments — Part VI

page 25

Limited Night Entertainments
Part VI.

We gathered a deal of amusement from watching the crowd upon the Junction platform. Innocent passers-by were invested with the most fantastic characters which we created for them from the way they wore their hats, the shape of their noses, the manner in which they walked and talked. Three of them we wove into the following story, and should they happen to recognise themselves, a circumstance that is extremely unlikely, I hope we may be forgiven!

Sidney Harris woke from a sound sleep with a sense of security such as he had not enjoyed for many weeks. For a while he lay contentedly listening to the patter of wheels and watched the pale sunbeams of early morning weave back and forth across the floor of his sleeping car compartment. His compartment! To the man who for years had travelled in nothing more pretentious than a second-class smoker the privacy and quiet luxuriousness of his surroundings was impressive. He basked in a feeling of substance and power; the power of wealth, the power that had transformed him from a pinch-penny clerk to … Abruptly his eyes dulled with something akin to fear and the tense lines about his mouth deepened as his thoughts went creeping back through channels grown darkly familiar.

Back to the evening when three thousand pounds in unchecked notes lay in the Walton Company's safe, that impregnable safe of which he had by chance acquired the combination.

Back to the nerve-racking days which followed the discovery of the theft.

The gruelling cross-examination to which each member of the staff had been subjected. The mutual suspicion. The thought that one was being spied upon, watched, for some incautious move that would betray him as the guilty party.

But nobody had seriously suspected Sidney Harris. Why should they? That ineffectually conscientious rabbit of the staff had been able to establish a perfect alibi on the night of the theft, and his conduct since had been absolutely above suspicion.

He chuckled to think of his cleverness, many a man would have given himself away, he reflected, unable to resist the temptation to spend. He had not so much as bought an extra tin of tobacco. In his shabby clothes and patched shoes he had carried the fortune home, and in his shabby clothes he had come to work for many weeks after it had been secreted beneath the flooring of his bed-sitting-room.

For two months Sidney Harris had spent not a penny more than his salary had warranted, and then one evening he was drowned. A bathing-shed caretaker had found his clothes still hanging on their peg long after the beach had grown chilly and deserted.

A strong ebb-tide was swirling past the rocks at the seaward end of the bay, and it was greatly feared that Sidney Harris would never be seen again.

While the coroner's inquest was discussing the uninteresting relics, the patched shoes, the cheap flannel trousers, and the boarding-house towel, a Mr. Maxwell was emerging butterfly-like from the chrysalis of Sidney Harris.

He emerged very slowly and un-obstrusively in a mean lodging almost next door to the police station in the heart of the city. Where Harris had thinning hair, Mr. Maxwell's pate was covered with a well-thatched, almost fool-proof toupáee. Harris had been clean-shaven, Mr. Maxwell sported a moustache. Harris had worn spectacles, baggy trousers and a felt hat. Mr. Maxwell, though it hurt his eyes to do so, spurned the use of eye-glasses, and dressed in a very neat blue suit and bowler hat.

When Mr. Maxwell was fully emerged from his chrysalis state, he spent a night and a day at a comfortable family hotel, and reserved a whole sleeping compartment for himself on the Limited the following evening. He needed a whole compartment because in one of his immaculate suitcases were carefully packed two thousand nine hundred and sixty pounds in un-checked bank notes.

It had all been ridiculously easy, he told himself as he lit a cigarette and watched the smoke go drifting upwards, although there had been bad moments. The feeling of utter loneliness that had at times oppressed him. Nights when he had started awake in a sweat of terror. Days when his imagination had played him tricks and he crouched panic-stricken in the stifling heat of his little room. Then there was the afternoon when venturing out to a cinema, a man, mistaking him for an acquaintance, had tapped him on the shoulder. The evening when thunderous blows had resounded upon the door of his room and, paralysed with fear, he had cowered helplessly on his bed. The blows had not been repeated, and stumbling footsteps had retreated while a convivial voice sang:

“Who is knocking at my door?
“Said the fair young maiden.”

That had been a bad moment, right enough, but … there came a sharp rap upon the door of his compartment. Sidney Harris, or rather Mr. Maxwell as we must now call him, started, letting fall his cigarette. The knock was repeated.

“Who's there?” he gasped.

“Frankton Junction in fifteen minutes, sir,” a cheerful voice replied, “time for breakfast!”

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page 27

Mr. Maxwell groped under his pillow for his handkerchief and wiped the beads of cold perspiration from his forehead, then he climbed out of his bunk and fumbled through the pockets of his overcoat until he found a travelling flask. He swallowed a mouthful of brandy.

“Musn't get the jim-jams,” he muttered, making a wry face.

In less than three hours now he would be in Auckland. Courage returned to him at the thought. Although he had never been in the northern city, it had always presented itself to him as a fine adventurous place, the gateway to the Pacific—the World. There would be no possible chance of his being recognised there. He would slip across to Australia, then, changing his identity once again—Canada, the United States, London!

Beyond the windows, meadowlands were giving way to scattered groups of houses, a water tower on a hill wheeled
“… Upon leaving the telephone … you got into a taxi.”

“… Upon leaving the telephone … you got into a taxi.”

into view, and presently the sleeping-car swayed gently as the train negotiated the points and crossings of the junction.

After breakfast, Mr. Maxwell decided to sit for awhile in the smoking-car, and, having removed the suitcase containing his fortune from his sleeping compartment to the rack above his head, he settled himself comfortably in a corner seat. All about him was the buzz of conversation, all-night travellers refreshed by their meal were discussing the morning papers with crisp looking men who had boarded the train at the stop to make the early morning run in the interests of business. There was an atmosphere of briskness, of suppressed excitement almost, as the train settled down to the two-hour gallop that was the last lap of its long journey.

The country was growing vaguely familiar to Mr. Maxwell. Long years ago he had lived, a barefooted youngster of seven or eight in a farmhouse back in the low range of hills to the east. He pondered a moment. Somewhere just before Taupiri it would be, a rambling sort of place with toe-toe bushes all around it and a belt of gloomy pines at the back.

Memories came thronging, but were interrupted by a stout, red-faced man who entered the car from the vestibule, and, glancing about him a moment, seated himself with a friendly nod opposite Mr. Maxwell. He lighted a cigarette, unfolded a morning paper and after reading for a little while threw it aside in disgust.

“Heaven help us!” he exclaimed, then noting Mr. Maxwell's stare of surprise, “Don't mind me,” he laughed. “I'm not in a very good humour this morning, and the paper does nothing to improve it.” He paused looking keenly at Mr. Maxwell.

“You know,” he said presently “whenever I travel by this morning train I am filled with a spirit of what the Americans call ‘boost.’ It comes from watching the activities of this district as one passes through it,” he indicated with a sweep of his hand the countryside speeding past the window. The warm red roofs of farmhouses, the dairy cattle, cream wagons and butter factories.

“They present themselves to me as a drama, if I may be permitted to be so flowery; the epic drama of a young nation going to work. So I want to know all about it,” he added with a smile, “and feel that everyone else knows about it, too. I should like to read about it in the newspapers and feel that all this work and industry and nation building is being recognised. And do I read of these things?” He picked up the offending news sheet.

“Listen,” he said, “this is what I read. ‘New development in the Walton safe-robbing case. Police are reticent, but it is understood that they are investigating a fresh clue to the identity of the thief who, last November, rifled the safe of the Walton Company, making a clear get-away with £3,000.’”

Mr. Maxwell's heart missed a beat, his mouth went dry, and a wave of nausea swept over him.

The train roared over the Ngaruawahia bridge.

“Do you suppose,” the red-faced man waved his hand again, “that these people, these toiling farmers are any better off for hearing about the Walton Company,” he jerked the question sharply, “What is the Walton Company?”

“A—an importing firm, I believe,” Mr. Maxwell managed to reply.

“Exactly, well, imagine yourself a farmer. Say, for instance, that you lived in that house over there—” Mr. Maxwell followed the direction of the man's hand, and his jaw dropped. There, exactly as he remembered it twenty odd years ago, stood his old home. The toe-toe bushes, the rust-
“Miss Brown … . saw what appeared to be your back at a telephone.”

“Miss Brown … . saw what appeared to be your back at a telephone.”

streaked roof, dilapidated weather boarding, even the grass-grown track to the gate, and riding down it two youngsters astride a pony.

“Suppose you had just come in from the milking shed,” the man was saying, “four hours of hard graft before breakfast, the cows are feeling the hot weather, and the yield of milk is down. So is the cream cheque. There is a letter from the factory manager informing you that from the first of the month the price of butter-fat is to be further reduced.

“Then you open your paper, hoping against hope to read of something that will give you a grain of encouragement, that will make you feel your efforts are not all in vain, that prices will soon mend, and what do you find? The Walton Company has fresh hopes of recovering its £3,000!”

The stout man paused triumphantly, his eyes, cynical, very blue eyes they were, seemed to be probing Mr. Maxwell's inmost thoughts.

“Wouldn't you say, under the circumstances,” he continued, “'Devil take the Walton Company!'”? You'd feel, knowing that as soon as you had finished your breakfast, you had to go and pull turnips, mend a fence, maybe, and dig a drain round the pig-sty, a page 28 page 29 certain sympathy for the fellow who had got away with the cash. He might, of course, have been just a common thief; on the other hand, he might be some chap who had gone on year after year, muddling along somehow, without getting any forrader, just as you had.”

“Just as I had?” Mr. Maxwell's voice in spite of himself, rose in a panicky crescendo.

“Not you personally, of course,” said the stout man, reassuringly, “I was referring to our hypothetical farmer!”

Mr. Maxwell rose from his seat and reached for his suitcase.

“Well,” he said, more steadily, “perhaps you're right. I think I'll get back to my compartment.”

“Sure,” the stout man nodded, “excuse me,” he said, “it's getting very warm in here,” and with a quick movement let down the window half-way. The sudden uprush of air caught Mr. Maxwell's almost fool-proof toupee and lifted it from his scalp.

“Oh, forgive me!” said the man retrieving it with a grin, and Mr. Maxwell, scarlet-faced, thrust it into his pocket and hurried down the car.

Back in his compartment he sat a long time, trembling, and nervously biting his knuckles. All the security that he had felt earlier in the day had vanished. All the hunted fear of the past weeks returned, overwhelming him, so that once again he cowered unable to move.

Huntly with its slag heaps, then … the broad Waikato with a big stern-wheel steamer breasting the current, brimmed close to the line before he regained a measure of composure. Then he arose, adjusted his toupee, brushed his clothes, and was about to extract a novel from his suitcase, when the train plunged into the tunnel at the southern end of Mercer Station.

In the clamour and darkness he did not hear or see the door of his compartment opened, and, turning, as the station buildings flashed by, was shocked to find the stout, red-faced man regarding him with a faintly cynical smile.

“You've made a mistake, haven't you?” Mr. Maxwell demanded curtly, “this is my compartment.”

“I don't think so,” the man replied, “and that answers both your question and your statement. Your name isn't really Maxwell, is it?”—indicating the reservation label.

Mr. Maxwell made a movement towards the bell push which would summon the sleeping-car attendant.

“I wouldn't do that,” said the other drawing from his vest pocket an identification card in a leather case.

“You see I'm from Police Headquarters—and it's my duty to arrest you, Mr. Harris, in connection with the Walton Company robbery.

“Now,” he added briskly, “shall we take it easy, or do you want me to call in a couple of the boys and make a fuss?”

Mr. Maxwell stared at him in silence. It had come then, the dread moment through which he had lived a thousand times in the past three months. But it brought with it none of the sensations that he had experienced in imagination. There was none of the fear that had started him from his dreams, no panic, no bitterness of remorse; rather, a sense of overwhelming relief that he
“You've made a mistake haven't you?” Mr. Maxwell demanded.

“You've made a mistake haven't you?” Mr. Maxwell demanded.

was freed at last from the burden of anxiety which had haunted him incessantly from the moment he had become possessed of his ill-gotten fortune.

“Let's take it easy,” he said, and, sitting down, buried his face in his hands.

“That's the idea,” said the stout man, “no weapons, I suppose?” touching him expertly here and there.

The train swept on, green fields, orchards, suburban villas. Buckland, Pukekohe, Drury, the passengers in other parts of the train began to fidget and tidy themselves, stowing magazines into suitcases, rolling up rugs, all unconscious of the little episode drawing to a close in a compartment of the sleeping-car.

“Would it be against the rules,” said Sidney Harris to the stout man, “for you to tell me how you bowled me out? It might help to pass an irksome twenty minutes.”

The stout man scratched his chin—then he rose and, opening the compartment door, called “Peters,” and a burly man with a clipped moustache entered.

“Pencil and notebook,” the stout man commanded, waving him towards the seat, and the other producing the articles required, sat down.

“If you know your poets fairly well, Mr. Harris,” said the stout man, “you will remember the quotation ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!’ In your case she was apparently not only furious but vindictive. She had, I understand, auburn hair, grey eyes, and a somewhat outspoken manner; she works on the staff of the Walton Company.”

“Madeline Brown!” cried Sidney Harris.

The stout man inclined his head, “You ought to know,” he said. “Anyway she thinks you treated her rather badly. Before the robbery it appears that you had what might be called an ‘understanding’ with each other. You exchanged photographs, went to the pictures and several dances together, and even, I believe, went so far as to discuss ways and means of marriage.

“Then came the robbery, and a slight rift in the lute. A woman's intuition, particularly that of a woman who imagines herself in love, though not altogether to be relied upon, is a very subtle thing, Mr. Harris. It picks up unconsidered trifles and turns them into facts. It might easily turn pre-occupation into deliberate slight.

“Doubtless you were preoccupied; a man with three thousand pounds unlawfully come by naturally would be. I expect you were secretive, too, and not so frank as you had formerly been.

“However that may be the old order was changed, and the seeds of suspicion planted, for it seems that she was not quite convinced that you were drowned.

“The day after the tragedy she went round to your lodgings at lunch-time, and found amongst your effects a bathing suit!

“Bad slip that, Mr. Harris,” the stout man shook his head gravely, “and had Miss Brown not appropriated it, it might have started a few inquiries there and then. Of course, you may have had two bathing suits, but Miss Brown who knew you pretty well didn't think so. At any rate, her suspicions were increased, although she did not impart them to anybody. Possibly she was still loyal to you, possibly her intuition having assured her page 30 that you were both alive and in possession of the money, she intended to track you down and make you pay.

“One of the differences between a professional and an amateur criminal, Mr. Harris,” said the stout man after a pause, “is that the amateur in the case of a man like yourself, is a creature of habit. All your life you have been doing the same things in very much the same way, and so, because you had always gone to the Van Diemen Hotel when you wanted to make a bit of a splash, you went and stayed there the night before you left.

“Miss Brown watched that hotel pretty closely, and the evening you left, saw what she took to be your back, at a telephone. You probably don't know it, but your back, unless you can grow a hump on it or otherwise distort it is a difficult thing to disguise. She was so sure that it was your back, that, even when you turned round and revealed yourself as Mr. Maxwell, she hid behind a pillar and took stock of your features.

“That momentary hesitation on her part was your final undoing; for immediately upon leaving the telephone, your luggage was brought out and you got into a taxi.

“Miss Brown's indignation boiled over, and from the Van Diemen she went down to Police Headquarters.

“The train had left before they got her story—not that we should have tried to stop you even if it had not. We wanted further proof, and so I was acquainted by phone with all the facts and instructed to come up to Hamilton from Auckland last night.

“The rest was really very simple, you had often talked to Miss Brown about the old home at Taupiri. The registrar supplied any other details I might have wanted, and the window which I opened in the smoking car dislodged that little extra bit of hair you have grown!”

Sidney Harris shrugged his shoulders, and, smiling faintly, turned towards the window. Blue water, sparkling in the sunlight, trim pleasure craft, a big steamer making port. Peters shut his notebook with a snap, and the stout man began to gather up the late Mr. Maxwell's suitcases.

Presently the train, panting as though with the exertion of its eighty-six mile sprint, drew alongside the platform. The crisp business men hurried towards the barrier, tourists and holiday makers followed more slowly.

At the last, walking between two tall men, looking neither to right nor left, went Sidney Harris to the lengthy requittal of a moment's indiscretion!