Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

“But if you want someone who really would have liked to get Mrs. Marr out of the way,” I put in, just to add two more cents to the pot, “she was probably a real embarrassment to the studio and Laszlo represents the studio.”

“Well, I still say it’s spies,” Jim said, writing all this down in a handy pocket notebook. “But since that’s four suspects and there’s four of us, why don’t let’s investigate those four first?”

“There are lots more people...” I started to say.

“What about Bernie and Sylvester, up in the pinochle car?” Velvet demanded. “Or Annie, Kay, and Misty?”

This made us all sit back. You don’t ever want to go talking about the wardrobe and makeup people; they prefer it the other way around, and there are little tricks they can do with color and arrangement that can make you look like change for a dime.

“Or either of you could have done it,” Jim told her, “just to get a chance to have the private car yourself.”

“But that way they’d have to have known Laszlo would look for someone with natural maternal instincts,” I pointed out.

“Anyway,” he went on, leaning so low over the table as to get crumbs from the toast plate on his chin, “I know it had to be someone from our car.”

“How?” Olivia demanded.

“This note,” he said, flipping it over. “It’s written on the back of a Baby Eloise fan letter. From our bags.”

I glanced back at The Child Star, who was studying every move of Sissy’s lips as Buster Kitten brandished a pink feather duster and bright yellow lollipops in the face of the ogre.

“Four of us and four of them,” said our loyal spy smasher. “What do you say?”

“I’m game,” said Olivia. “As long as I interrogate Bevis Flint.”

“Hold it!” snarled Velvet. “You interview Lorenzo. You’ll do lots better with someone your own age.”

“We’ll flip a coin,” Olivia proposed, reaching for her purse. “Loser interviews deChante.”

“Well, I’ll tackle Laszlo,” said Jim, making a note. “It won’t be him, though. They’d be crazy to use someone with a foreign name. Except it did happen that way in Count on the Renegades.”

Someone knocked on the door. “It’s unlocked!” called Jim, who had elected himself host.

“Oh, do come in,” said Velvet, who had won the coin toss. (She’d been able to pull out a two-headed coin before Olivia could.) “We’re not quite done yet, but wouldn’t you like to come in and talk?”

Bevis would like. “Here.” Velvet moved over to clear space on the little sofa. “We can sit right here and...”

But the stalwart hero had found his own seat, next to Sissy. “Kittens, huh?” he said, catching onto the conversation. “I used to have a kitten named Jenny.”

“Kittens,” muttered Velvet. She tossed her dishes onto the little tray. “Kittens!”

Her knife bumped the sugar bowl, which none of us had touched during the meal, not expecting much to come of it. But maybe Mrs. Marr had had connections in the kitchen. I picked up the lid.

Inside, all I found was a note saying “Beware.” This one had been written on the back of a Baby Eloise envelope. I looked from it to Sissy and Bevis.

The Child Star’s blank eyes met mine. I wadded the envelope into my hand.

I couldn’t blame The Child Star for getting rid of her “mother.” And I knew where my own career would go if I said anything. There was one thing I could do, though.

Baby Eloise never walked into any drugstore to buy a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and probably didn’t snitch one of Lorenzo’s empties. She was way too well supervised. Somebody had to have done these things for her; the bottle and the warning letters suggested it was somebody on this train. If I could find out who had done The Child Star these favors, maybe I could do something to get him or her off the train before any of the rest of us looked expendable.

Lorenzo was no early riser; no rush to go interview him. I sat around to enjoy the fun as Velvet, with prompting from Jim and Olivia, tried to question Bevis. All they got out of the big, bold hero was a series of friendly but empty grunts. Bevis was a man of action — he had a Lone Ranger Pocket Book rolled into his back pocket — and he was breathing down Sissy’s neck, all agog with the suspense of Buster Kitten’s adventure.

Sissy was too busy to notice his attention or Velvet’s reaction. She was taking notes as she told the story, having long ago departed from the text, making up new perils as she went along. She couldn’t wait to find out what became of her hero.

The only person who lacked even imitation interest in the tale was the intended audience. The Child Star was slumped in her chair, occupied with a well-worn deck of cards and some obscure form of solitaire, flipping through the deck and mumbling to herself. Every now and then she’d let a card drop from the deck onto a stack of discards on her lap. When she reached the last card, she set it on top of this stack and started over.