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

They had been at this for better than an hour when I decided nothing much would happen if I slipped away. “Well,” I said, “better get these dishes back or they’ll think we’ve donated them for scrap.”

“As opposed to the food,” Olivia said, rising, “which we donated to the Axis.”

“Yes,” agreed Velvet, who did not stand up. “Why don’t you take all the trash with you?” Her eyes threw flame at Sissy.

The rest of the cast was less moved by our departure. The Child Star sort of nodded and went on running through her cards. Bevis, now pretending an interest in her game, grunted, either in farewell or at the sight of a nine of diamonds. “Meow,” said Sissy.

We moved out of our posh boudoir, along the external corridor, and to the end of the car. The dishes rattled as we bounced across the shaky three-foot landing that connected the cars. The train had had to be cobbled together from odds and ends of rolling stock the railroad had pulled out of mothballs, since all the good stuff was required for war work. The cars didn’t exactly fit, varying in age by centuries, I think, in some spots, so they’d nailed up little platforms and shelters to bridge the awkward bits.

Lorenzo was alone in the club car, reading a dark brown book, a bottle and glass in front of him on the table. I glanced to Olivia, who nodded and took my share of the plates on through. I sat in a chair opposite the character actor. His book came down; his head and eyebrows went up. I couldn’t see any signs of last night’s drinking in his face.

“Laszlo wanted me to check and be sure we all have our stories straight in case somebody in this next burg asks about Mrs. Marr,” I said, hoping Laszlo had not already passed this way.

He knew what I was talking about; the good news had spread quickly through the train last night. He took a drink. “And what is the story?”

“Mrs. Marr had an upset stomach after all the train riding and has gone home.”

This improvised tale nearly failed. Lorenzo’s head tipped back. “That seems strangely close to the truth for Laszlo. I expected something with more imagination.”

I shrugged. “He may be too busy looking for the murderer to be up to his usual level. Probably to thank whoever it is. Mrs. Marr was a spell of bad weather in this business.”

He took another drink and turned to me, his eyebrows raised but his eyelids lowered. “One gray cloud more or less in Southern California will not make much difference.”

I laughed; he seemed to expect it. “We’d need a whole host of murderers to clear them all away,” I said. “Did you...”

He had spread one hand across his chest, fingers splayed. “Clear them away?”

There was a touch of shock in his expression. Thinking he suspected me of taking personal credit for clearing Mrs. Marr away, I hurried to add, “Just clear away the real clouds: not the human ones.”

“Those are the most important ones,” he said, raising his head and shoulders to the level of a bust in a hall of fame. “For there are indeed lands that admire our cities, nor complain of the noise and ugly air. In the land of Suomintarin, where they watch the sun for signs of explosion, such reports as reach them from our side of the world receive great applause. You must know that in Suomintarin they believe that the sun rises each morning full of hope that this day will be different. But as the day passes, and the sun sees what evil men do each other, it burns hotter and hotter with rage. It is for this reason that afternoon is so much warmer than morning. As the sun’s strength is spent with much fury, and his face turns red, he goes to bed to dream of another, a better, world, and to waken the morrow hoping that the dream was true and what he saw was a lie.”

He rose half out of his seat. “And because they fear that one day the sun will explode from anger, as a man indeed may do whose temper rises beyond his body’s ability to contain it, they in Suomintarin believe we are wizards of genius to hide our cities with smoky fog, that the sun cannot see what we do in them.”

I stood there with my shoulders hanging slant and my mouth hanging open as he settled back down. He took another drink and said, “Seen Bevis? The games must go on.”

“Um,” I said. “Er, he’s with Sissy.”

“A little old for him, isn’t she?”

We exchanged raised eyebrow stares. I am one year older than Sissy myself, which I assumed Lorenzo knew.

“Do you play the filthy game yourself?” he went on.

“Poker?” I said. “A little. Bridge is my sport.”

He shrugged. “A pity. If Laszlo is too busy controlling rumors, I’ll have to find one of the others to take his place. Not your Allotment Annie, however, I am far too old for the stakes she prefers.”

“Last night,” I said, “do you remember seeing anyone...”

“One moment.” He extended a hand to George’s sleeve as the conductor came down the aisle. “Have you seen any likely-looking cardplayers awake yet, my good man?”