Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

At Chelmsford, most of the other passengers got out. Apart from this character in the corner, there was now only one other occupant of the carriage, a stout, red-faced man who was sitting in the seat beside the carriage door. The train lurched forward again. The next stop would be Hatfield Peverel and it was clear that both men were preparing to get out. The stout man had stowed his paper away into his briefcase. The suspicious character had got to his feet and was moving across. He was carrying no luggage and seemed to be feeling for something in the inside of his coat. For God’s sake, thought Hugo, surely he daren’t attempt anything with me watching him.

As the train stopped, the stout man got up and politely opened the carriage door. The suspect pulled out the season ticket he had been feeling for and both men descended onto the platform. They were laughing at something.

Hugo let out all the breath he had been holding. Then he sat back in his seat as his heart resumed its normal rhythm. Of course nothing had happened. Mr. Piggin had been talking nonsense. He got up, strolled down the now empty carriage, and peered into the next one.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Mr. Piggin, apparently deep in the study of his evening paper, was occupying the seat next to the door. There was only one other man in the carriage, and as the train slowed he got up and started to move across. It was clear that his route to the door was going to take him very close to Mr. Piggin, who looked up with a bland smile as he approached.

It was the sort of smile, thought Hugo, that might have illuminated the face of Pythagoras when, at long last, he saw the proof of something he had previously only suspected. He croaked out, “Why, hullo, Mr. Piggin. I didn’t expect to see you on this train.”

Hardly pausing in his stride, the unknown man thrust the door open, climbed down onto the platform, and slammed the door shut behind him, without looking round.

Hugo said, “Was that—?”

“Certainly that was our man. One hand was actually on the handle of the life preserver he intended to use. He had it half out of his pocket. I must confess that I was glad when you intervened. If I may say so,” — Mr. Piggin sounded mildly reproachful — “I thought you left it rather late.”

“I’m sorry, Piggy. It was just that, at the last moment, I couldn’t believe it was really going to happen. What do we do now?”

“We alight at the next station and take the train back to London. I’ve no doubt that our man will be doing the same. He would only have to cross the footbridge and keep out of sight until the train arrived. There’s an up train reaches Kelvedon at seven-fifteen. We should be in plenty of time to transfer to it. On this occasion, we’ll spread our net a little wider. You get into the front carriage. I’ll travel in the rear one. We’ll get off when he does, but we can’t plan further ahead until we see what he does. Fortunately, I have used this line so frequently that I know most of the station staffs well.”

Hugo’s confidence in Mr. Piggin was now so complete that it was no surprise to him when he saw their man come out of the little hutchlike waiting room at Witham and climb onto the train. It would have surprised him if he hadn’t.

It was a stopping train. And as station succeeded station without their man making a move, Hugo began to worry. Might he be going all the way back to Liverpool Street? Which could be awkward. But no. It was at Manor Park, three stations from the terminus, that they saw him emerge and watched him disappear into the ticket office. Mr. Piggin seemed to be in no hurry to follow. He was deep in conversation with the ticket collector. As Hugo came up, he heard, “That man who went out just now? That’s Mr. Appleyard. Lives along South Park Road. If you hurried you could catch him.”

Mr. Piggin thanked him and as soon as they were clear of the station, said, “They sell a very nice line of beer at the Green Man. I think this calls for a drink, don’t you?”

“Seconded and carried unanimously,” said Hugo fervently.

It was when they were seated, with pint glasses in front of them, that Hugo started to see rocks ahead. He said, “You’ve done a marvellous job, Piggy. An absolutely incredible job, and we now know who the killer is. But tell me this. How are we going to prove it? Think what a meal you’ll be for defending counsel. ‘How did you identify the accused, Mr. Piggin? By mathematics? Really, sir, if the matter was not so serious, I’d imagine you were joking—’ ”

Mr. Piggin took a long pull at his beer, replaced the half-empty glass on the table, and said, “It had not been my intention to trouble our overworked police force or our notoriously inefficient prosecution service with this matter.”

“Then what—?”

“You have some means, I imagine, of getting in touch with your mafia acquaintances. I think, don’t you, that once they understood that it was Mr. Appleyard who killed their protégé, they would take appropriate steps.”