Murder on the Orient Espresso(57)

I said, ‘It would take forever to read all three volumes cover-to-cover and fact check each page.’ Being a lover of old movies, I had a couple of reference books on that subject that sounded like what Markus was talking about. Listing upon listing upon listing.

‘It’s what PotShots does,’ Markus said simply.

‘Apparently.’ Pavlik made a note. ‘Do reviews like the one Potter gave you affect sales?’

A throaty laugh. ‘Any review is better than no review.’

Like any publicity is good publicity, but I wasn’t buying it. ‘Assuming libraries and schools use your books as reference material, wouldn’t the inaccuracies present a real problem for them?’

This time it was Markus directing annoyed looks my way. ‘Maybe sales weren’t what they could have been, but this happened more than a year ago. I certainly wouldn’t murder a man over it, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘Good to know,’ Pavlik said as he tapped me on the shoulder so he could stand. ‘Could you send in whoever it is who’s playing the next person on the list …’

‘Ratchett’s valet, Masterman,’ I supplied. ‘If there is one.’

‘Will do.’ Markus slid out of the booth, too, but then stood his ground. ‘You have no doubt in your mind that Potter was murdered?’

‘If you can come up with another plausible explanation for the knife on this train winding up in his back, I’d be glad to entertain it,’ Pavlik said.

‘Now that you say it was the cake knife in his back, I’m at a loss. He sure didn’t jump off the train with it between his teeth to fight pythons.’

‘Agreed.’ Pavlik swept his hand toward the door.

Taking the hint, Markus moved to the door and slid it open. ‘Though that leaves us with what seems like an even more unlikely scenario.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

Markus stepped through into the vestibule. ‘That one of my friends is a murderer.’

The door slapped shut.





TWENTY-FOUR





‘Do you think whoever stabbed Larry Potter is a threat to kill again?’ I asked Pavlik as we waited for our next witness. While I’d been happy to point out to Zoe Scarlett that we were all murder suspects, I really hoped this crime was a one-off. So to speak.

‘We have to assume that anyone who crosses that line has the potential to cross it again.’ Spreading his fingers inside Markus’s glass to lift it without compromising the fingerprints on the outside, Pavlik leaned over to place it carefully on the table behind us.

‘But why?’ I asked. ‘This has to have been a personal attack against Potter. Someone followed him to the sleeping car.’

‘And grabbed a hunk of cake en route?’

‘Potter probably did that. Remember? He was complaining not only that he couldn’t smoke, but there was nothing to eat onboard except the cake. I wouldn’t put it past the man to take matters in his own hands and cut the cake.’ I had sublimated my own swipe at the frosting into relative irrelevance.

‘Potter certainly struck me as somebody who believed rules – of etiquette, in this instance – didn’t apply to him.’

‘So you think Potter was a … sociopath?’ I heard the far door of the vestibule open.

Pavlik was regarding me with a wry grin. ‘Honey, I’m not sure there isn’t a little sociopath in all of us – you and me, included.

‘What? I—’

Before I could inquire further, the near door slid open.

The man who’d been taking notes earlier entered. Harvey/Hardman’s checkered sports jacket might be loud, but his voice was even louder.

‘Hope you folks don’t mind,’ he said, every bit the blustering American of Christie’s novel. ‘But I have things to do and people to see. I took a poll and nobody minded that I went next.’

I minded. With a sigh, I skipped over Missy as Mrs Hubbard, Grace the Swedish Lady, Prudence the Russian Princess, Carson as Count Andrenyi and Danny as Col. Arbuthnot on my neat list and put a grudging checkmark next to Mr Hardman the American. Then I checked the time. Nearly 2:30 a.m.

‘Things to do and people to see at this hour, Mr …?’

‘Hardman.’ We all shook hands.

Before I could tell Pavlik that ‘Hardman’ was the man’s fictional identity, Harvey blustered on. ‘I know what you’re going to say. Maybe it’s people I should be doing and leave the seeing to others.’ Cue hardy laugh.

You had to give it to the man – he raised the bar of ‘Ugly American’ to new levels, stereotype-wise.

‘Have a seat. Maggy, would you mind getting Mr Hardman a glass of water?’