The Baghdad Railway Club(66)

‘However,’ I was apparently saying again, ‘I’m in rather a tight corner here because . . .’

‘Give us one of your cases, Jim,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s the queerest thing that ever happened on a train near York?’

Almost without thinking, I answered, ‘It was the affair of the already clipped tickets.’

‘Sounds worthy of Conan Doyle himself,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not quite‚ sir, but it was a bit of a facer at the time.’

‘And what time was it?’

‘Late on in ’thirteen, sir. December. The matter first came up on a bright but cold day as I recall, with just a riming of snow on the streets of old York . . .’

Somebody said, ‘Ah, the thought of it,’ and all of a sudden the whole shining, sweating company was leaning forward. Shepherd nodded to Jarvis, who set down another glass of champagne for me, but I didn’t need it now. I was away.

‘It was Friday morning, and I’d been in the middle of town questioning a suspect . . .’

(I had in fact been buying cigars for the Chief but I left that out.)

‘. . . As I stepped under the station portico I saw that two fellows from the maintenance department were putting up the Christmas tree . . . and they had these coloured lights on a cable. They were untangling them, and Harold Spencer – who was a ticket inspector “A” grade, which meant he worked the main line – came haring round the corner from the ticket gate, tripped over the cable and went flying. This was a turn-up because Spencer was knocking on – probably sixty or so – and had never been known to run before. Well, he was a lay preacher and a Chief Ticket Inspector – not the sort of man who needs a sudden turn of speed. When he got up, he had a nasty graze on his cheek, but he paid it no mind at all, which was also a shock because he was normally very careful of his appearance. He just said, “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got the rummest tale to tell you.”

‘Evidently he’d just come in off a London train that was heading for Newcastle and had stopped twice before York – at Peterborough and Doncaster. He’d got on at Doncaster and started checking the tickets, only to find that every one given up to him had already been checked and clipped with the regulation North Eastern Railway hole punch, which cuts a crescent-moon shape out of the tickets – other companies have diamonds or squares or what have you. He’d gone through four carriages and it was the same story in every one – some other fellow had beaten him to it. Now Spencer seemed completely floored by this, said he thought he was going nuts, but I said, “It’s not so much of a mystery is it?” He said, “How do you make that out?” I said, “It’s obviously the work of another ticket inspector.” He said, “It can’t be. If an inspector boards a train, he tells the guard on doing so, and a note is made in the guard’s log. No such note had been made.” I said, “How about this: he got on the train without telling the guard?”’

. . . At which Shepherd spoke up again, observing to the meeting at large: ‘You see the calibre of men we have in our railway office.’

A good deal of laughter at that, and I fancied I heard in amongst it some shouting from beyond the window, apparently a repetition of the disruption overheard at the previous meeting. I suddenly had cause to think about the Webley. It wasn’t in the haversack; I’d left it at Rose Court. I’d given it to Jarvis for cleaning; he’d handed it back to me, and I’d put it on the bed. The trouble was that I’d been carrying it sometimes in the holster and at times in my haversack – that was how I’d come to forget. The noises had faded anyhow.

Where had I got to?

‘. . . When I put my theory to Spencer,’ I continued, ‘he said, “You’re saying he wasn’t a real ticket inspector. Why? Why would anyone pretend to be a ticket collector?” I said, “To charge excess fares and pocket the money,” and at this Spencer became thoughtful. He had asked the passengers if they’d been charged excess, and one woman had said she had been. She’d not been able to find a seat in third, so she’d been sitting in second with a Third Class ticket. It was only a matter of a bob or so. But a second woman, found by Spencer at Doncaster to only have a ticket as far as Peterborough, said that the previous fellow hadn’t charged her, but just said, “Don’t trouble about it, only think on next time.” Very nice about it he was, the woman had said. As to his appearance, he was described as a middle-aged man of middling height with darkish hair – and he did have the long black coat with gold-braided collar of the ticket inspector.