The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said, “what with restaurant cars, snack bars, carriages, a corridor, not to mention a black crew member, railway staff, and rest rooms.”

  “Yes, but it must appear natural,” Duncan said, sounding as if he were in deep thought.

  My heart sank as I noticed Christabel’s empty plate being whisked away, despite the fact that Duncan and I had hardly begun our main courses.

  “The chapter ends with the train suddenly coming to a halt about halfway through the tunnel,” said Duncan, staring into the distance.

  “But how? And why?” I asked.

  “That’s the whole point. It’s a false alarm. Quite innocent. The youngest child of the American family—his name’s Ben—pulls the communication cord while he’s sitting on the lavatory. It’s such a hi-tech lavatory that he mistakes it for the chain.”

  I was considering if this was plausible when a breast of quail on fondant potatoes with a garnish of smoked bacon was placed in front of Christabel. She wasted no time in attacking the fowl.

  Duncan paused to take a sip of wine. Now, I felt, I had to let him know, but before I had a chance to say anything he was off again. “Right,” he said. “Chapter eight. The train has come to a halt several miles inside the tunnel, but not quite halfway.”

  “Is that significant?” I asked feebly.

  “Sure is,” said Duncan. “The French and British have agreed the exact point inside the tunnel where French jurisdiction begins and British ends. As you’ll discover, this becomes relevant later in the plot.”

  The waiter began moving round the table, refilling our glasses once again with claret. I placed a hand over mine—not because the wine wasn’t pure nectar, but simply because I didn’t wish to give Christabel the opportunity to order another bottle. She made no attempt to exercise the same restraint, but drank her wine in generous gulps, while toying with her quail. Duncan continued with his story.

  “So, the holdup,” said Duncan, “turns out to be nothing more than a diversion, and it’s sorted out fairly quickly. Child in tears, family apologizes, explanation given by the guard over the train’s intercom, which relieves any anxieties the passengers might have had. A few minutes later the train starts up again, and this time it does cross the halfway point.”

  Three waiters removed our empty plates. Christabel touched the side of her lips with a napkin, and gave me a huge grin.

  “So then what happens?” I asked, avoiding her eye.

  “When the train stopped, the terrorists were afraid that there might be a rival group on board, with the same purpose as them. But as soon as they find out what has actually happened, they take advantage of the commotion caused by young Ben to get themselves into the cabin next to the driver’s.”

  “Would you care for anything from the dessert trolley, madame?” the maître d’ asked Christabel. I looked on aghast as she was helped to what looked like a large spoonful of everything on offer.

  “It’s gripping, isn’t it?” said Duncan, misunderstanding my expression for one of deep concern for those on the train. “But there’s still more to come.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “I’m full, thank you,” I told the maître. “Perhaps a coffee later.”

  “No, nothing, thank you,” said Duncan, trying not to lose his thread. “By the start of chapter nine the terrorists have got themselves into the driver’s cabin. At gunpoint they force the chef de train and his co-driver to bring the engine to a halt for a second time. But what they don’t realize is that they are now on French territory. The passengers are told by the loner over the train’s intercom that this time it’s not a false alarm, but the train has been taken over by whichever gang I settle on, and is going to be blown up in fifteen minutes. He tells them to get themselves off the train, into the tunnel, and as far away as they possibly can before the explosion. Naturally, some of the passengers begin to panic. Several of them leap out into the dimly lit tunnel. Many are looking frantically for their husbands, wives, children, whatever, while others begin running toward the British or French side, according to their nationality.”

  I became distracted when the maître d’ began wheeling yet another trolley toward our table. He paused, bowed to Christabel, and then lit a small burner. He poured some brandy into a shallow copper-bottomed pan and set about preparing crêpes suzette.

  “This is the point in the story, probably chapter ten, where the father of the American family decides to remain on the train,” said Duncan, becoming more excited than ever. “He tells the rest of his tribe to jump off and get the hell out of it. The only other passengers who stay on board are the millionaire, his wife, and the young newly married man. All will have strong personal reasons for wanting to remain behind, which will have been set up earlier in the plot.”

  The maître d’ struck a match and set light to the crêpes. A blue flame licked around the pan and shot into the air. He scooped his pièce de résistance onto a warm platter in one movement, and placed it in front of Christabel.

  I feared we had now passed the point at which I could tell Duncan the truth.

  “Right, now I have three terrorists in the cab with the chef de train. They’ve killed the co-driver, and there are just four passengers still left on the train, plus the black ticket collector—who may turn out to be SAS in disguise, I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Coffee, madame?” the maître d’ asked when Duncan paused for a moment.

  “Irish,” said Christabel.

  “Regular, please,” I said.

  “Decaf for me,” said Duncan.

  “Any liqueurs or cigars?”

  Only Christabel reacted.

  “So, at the start of chapter eleven the terrorists open negotiations with the British police. But they say they can’t deal with them because the train is no longer under their jurisdiction. This throws the terrorists completely, because none of them speaks French, and in any case their quarrel is with the British government. One of them searches the train for someone who can speak French, and comes across the Greek millionaire’s wife.

  “Meanwhile, the police on either side of the Channel stop all the trains going in either direction. So, our train is now stranded in the tunnel on its own—there would normally be twenty trains traveling in either direction between London and Paris at any one time.” He paused to sip his coffee.

  “Is that so?” I asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

  “It certainly is,” Duncan said. “I’ve done my research thoroughly.”

  A glass of deep red port was being poured for Christabel. I glanced at the label: Taylor’s 55. This was something I had never had the privilege of tasting. Christabel indicated that the bottle should be left on the table. The waiter nodded, and Christabel immediately poured me a glass, without asking if I wanted it. Meanwhile, the maître clipped a cigar for Duncan that he hadn’t requested.

  “In chapter twelve we discover the terrorists’ purpose,” continued Duncan. “Namely, blowing up the train as a publicity stunt, guaranteed to get their cause onto every front page in the world. But the passengers who have remained on the train, led by the American father, are planning a counteroffensive.”

  The maître lit a match and Duncan automatically picked up the cigar and put it in his mouth. It silenced him …

  “The self-made millionaire might feel he’s the natural leader,” I suggested.

  … but only for a moment. “He’s a Greek. If I’m going to make any money out of this project, it’s the American market I have to aim for. And don’t forget the film rights,” Duncan said, jabbing the air with his cigar.

  I couldn’t fault his logic.

  “Can I have the check?” Duncan asked as the maître d’ passed by our table.

  “Certainly, sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.

  “Now, my trouble is going to be the ending—” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat unsteadily, rose from her chair.

  She turned to face me