The guests had been barred from entering their rooms. Asking around a bit, I was led to the Passenger Car lounge area where I found Mr. Reid in a red leather reading chair.

 

A man of small stature but significant intellect, he was sitting with his back straight and head held high. So refined was his manner that it was no wonder Mr Stanton had enlisted him to oversee the operations of our expedition. 

 

When Mrs. Stewart invited me on the trip to Mexico, I'd imagined rest and recuperation. Instead, Mr. Reid had worked us relentlessly through the Mexican heat, and now I was returning home even more ragged and worn down than when I had left.

 

He was still wearing one of his tan dig shirts. Tucked into the collar with a certain flourish was a blood red ascot. When I approached, he was making notes in a small log book that, for him, was more like an appendage than an accessory. 

 

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Reid.” 

 

“Detective, come sit! My, my…you must have your hands full.”

 

Pulling a stool beside him, I replied, “Oh, yes. How silly it was to believe that I might get some rest on the way home.”

 

“Well, you worked hard enough to deserve it. Perhaps I drove you too hard. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

 

“Of course not. However, I do have some questions, Mr. Reid.”

He shuffled in his chair, leafing through the pages with incredible speed. “I’ll answer what I can. In fact, Detective, I was jotting a few things in my notebook that I think might be of use to you.”

 

My eyes widened, and I reached for the small book, saying “Oh, may I see?”

 

His caterpillar eyebrows twisted over themselves as if I’d asked him for a kidney. Only partially recovering himself, he replied, “No!...no…..this book is mine, alone. But, I will recount what I’ve written for you, now.”

 

I wondered desperately what sort of secrets lived between the pages, wanting to rip the small book from his hands, but I settled myself and replied, “My apologies. That will do.”

 

“Listen closely, Detective Cross. It has been an interesting night for everyone–but most especially for me.”

 

I nodded and waited for him to continue. Flipping to a specific page, he looked at me over the rim of his glasses and said, “Well, it started at 12:43 last night. I know, Detective, because I logged it precisely.”

 

He tapped his wrist watch as I asked, “What started?”

 

“Let me get there, Detective,” he said, gathering a rosey red on the corners of his cheeks.  “If you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you everything I witnessed.”

 

Not wanting to repeat my mistake, I graciously motioned for him to continue.

 

“At 12:43, I heard a knock at the door. Thinking it my own, I got out of bed to open it–I had been reflecting on my notes at the time. But, when I looked into the hall, there was no one around. The cars are so bloody cramped, I had mistaken the knock on a neighboring door with one on my own.”

 

“Where did the knock originate then?”

 

He glared at me like a stern parent, licked his fingers, and continued, “Well, if you were familiar with the layout of the Passenger Car, Detective, you would know it could only be Emilia’s or your own. I have no other neighbors.”

 

Raising a fragile finger, I hoped to ask a follow-up question, but he continued, knowing exactly what I wanted. He said, “I concluded it was not your room quite quickly, Detective. See, a series of disturbing sounds came from the other side of the car– the one in which Emilia was staying. But I did not see or hear who might have knocked.”

 

I shifted in my chair.

 

“And I also know this, Detective: it was a woman. I could not make out specific words over the thunder of the tracks, but what I heard was unmistakably a bitter argument between two women.”

 

I could no longer resist. Interjecting, I said, “Okay, okay… I simply must intrude for a moment, Mr. Reid.” He protested, but this time I continued,  “Did you hear anything other than an argument–any other noises?”

 

Furrowing his brow, he answered, “I was getting there, Detective, but yes…I heard a great many things: crying, pleading, physical violence, what sounded like luggage being torn open…all sorts of interesting things.”

 

“You mentioned the tracks were quite loud; how did you manage to hear all of this?”

 

“I’m embarrassed to admit,” he said, looking around us for anyone else who might be listening, “but I had my door cracked and was leaning one ear into the hall.”

 

“What a stroke of good luck. You just may help to solve a murder, Mr. Reid.”

 

“Yes, but I did feel silly–especially when the cook came wandering down the hall. Not wanting to admit to something as low as snooping, I called him over and ordered a sandwich as if that had been my goal all along.”

 

“Very sly, sir.”

 

“Yes, it was. The cook left the scene before he could interfere with my surveillance.”

 

“What happened next?”

 

“Not long after, the door started to open, and I quickly and quietly shut my own before I could be noticed. Emilia and the other woman must have stepped into the hall together.”

 

“What time was this?”

“I checked: 1:17 am. Emilia was crying, Detective. Whimpering may be a better way to put it.”

 

“Was anything said between them?”

 

“No. From the sound of her cries, I knew them to have headed toward the rear of the Passenger Car. When they had left, I stepped into the hallway myself.”

 

“What did you do next?”

 

“I worked up the courage to leave my room. However, it did not last after I spotted a trail blood on the floor just outside her door.”

 

“What room number was that?”

 

He read from the bottom of the page, “Room 4, Detective.”

 

“I see. Did you witness anything else last night?”

 

Shuffling through his notebook he, again, scanned it carefully, before replying, “No.”

 

“You worked very closely with Emilia on the expedition. She seemed like a talented field worker.”

“She was. I would not keep her so close if that were not absolutely true.”

 

“She aided you with both artifact recovery and cataloguing, correct?”

 

“Yes. She was gifted with small details. I found that to be quite useful.”

 

For the first time, he had put his notebook on his lap and was looking absently at the floor.

I asked, “She had special access to the logbooks from the expedition and the artifacts themselves. Is that true?”

“Yes. Many nights she worked late by herself, cataloguing what had been found that day.”

 

“Do you know much about her history?”

 

“No, only what she has mentioned in passing.”

 

“What has she shared?”

He picked up his notebook again, and, in a single motion, thumbed to the exact page he sought to reference.

 

“Well, she grew up poor in the slums outside of Juarez. It was a tough upbringing: gangs and violence, from what I gathered. She was very grateful to have found employment with us.”

“Any details of her recent personal situation?”

“I don't think so…oh, here: she did mention that her mother was very sick.”

 

“Oh? Well, that is very interesting, Mr. Reid. Thank you. One last thing: what did you do after hearing the shots?”

 

“I felt like a fish in a barrel, Detective. Not wanting to wait around for the shooter to find me, I left my room and crept into the hall.”

 

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No. I moved away from the shots quite quickly. In fact, I hid right here behind this very chair.”

“Very good, Mr. Reid. Thank you for your time.”

“Of course, Detective.” He was already scribbling something in his notebook before I could make my leave of the lounge. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was about me.