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Chapter 11 More Sabotage?

In fact, no opportunities presented themselves at the hotel. It wasn't that Filmer stayed in his room most of the time, though he certainly didn't join in the expeditions the others organized between themselves. But even when he was out of his room, the door was securely locked, and I was not about to undertake a bit of breaking and entering. At breakfast, he brought his briefcase out of his room, and kept it close by him. The sight of it was a reminder of how close I was to discovering its secrets, if only I had the chance — and the courage. Of course, it may contain only perfectly innocent papers. . .

Nearly everyone went on an expedition the hotel had arranged in the morning. I stayed behind, of course, since waiters do not go on expeditions with wealthy horse-owners; Filmer stayed in his room; Xanthe Lorrimore wandered aimlessly around the hotel and its grounds looking bored and miserable. I doubted whether she even saw the scenery; I wondered whether she knew how much her parents needed her love, not her bad moods. They had enough trouble with Sheridan. Sheridan had real problems, but there was nothing wrong with Xanthe except the usual difficulties of being a teenager, combined with being immensely rich and spoiled.

The hotel lounge had magazines piled on coffee tables. In one of them I had read a saying of Mercer Lorrimore's: 'You're not better because you're richer, but you're richer because you're better.' I hoped that Xanthe would remember that.

Before leaving the hotel, I spoke to Mrs Baudelaire on the phone. She had no further news on Sheridan Lorrimore, but told me that the food I had sent to be analysed was harmless. So no one was trying to influence the Vancouver race in that
way. Finally, she told me that Bill had not found anyone who recognized the thin-faced man in the photograph, but he was continuing to ask around. He'd also sent some copies of the photograph to me at the train: they should be there by now, she
said.

When I reached the train, George handed me an envelope with the photographs in, which I put in my pocket. There was a great contrast between the cold outside and the warmth inside the train, and I was obviously appreciating the warmth.

'We're lucky to have heat on the train at the moment,' said George.

'Why?' I asked.

'They couldn't start the heater,' he said. He seemed to think it was a great joke, but I couldn't see the point.

'No fuel,' he explained.

I looked blank. 'So they had to get more oil,' I said.

'Of course,' George said, 'but they also filled up only two days ago. So the engineer had a look at the tank. But there were only a few drops left. Someone had opened the bottom tap and stolen the fuel.'

'You don't seem too worried,' I remarked.

'Well, no harm was done, was it? Anyway, this kind of thing happens all the time on the railways.'

'Was there a lot of oil on the ground?' I asked.

'You're not a bad detective,' George commented. 'Yes, there was. But that just means that whatever container the thief used overflowed on to the ground.'



'Does it?' I asked. 'Or does it mean that the tap was opened on purpose so that the oil would leak on to the ground? The tap was probably opened a while ago, and the oil has been leaking away during the train's journey, with only the last drops ending up on the ground here.'

'You've just got a suspicious mind,' said George.

'Yes,' I said, 'but now two unusual things have happened to this train. That may not seem odd to you, but it does to me.'

'You think this might have been sabotage as well?' asked George.

'I don't know,' I said, 'but it's not impossible, is it? And by the way, could you look at this?' I pulled the envelope out of my pocket, took one of the pictures out and showed it to him. 'This is the man I was asking you about earlier.'

'Yes, I have seen him,' he said, frowning slightly. 'Not on the train, though: it was on the platform yesterday. Of course, he might be travelling on the train: it's just that I haven't noticed him on it.'

'What was he doing on the platform yesterday?' I asked. 'Just standing there?'

'No,' said George. 'He was knocking on the door of the horse-car with a stick. You can imagine how pleased Leslie Brown was with that! She came and asked him what he wanted, and he said that he had a message for the groom of the grey horse. So Leslie went away and came back with the groom -only it wasn't the one your thin-faced man was expecting, was !t? The new groom told your man that he had replaced the old groom in Calgary, and then your man in the photograph walked off. I didn't see where he went.'

'Did the man look angry or anything?' I asked.

'I didn't notice,' he said. He held out the photograph for me to take back, but I told him to keep it and I asked him to question the attendants from further up the train — if the man was a passenger, he must be among the racegoers.

'What's he done?' asked George. 'Anything yet?' . .

'Frightened a groom into leaving,' I said.

He stared. 'Not much of a crime.' His eyes laughed. 'He won't do much time in prison for that.'

 


Date: 2015-12-24; view: 575


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