The Railway Killer
The prompt I used for this piece was “murder on a train.” Obviously I had to go down the classic route with a little Agatha Christie homage. So enjoy this fleeting glimpse at a murder most foul!
The brunette woman applied her red lipstick, admired herself in a hand mirror, then picked up her pocket pistol. It was a tiny thing, nickel-plated with a pearl handle. She loaded a single round into the chamber.
“I find long train trips to be quite thrilling,” the woman said in a thick Russian accent. “Ever since I was a girl, I fancied the idea of pretending to be other people. And there is no better place for it than a train. There you are, crammed into cars with strangers who will scatter to the wind in just a few days’ time. With the right papers and disguises, you can claim to be whoever you want. That you are an actress or an heiress or the Countess Volkova.” Her lips stretched up in a catlike smile as she turned around. “Of course,” she said, her accent now American, “there is no such countess. But you didn’t know that, did you?”
Another woman lay sprawled across the bed of the sleeping compartment. She still wore her evening dress and a string of pearls. Sweat dampened her blonde curls. Her breath stank of alcohol. Only the erratic flutter of her barely open eyelids showed she was not asleep or dead.
“You said you had trouble sleeping on trains. Does the whisky and barbital help? I find it an indispensable combination. But if it’s not enough, I have something stronger.” Sitting down on the bed, she pressed the pistol barrel against the other woman’s right temple.
The victim whimpered but did not – could not – move.
“You needn’t worry about those lovely pearls or the contents of your safe,” the woman whispered. “I have plenty of my own. All I want to take is the memory of this fine moment between us.” She bit her lip and caressed the pistol handle with her thumb.
Another faint, fearful whimper.
“In the morning, the most wonderful thing will occur. The porter or someone will find your body, and the police will have a remarkable mystery on their hands. There will be no weapon, no motive and no clues. And no suspect, either, once we reach Istanbul. For as soon as I step off this train, the Countess Volkova will cease to exist.” The woman glanced out the window at the passing moonlit plains and the hint of ocean shimmering on the horizon. “I do become lonely, I suppose, wearing a different name and face wherever I travel. Oh, but it makes each journey so exciting! And I meet so many wonderful people.” She stroked the other woman’s face with the back of her free hand. “Like you. I won’t forget you, I promise. I never forget the faces of the people I’ve shot.”
The locomotive whistled out a shrill warning, covering up all other sounds. The woman smiled, gripped her pistol tight and pulled the trigger.