Free The Convivial Codfish by Charlotte MacLeod Page B

stood watching the passengers depart, trying to choose one who could have enacted the role of the steward.
    The hell of it was, he had too many choices. Nondescript, fairish coloring, average height, and unremarkable noses were the rule rather than the exception, as he’d noticed in Jem’s photographs earlier. There were a few antiquated Prince Alberts, but most of the men were wearing plain, old-fashioned dinner jackets and plain, old-fashioned boiled shirts. Most still had on their false whiskers, determined to get their money’s worth out of them even though the gaiety was to all intents and purposes over. Just about any of them, according to Tom Tolbathy, could have known how to take over the train, speed up and stop short, creating enough confusion to cover his own shenanigans.
    Hester Tolbathy was still ministering to old Wripp, looking around with anxious impatience, doubtless wondering where her husband had got to. Tom, poor devil, must be thinking about Wouter. Max went over and glanced into the tender. Tolbathy was there, helping with the wraps, making sure none of the guests tried to get up to the cab.
    They’d have to be told fairly soon about Wouter’s death, but it would be far better to put off the news until they’d been herded up to the house and the police had arrived. Max went back and spoke to Hester Tolbathy.
    “Your husband’s getting people off the train. Why don’t you go on up to the house with the others? I’ll stay with Mr. Wripp until the ambulance comes. They’ll be along any minute, I expect.”
    “Oh, thank you, Max. You’re being terribly helpful.”
    “Used to be a Boy Scout. I’ll just run in first and see how they’re making out with the food.”
    He gave Hester a smile of reassurance and went back to the caboose. Marge, Pam, and Angie were still there, putting plastic wrap over bowls and platters and handing them out to an old man with a handcart, who must be Rollo.
    “You haven’t seen any more of that guy who was supposed to be helping you?” he asked Marge.
    “No, and we’ve been trying to figure out where he went. We can’t find him at all.”
    “Maybe he climbed up on the roof of the train, like in the old Western movies,” Pam suggested.
    “In a soup-and-fish, on a night like this? He’d freeze his corkscrew off,” scoffed Angie.
    “He didn’t have a topcoat?” Max asked.
    “If he had, he didn’t leave it here. Those are ours, over there.” Angie pointed to a heap of bright-colored down jackets thrown over a bench. There were no other wraps in sight.
    “Would there be any place here in the caboose where he could have ducked out of your sight, even for a minute or so?”
    “Sure, there’s a washroom right next to the door into the vestibule.”
    “Passengers will please refrain,” Pam giggled.
    Max went over and took a look. The washroom was tiny, with barely room for a miniature sink and the kind of contained water closet common on planes and trains, but it would have served perfectly for a quick change. The door even opened backward into the caboose, so it would have screened his coming and going, and there was a mirror over the sink to help him get his face on straight. He couldn’t have had a more convenient setup, as he’d no doubt known in advance.
    “If you want my opinion,” Max told the three women, “your wine steward was one of the guests, playing a joke on the rest of the party. I’m curious to know who it was. You can help me, if you will.”
    “Sure,” said Marge. “What should we do?”
    “Just keep your eyes peeled up at the house. See if you can spot anybody who reminds you at all of the man you saw: looks like him, talks like him, uses a similar gesture, has any resemblance, however slight. If you do, point him out to me. If I’m not around, try to find out his name.”
    “Finding him should be a cinch,” said Pam. “He’ll be the only one around without a mustache. I’ve never seen so many fuzzy faces since the