Chapter Forty
A PRIL 14, 1931
B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE
We storm the front doors to the Gare Centrale. The Queens have been peppering me with questions during the entire walk from the H?tel Morveaux, but I refuse to slow down to answer them. The momentum of Madame Brat’s words and my realization are carrying me forward, and I can almost feel the solution unfolding before me.
“Can we please rest a moment?” Emma asks, pointing to the wooden benches lining the entry walls.
Given that she’s a bit short of breath, it would be heartless to say no. Still, I have no intention of stopping. “Of course. We will leave our bags with you while we head on.”
Adjusting the strap on her spectator pumps again, Margery asks, “Where, though, Dorothy? Head on where?”
This feels like the millionth time she’s inquired in the five minutes since we left Madame Brat. I continue to ignore her as we heap our satchels and small suitcases next to Emma and I lead the way to the washroom where May disappeared. When we reach the tiled corridor outside it, I tell Ngaio, Margery, and Agatha, “Can you three wait here?”
“We’ve already been through this, Dorothy. We know you can get past us with minimal disguise,” Ngaio says, rolling her eyes as though this exercise is beneath her.
“Humor me, please.”
Checking my wristwatch, I step into the washroom and into a stall. Miming the effort of pulling a scarf and hat from my bag and donning them, I then leave the stall and wash my hands. I exit the washroom in the midst of several other women, sauntering right past Ngaio, Agatha, and Margery with a wink.
The station clock looms large over the waiting area outside the washroom, and I glance at it as I pass underneath. Then, keeping up a steady clip but not breaking into a more noticeable stride, I head toward the arrow indicating the Left Luggage department. When I reach it, I glance at my watch again. It took forty-eight seconds to get here. So far, my hypothesis is holding up. Check .
I study the Left Luggage area. On one side is the traditional manned facility, where travelers can check trunks and large cases with station workers who give them numbered tickets and keep their items safe in the back. This type of convenience is common in English train stations and allows tourists the freedom to take in the sights or get a bite to eat while waiting for the trains to arrive.
But this Left Luggage department also contains a series of narrow wooden lockers. Presumably, smaller items can be stored here inexpensively and easily. I see that each storage compartment has its own individual metal lock. But how does one procure a locker and, more important, a key?
Scrutinizing the aisle, I see several keys jutting out from lockers farther down. At a clip, I race down to them, and the method by which one obtains a locker becomes clear. One merely places items in the compartment, inserts a coin in the slot, and wriggles out a key. A silver square dangles from the chains of the available keys, and I grasp one to examine it. Engraved on its surface is the locker number.
Check.
If I were capable of running, I would have sprinted back to Ngaio, Margery, and Agatha. Since I must keep it to a brisk march, however, it takes another forty-eight seconds to reach the washroom. The women are still outside it waiting for me, much as Celia had been waiting for May. And I am returning—much as May had planned to, I believe—from the place I’m fairly certain she had been in the time allotted.
Check.
All three women have encircled me now. “What on God’s green earth is this all about?” Agatha, to my astonishment, is the one to blurt out the question they are all thinking.
“I will explain everything, but let’s walk back to Emma. I’d like to share this with everyone all at once.”
This time, Agatha leads the way. When we reach the bench, Emma stands and asks, “What’s happened? Why do you all look so serious?”
Ngaio and Margery start to talk over each other, but Agatha interrupts. “I think we need to listen to Dorothy.”
“After she slipped out from underneath Celia’s nose, May had every intention of slipping back into the washroom unnoticed—after she performed a specific task. This is my belief. Once inside the washroom again, she’d remove the disguise and then reemerge to greet her friend as if nothing untoward had transpired. Just now, I followed the route I think she used for completing her task and returning to the washroom. The timing would have worked… if someone hadn’t intercepted her on her way back—namely, her killer.”
Emma holds up a hand. “What do you mean, ‘intercepted’?”
“Before you go through all that, Dorothy, do you mind telling us the nature of May’s task?” Agatha asks.
“I think she hid something in a locker in Left Luggage.”
The women gasp, almost in unison. If the the situation wasn’t so serious, their reaction might have been comic. I watch their faces as this new puzzle piece clicks into place and helps makes sense of the insensible.
“Something she was afraid would be found. Something she didn’t want Celia to see her hiding,” Agatha asserts rather than asks. Which tells me she sees the full picture exactly as I do. But I can only reveal it to the rest of the Queens one step at a time. “I think she was trying to protect her friend. And herself.”
“What was May trying to hide?” Margery asks.
“We are about to find out.”