I Spy: The Constantinople Caper
Chaper One
At precisely 22.20 the train heaved itself into motion, the start of the journey heralded by a lot of clanking and the screeching of steel on steel as the wheels bit on the rails, all accompanied by the slow but steadily building pulse of the massive steam engine up front. As soon as he could, Trey got out of their fully-appointed sleeper compartment, which was situated towards the front of the train, and set off to explore the rest of the carriages. At least that’s what he told his father he was doing.
What he was actually up to was trying to find out if The Man With the Pencil Mustache (as the story would be called if it was in Black Ace magazine) had got on the train with them. And if he had, was he following them? And if he was – why? These questions demanded to be answered and Trey figured that this was a very good time to do some snooping, when everyone was, like his father, trying to sort themselves out – searching for misplaced luggage, remembering what they’d left behind and complaining about their accommodation to the harassed steward; under these circumstances, no one was going to pay too much attention to some kid.
The first thing Trey noticed was that, unfortunately, there were a few other kids around his age on board, which meant he was probably going to have to put up with his father trying to make him get to know them. Even if they didn’t speak a word of English. Which, seeing as they were in France, for heaven’s sake, was highly likely. And he did not need any new friends, especially ones chosen for him purely by circumstance, something his father consistently failed to understand.
Pushing on, Trey made his way towards the rear of the train. Monsieur Mustache, as Trey now thought of him, was nowhere to be seen in any of the sleeping compartments ahead of the dining car (although a lot of them did have their doors shut, and he made a note of which they were so he could check them out later); the mystery man wasn’t in the dining car either, which wasn’t altogether a surprise as they weren’t actually serving food yet, so Trey carried on with his search.
Eyes peeled, he sauntered along the gently swaying corridors, the engine picking up speed as they began to hurtle through the night towards Switzerland, and by the time he’d reached the baggage car there was still no sign of Monsieur Mustache. Trey was sure he’d been as dedicated and professional a snoop as any of the gumshoes he read about, which meant that the man was either in one of the cabins he’d not yet seen the inside of, or – and he really did not want to consider this possibility, but knew he had to – maybe the man hadn’t got on the train and had never been following them in the first place.
Trey, shoulders slumped, was just pondering this thought when the door next to him, which led to the baggage car, opened and a man came out. He was dressed in a black double-breasted suit, had on a dark grey fedora and sported a pencil mustache and Trey was so glad to see him he almost cheered out loud.
“E’scuse me,” the man said, in an obviously foreign accent; he smelled of heavy, dark tobacco and cologne and his black hair, Trey noticed as he went past, shone with pomade like it had been polished.
He hadn’t given Trey a second look…but did that mean the man was just not repeating the mistake he’d made on the platform when he been spotted staring, or that he really didn’t give a darn?
Letting the man have half a carriage start, Trey began to follow to see where he went and whom he might talk to, traipsing behind him until the man stopped by a carriage exit door; he lit a stubby, yellow cigarette with a match and stared out at the passing night, the pungent smoke drifting down the corridor. Trey hung back, racking his brains trying to think what to do next – mooch around and try to appear like he was supposed to be there? Walk on past Monsieur Mustache?
And then a hand gripped his shoulder, and he froze…
“Monsieur MacIntyre? Votre pere…excusez moi…your father, ’e is looking for you, young man.”
Trey turned round and saw one of the conductors looking down at him. “My father?”
“Exactement, ’e was worried, telling me you ’ave been quelques minutes…some time.” The man examined his fob watch as if to emphasize the point, and then made a shooing motion with his hands. “Il attend…’e is waiting for you in the restaurant car. You ’ad better go.”
Trey nodded, mumbled a “Merci, Monsieur” and then, as the conductor walked away, he saw that his target had disappeared! Resisting the urge to run, Trey walked as fast as he could, desperately trying to catch sight of Monsieur Mustache. He was nowhere in sight, but as Trey hurried past one particular cabin, cursing his luck and the conductor’s bad timing, he got a sudden, strong whiff of cigarette smoke. Smoke from that yellow cigarette, he was sure of it!
Fishing out his pocket notebook and reporter’s pencil, Trey made a quick note of the carriage and room number and then hurried on towards the dining car and the inevitable lecture from his father about punctuality, reliability and tardiness…