Out of the room escaped a trail of lethal gas … .
He regained consciousness, he remembered the cry. Automatically, half-clothed, he dashed with the lit taper toward the inner room. Standing at the threshold, he glanced inside, and bridled up.
On a filthy plank-bed lay two naked corpses – the gigantic old man’s and Makryna’s – steeped profusely in blood. Both had the same fatal wound, near the left armpit, above the heart … .
The express Continental from Paris to Madrid rushed with all the force its pistons could muster. It was already the middle of the night; the weather was showery. The beating rain lashed the brightly lit windows and was scattered on the glass in rolling drops. Bathed in the downpour, the coaches glittered under roadside lampposts like wet armour. A hollow groan issued forth into space from their black bodies, a confused chatter of wheels, jostling buffers, mercilessly trampled rails. The frenzied chain of coaches awakened sleeping echoes in the quiet night, drew out dead voices in the forests, revived slumbering ponds. Some type of heavy, drowsy eyelids were raised, some large eyes opened in consternation, and so they remained in momentary fright. And the train sped on in a strong wind, in a dance of autumn leaves, pulling after it an extended swirling funnel of startled air, while smoke and soot lazily clung to its rear; the train rushed breathlessly on, hurling behind it the blood-red memory of sparks and coal refuse … .
In one of the first-class compartments, squeezed in the corner, dozed a man in his forties, of strong, Herculean build. The subdued lamplight that filtered with difficulty through the drawn shade lit up his long, carefully shaved face and revealed his firmly set, thin lips.
He was alone; no one interrupted his sleepy reveries. The quiet of the closed interior was disturbed only by the knocking of wheels under the floor or the flickering of gas in the gas-bracket. The red colour of the plush cushions imbued a stuffy, sultry tone which acted soporifically like a narcotic. The soft, yielding material muffled sounds, deadened the rattle of the rails, and surrendered in a submissive wave to any pressure. The compartment appeared to be plunged into deep sleep: the curtains drawn on ringlets lay dormant, the green net spread under the ceiling swung lethargically. Rocked by the car’s steady motion, the traveller leaned his weary head on the headrest and slept. The book that had been in his hands slipped from his knees to the floor. On its binding of delicate, dark-saffron vellum the title was visible: Crooked Lines; near that, impressed with a stamp, the name of the book’s owner: Tadeusz Szygon.
At some moment the sleeper stirred; he opened his eyes and swept them about his surroundings. For a second an expression of amazement was reflected on his face. It seemed as if he couldn’t understand where he was and why he found himself there. But almost immediately a wry smile of resignation came to his lips. He raised his large, powerful hand in a gesture of surrender, and then an expression of dejection and contemptuous disdain passed over his face. He fell back into a half-sleepy state … .
Someone’s steps were heard in the corridor; the door was pulled back and a conductor entered the compartment:
‘Ticket, please.’
Szygon didn’t stir. Assuming he was asleep, the conductor came up and grasped him by the shoulder:
‘Pardon me, sir; ticket, please.’
With a faraway look in his eyes, Szygon glanced at the intruder:
‘Ticket?’ he yawned out casually. ‘I don’t have one yet.’
‘Why didn’t you buy it at the station?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re going to have to pay a fine.’
‘F-fine? Yes,’ he added, ‘I’ll pay it.’
‘Where did you get on? Paris?’
‘I don’t know.’
The conductor became indignant.
‘What do you mean you don’t know? You’re making fun of me, sir. Who else should know?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s assume that I got on at Paris.’
‘And to what destination should I make the ticket out for?’
‘As far as possible.’
The conductor looked carefully at the passenger:
‘I can only give you a ticket as far as Madrid; from there you can transfer to any train you like.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Szygon, with a wave of his hand. ‘As long as I just keep on riding.’
‘I will have to give you your ticket later. I must first issue it and work out the cost with the fine.’
‘As you wish.’
Szygon’s attention suddenly became riveted by the railway insignias on the conductor’s collar: several jagged little wings weaved in a circle.
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