The Mysteries of Émile Cairo

By Tom Kay

After serving in the Great War Émile Cairo moves to England and sets up a Private Investigations service; with close contacts with the British Secret Service and Scotland Yard, Émile Cairo is plunged into the world of the rich and powerful, solving cases of murder, political corruption, kidnapping and lost art. At every turn he comes face to face with some of the world's most evil enemies, each determined to stop him from revealing the truth, putting his life constantly in danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Kay
• Release date: Apr 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201317652

Tom Kay

Born in 1960, he began writing fiction since the age of 17, although all previous works were lost to history. Entered the military in 1980 and served for 17 years. He began writing shortly after leaving, re-writing some of the previous lost works and has continued to write ever since, creating the enigmatic Private Investigator Émile Cairo in 2020. Other works are in the pipeline.

Book preview

1: Murder on the Scotsman

One

England 1933

Waiting on one of Edinburgh’s Waverley station platforms was the latest mechanical engineering marvel of the industrial world; the first in the A1 Pacific class of locomotives owned by the LNER to traverse the gruelling 392 mile stretch between Edinburgh and London – nonstop.

A goliath of iron and steel, puffing, panting, sporadically spewing massive clouds of steam exhaled from its main funnel, pistons and pressure valves; its 96 ton bulk eagerly waiting to unleash the full force of its power.

The engine, launched in 1923 and through the persistency of the press and its growing popularity among the élite class, it eventually, in 1924, was officially named The Flying Scotsman.

But on one particular day, the passengers eagerly trying to board its carriages were all part of that privileged and envious class of high society - the super rich.

Two days earlier they had all attended an exclusive gathering, circulated by royal invitation to the marriage of Prince James Francis Edward Stewart to Princess Sofia of the House of Hanover.

Anyone who was someone began to board the train aided by the station’s porters, and in many cases, their own lady maids and personal valets; each assigned to a specific sumptuous cabin, they tousled through the narrow walkways with bulbous hand baggage and travel cases; whilst their bulky luggage, trunks and chests were carefully placed within the loading carriage located closer to the tender.

Émile Cairo, after finally locating his own compartment, placed his travel case under the seat, removed and tossed his fur collared overcoat and leather gloves to one side and made his way towards the dining carriage.

Wearing a double-breasted waist coat, suit and a fedora hat he settled for a table in the far corner of the carriage facing the entrance, he despised having his back to the door, or leaning against another seat.

A tall, slender man, with mousey brown hair parted at the side, a thin moustache and a goatee beard, he prided himself in observing people, watching their facial expressions, their body language and posture and in particular, the clothes they wore; and for him to do that effectively he needed to face the door and watch the guests as they came in.

Using one of the satin napkins he wiped clean his, faintly russet tinted, circular spectacles and began to admire the surroundings of the dining carriage.

Like the rest of the train’s compartments, it was laid out in the style of Louis XVI, elegant and extravagant, down to the fine cotton satin table cloths, exclusive LNER china, crystal ware and dining condiments. Everything correctly placed with military precision.

After a few minutes of contemplation, a tall man dressed in an army uniform carrying a peaked cap under his arm approached his table.

‘Ah Monsieur Cairo,’ he smiled, ‘do you mind if I join you? I’m not very well acquainted with the elevated social order on this train.’

‘Not at all Captain Beecham,’ Cairo welcomed him.

‘Thank you.’ The officer placed the hat beside him and settled opposite Émile Cairo. They met each other, for the first time, two days ago at the wedding. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, your English has a certain French twist to it.’

‘Because I am French,’ Cairo said in not so many words.

‘Oh well, that explains it.’

‘Oui,’ Cairo smiled again as a waiter approached their table.

‘Can I get you gentlemen anything?’

‘Rather, a gin and tonic with a twist of lemon for me,’ the officer said gleefully.

‘Your finest port s'il vous plait.’

‘Certainly.’

‘So, what do you think of this marvellous train?

‘Is this your first time on the Flying Scotsman?’ Cairo asked him.

‘As a matter of fact it is.’

Captain Beecham had a pale slender face with prominent cheek bones, a narrow pencil neck moustache and a goatee beard; he portrayed himself as self-confident, positive and irritatingly inquisitive.

‘I on the other hand have travelled on this train many times before, mon ami.’

‘Really,’ Beecham said earnestly, ‘a passion of sorts is it?’

‘Non, I have acquaintances in Edinburgh.’

‘Oh right.’

The waiter returned with their drinks, Cairo took a miniscule sip of approval.

‘Good is it? The service on this train is impeccable.’

‘Oui, very nice.’

‘And what about the wedding, what did you think of it?’

‘Em, it was very extravagant.’

‘Wasn’t it just,’ Beecham took a sip of his drink and lit a cigarette, ‘how did you come to know the happy couple?’

‘Prince Stewart, I did some work for his father,’ Cairo then lit a French cigarette, a little perturbed that the Captain didn’t offer one of his.

The Captain smiled, almost to a chuckle. ‘Really, what on earth...?’

‘I am a Private Detective Monsieur,’ Cairo answered anticipating his question.

The officer slammed the table almost displacing Cairo’s glass of port. ‘Of course, I have been scouring my brain ever since I heard your name!’

‘You have heard of me.’

‘Who hasn’t, you’re practically famous.’

‘Practically Monsieur?’

‘Well, I guess you are,’ Beecham corrected himself, ‘story goes you are the eyes and ears of Scotland Yard.’

‘The brains Captain, they have their own eyes and ears, but they lack the brains. But, if you mean that I have their full confidence you are right, I work closely with Detective Chief Inspector Jack Faraday – now he is smart.’

‘Oh he keeps a close eye on you does he, making sure you don’t step out of line?’

‘Non Captain Beecham,’ he sounded irritated at the officer’s assumption that Cairo needed a chaperone, ‘though I may have Scotland Yard’s full support I do not carry its authority.’

‘Wait a minute, didn’t you once write a summation on the Jack the Ripper killings?’

‘Oui, I did.’

‘If I remember correctly, you claimed to have solved the mystery, you identified the killer.’

‘I did not claim Captain, I did identify him!’

‘And it appeared in the Daily Mirror.’

‘Oui.’

‘So case closed then?’

‘No, not quite,’ Cairo sighed with despair, ‘everyone likes a good mystery Captain; however many experts and writers do not agree with my conclusions.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘What can I say; they are set in their ways and refuse to accept evidence which oppose their beliefs.’

‘Ahh, reputation and all that; well, I thought it was a jolly good read.’

‘And what about you Captain, how do you know the couple?’

‘Ah well, I was a distant guest as it so happens,’ he answered reticently, ‘a friend of a friend of a friend, I served with one of the officers with whom they are acquainted.’

The dining carriage began to fill up and with it emerged a cacophony of chatter.

‘What did you make of the Stewart’s strange declaration?’

‘What declaration would that be?’

‘That one day they will retake the throne of England and re-instate the rightful heirs.’

‘Captain Beecham, I don’t indulge myself in the matters of politics or royalty, nor religion for that matter, they are the purveyors of human suffering, perpetrators of death.’

The officer had touched on a sensitive topic, ‘still, there were a lot of well known faces at the mansion,’ Beecham pointed out tactfully evading the subject, ‘I’ve never seen so many eminent people in one place.’

‘You know them?’

‘Only by sight, in the papers and what one reads in the gossip magazines.’

‘Please tell me, who do you know?’ Cairo sounded intrigued.

‘Well, over there,’ Beecham discreetly directed Cairo’s attention to the opposite corner of the carriage. ‘That’s Raymond Marston Black, a big-wig entrepreneur, he owns Marston Industries, and that’s George Gillian next to him, his personal assistant, he does all of Black’s leg work, even the dirty stuff; the other two I don’t know, probably his advisors going through some papers and sheets of blueprints.’

‘I have heard of Marston Industries, they manufacture mechanical parts.’

‘Yes, mainly for the government, more specifically for the Chiefs of Staff Committee.’

‘So he is in the armaments business.’

‘Spare parts for the use of,’ Beecham added, ‘you know parts for tanks and artillery, he doesn’t actually build them.’

‘Je comprends,’

‘Apparently he’s a very nasty piece of work, treats his workers like minions; fires them for the smallest of improprieties.’

‘Mmm, has no respect or honour for those who work for him.’

‘No, he certainly has not!’ Beecham affirmed fervently. ‘In the table in front of him is Oliver Glasberg.’

‘Ah yes, I have heard of him, he is a novelist.’

‘A writer of sorts, non-fiction; got himself into a bit of bother when he wrote a short book about Joseph Russell, owner of the Daily Mirror.’

‘I remember.’

‘Well the paper wasn’t doing very well, still isn’t from what I can gather. Probably why they printed your synopsis on the ripper case eh?’

‘Please continue Captain,’ Cairo prompted him trying to ignore his derogatory remark.

‘Anyway, Glasberg cited corruption and a string of other dodgy dealings, even money laundering. The man sitting opposite him is his publicist, Edgar Ward.’

‘Joseph Russell tried to sue him did he not?’

‘Yes, and failed miserably, and that drew the attention of Scotland Yard.’

‘But these two were not at the wedding.’

‘No, apparently they were in Edinburgh trying to promote Glasberg’s latest book; an exposé on Stefanio Sanseveri.’

‘The Camorra mob boss?’

‘You’ve heard of it, they’re generally very enigmatic.’

‘And very dangerous,’ Cairo added.

‘Very much so, poor chap’s dicing with death.’

‘Précisément, but he has made a lot of money has he not?’

‘Oh God yes, there’s a fortune to be had from sensationalising crime and scandal.’

Before Captain Beecham could continue with his revelations, the external doors to all the carriages began to slam shut. Outside the station masters blew their whistles and raised their all clear flags.

The Scotsman sounded its steam whistle and the connecting rods began to tug on the main drive wheels every time the engine’s funnel ejected a column of steam. A slight jolt and the train began to move, pulling away from Edinburgh’s Waverley Station, obscuring it with clouds of steam, vapour and spray.

‘Right, we’re on our way.’

‘Please Captain Beecham, continue.’

‘Right, yes of course. At the next table are a couple of newlyweds themselves, about six months I think, Matthew and Marjorie Yorke, they’re announcement appeared in the Telegraph.’

‘No, I do not know them.’

‘No, but you will know her father, Samuel Butkin.’

‘Ahh yes, Butkins hotels.’

‘Yes that’s it, not for the likes of you and me, you understand,’ Beecham pointed out, ‘drab and dreary places, aimed at those who can’t afford to holiday in more luxurious locations.’

‘But I have stayed in one.’

‘Have you really?’

‘I found it more than adequate for my needs.’

‘Well, there you go then.’

‘So, who else do we have?’

‘That’s it really; don’t know any of the other passengers.’

At another table, down the far end, on the same side where Émile Cairo and Captain Beecham sat, gathered a very excitable crowd of people, especially one particular girl who delighted in the sound of her own voice.

‘I have no idea who that is,’ Beecham admitted.

‘Well mon ami, let me tell you, that is Pauline Johnson.’

‘Who’s Pauline Johnson?’

‘She is an English actress; did you not see the film based on this very train The Flying Scotsman? She was the star.’

‘No, no I haven’t.’

‘Oui, with Ray Milland.’

‘I know him; he’s not here is he?’

‘No unfortunately he is not.’

‘Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.’

‘But there are a number of strangers on this train,’ Cairo pointed out.

‘I dare say there are, it’s a big train,’ the Captain said sardonically.

‘Take him for instance.’

Sitting at the table to their far right was a solitary man, slim, wearing a Trilby, smoking a cigarette and cradling his sixth glass of whiskey.

‘He’s a little worse for wear,’ the Captain jested.

‘Generally, one removes their hat when sitting at the table.’

‘Really? Yes, I suppose they do; does that mean something?’

‘Absolument, his mind is pre-occupied,’ Cairo explained, ‘he has been staring at the young couple since he sat down.’

‘The Yorkes?’

‘Oui, and they have been passing uneasy glances back at him.’

‘So, you think they know each other.’

‘But there is also something very negative here.’

A look of trepidation came over the Captain’s face, ‘really, like what exactly?’

‘Well Captain, if I could tell you that then that would be extraordinary, do you not think?’

Captain Beecham laughed, ‘yes it would.’

The discord of the prattle and laughter got louder to the point the two of them had to raise their voices.

Cairo rose from his seat, ‘excuse me Captain, I shall retire to my compartment for a little quiet.’

‘Yes of course, it was a pleasure to meet you Monsieur Cairo.’

They shook hands.

After Cairo had left the dining carriage Captain Beecham took his seat and began to scrutinise the various small groups of people, trying to employ the same observational techniques he saw Cairo use; but apart from the excitedly jolly faces around Pauline Johnson’s table, there was very little else to glean from the rest of the passengers.

A few minutes later, just before Captain Beecham was about to retire to his own cabin, the stranger tossed the whiskey into his mouth and angrily slammed the glass on the table.

Precariously, he rose from his seat and limped over to the Yorke’s table. The couple anxiously looked up at him, fearing what he was about to do. It was clear he had intended to say something, but decided against it; instead he sneered disapprovingly and walked on – to Raymond Black’s table.

Resting both hands on their table to steady himself he looked directly into Black’s face, ‘framed anymore employees Mister Black eh? Fired anyone else for speaking out? I know what goes on at those depots of yours, Black!’

‘You’ve had a little too much to drink Stevenson,’ Black reacted cynically.

‘No, I’ve had a lot to drink.’

George Gillian then rose from his seat and took the drunkard around the shoulder, ‘come on; let me escort you back to your cabin.’

‘Oh look, it’s your lap dog, has your Master taken you for a walk today?’

‘Come on let’s go!’

With a little physical persuasion Gillian forced the man away from the table and out of the dining carriage, ‘I’ll see you rot in hell Black!’

Marjorie Yorke, witnessing the unpleasant exchange, turned to her husband in distress. ‘This is getting intolerable,’ the Captain heard her say, ‘we have to do something about this?’

‘I know honey,’ her husband agreed.

‘We can’t carry on like this; he’s making our lives insufferable.’

The young man held her in his arms trying to calm her down. Captain Beecham, realising that everything had abated rose from his seat, left the dining carriage and headed for the cocktail bar.

The inebriated stranger, his Trilby resting on the back of his head, now sat at one end of the bar, surprisingly, drinking a fresh cup of hot coffee and talking to a young blonde girl in a floral dress.

The bar, in the corner of the carriage was in the shape of a quadrant and true to form, the Captain ordered another gin and tonic and sat at the other end feigning to show an interest in the menu.

The two of them were talking in a low voice, the words barely audible. At first it all seemed amicable, he smiled; she laughed; that was until she tried to sensually touch his hand, which he promptly pulled away.

His unexpected response wiped the smile off her face and she reciprocated the gesture by tossing her cocktail into his eyes and then walked out of the bar in a huff.

The bar tender gave the stranger a napkin to wipe his face, he then noticed the Captain looking a bit perturbed, ‘I say, is she alright?’ he asked.

The stranger smiled modestly trying to make out the incident was less sombre than it actually looked. ‘Maude? She’s fine,’ he declared, ‘women eh? We’re entering an industrial age, we’re achieving mechanical wonders, and yet the inner workings of a woman’s mind still alludes us.’

The Captain smiled, raised his glass to the stranger, ‘Ain’t that the truth, cheers.’

The stranger raised his, ‘cheers.’

‘I’m Captain Beecham by the way.’

‘Oh I’m Stevenson, Philip Stevenson,’ the young man made his way, a little more balanced, round the bar and shook the Captain’s hand.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘By the way, don’t let that little incident bother you, we’ve known each other for a while; in fact we’re looking at getting engaged.’

‘Really?’ the Captain sounded surprised.

‘Em, can I get you another of those?’ the stranger pointed to his gin and tonic.

‘Don’t mind if I do, very kind of you.’

‘Are you still actively serving?’

‘No, I’ve just attended a wedding, but I did serve in Flanders, how about you?’

‘Not with this gammy leg old man,’ Stevenson patted his right thigh.

‘Oh right, accident was it?’

‘Polio.’

‘Oh sorry to hear that.’

‘That’s okay, I’ve grown accustom to it over the years,’ he sipped his coffee, ‘I assume you saw that little fracas back there?’

‘Everyone did.’

Stevenson smiled and shook his head, ‘I might be a little tipsy but what I said was the truth; the man is a bully, he’ll fire you just like that,’ he clicked his fingers.

‘That bad eh?

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Stevenson continued, ‘he pays his workers the lowest salaries, no sick pay, no pension and adopts a three strikes and you’re out policy; there’s no contract; you were told at the end of each day whether you were needed the next, if you didn’t work, you didn’t get paid; do you know he has floorwalkers.’

‘Floorwalkers?’

‘That’s right, floorwalkers, they clock how many times you go to the toilet, or if you go for a piss outside the boundaries of your break.’

‘That does sound rather brutish.’

‘I can think of a better word than brutish my friend.’

‘I gather you’ve worked for him then?’

‘Rather, I was Head Foreman at one of his depots.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I had some time off and was accused of leaving sensitive and highly confidential contracts on my desk.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘But that’s just it Captain, I didn’t, they were planted there.’

‘I say, that is rather iniquitous.’

‘It’s exploitation Captain Beecham, with no workplace safeguard.’

‘Surely there’s something you can do about it.’

‘He’s the most powerful industrialist in Britain; he’s got judges and politicians in his pocket.’

‘I see why you’re so upset.’

‘It’s capitalists like him that run this country Captain Beecham; there are so many people looking for work he can pick and choose his workforce, his loyal lap dog George Gillian does all that for him; he hires and fires them, but the decision comes from Black.’

‘I sympathise with you Mister Stevenson, I really do.’

‘Anyway listen, I’d better see how Maude’s doing, hopefully she’s calmed down by now.’

‘Oh right you are, hope everything’s alright.’

‘I need to lie down for a while, nice to have met you Captain.’

‘Likewise.’

Relaxing to the calming effects of the carriage wheels clattering over the rails, Émile Cairo sat by the window reading the day’s Telegraph, the headline of which read ‘The Reichstag Ablaze’ and subtitled ‘Arson Blamed On The Reds.’

His mind being attuned to world events he knew this was not good for Germany, Europe and possibly the world as a whole; it was however, a political opportunity for Adolf Hitler.

But his solitude was soon interrupted by a knock on his door.

‘Mon dieu,’ he muttered, ‘enter.’

To his surprise the visitor at the door was Captain Beecham, ‘sorry to disturb you old chap, but there was an interesting altercation in the dining carriage after you left; thought you ought to know.’

‘Vraiment? What kind of altercation?’

Without invitation the Captain sat down by the window in the seat opposite.

‘Well, it’s to do with the man in the hat,’ he lowered his voice as if to avoid anyone else listening in and spent the next few minutes retelling the sequence of events, including the conversation he had at the bar.

‘So what do you think?’

Cairo shrugged his shoulders, ‘what is there to think? We have a disgruntled employee and then he falls out with his girlfriend?’

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?’

‘How so?’

‘Well, this Stevenson chap did seem a bit angry.’

‘If we locked everyone up for being angry mon ami, no one would be walking the streets.’

‘So there’s nothing to it then?’

Émile Cairo smiled, ‘my dear Captain, I admire your enthusiasm and the thought of doing a bit of sleuthing has gone to your head I think; you have to wait for events to take their course.’

‘Right then.’

‘Now Captain, if you don’t mind I would like to have some time to myself.’

‘Oh of course,’ he rose from his seat, ‘I’ll leave you in peace then.’

‘Merci Captain.’

As soon as the door slid shut Émile Cairo opened the newspaper and resumed reading. Only moments had passed before his eyes began to feel dreary, his attention veering away from the article, his head slowly slouching forward until his chin touched his chest – and then suddenly wrenched from his slumber by an object striking the window leaving a minor chip on the glass.

‘Mon dieu,’ he folded his paper and stepped out into the corridor in time to catch a porter, ‘excusez-moi.’

‘Yes Monsieur Cairo, how can I help?’

‘Something has struck my window.’

‘Really Sir?’ They both stepped inside and examined the flaw in the glass. ‘Oh, that’s nothing to worry about Sir, it’s happened before.’

‘It has? What has happened before? It has never happened to me before.’

‘A chunk of coal Sir,’ the porter explained, ‘small fragments come flying out from the locomotives’ tender and sometimes hits the window.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes,’ the porter assured him, ‘we’ve had to replace the glass on a number of occasions.’

Reluctantly, Cairo accepted the porter’s explanation.

‘I assure you, there is nothing to be concerned about.’

‘Very well,’ Cairo smiled, ‘thank you.’

‘That’s okay Sir, will there be anything else?’

‘No Monsieur...oh yes, please can you have a pot of tea sent to my cabin.’

‘Certainly Monsieur Cairo.’

The porter left, Cairo checked his pocket watch, sat back down and again resumed reading the newspaper.

In another compartment, Matthew and Marjorie Yorke were changing, preparing to dress for a sumptuous dinner.

Matthew Yorke slipped on a wing tip collar shirt, braces and a black bow tie. He pulled open a drawer in his travel chest to select a pair of cuff links.

‘I say, one of my cuff links is missing.’

‘What’s that darling?’

‘One of my cuff links, its missing.’

‘Oh stop fussing sweet heart; you’ve got plenty of others, select one of them.’

‘Must be that dammed butler,’ he cursed.

‘Yes that’s it, he probably lost one when he was packing your case.’

‘He’ll be packing his case when I’ve finished with him.’

‘You really are overreacting darling; it’s just a cuff link.’

‘A rather expensive one.’

Dinner was looming closer so he put the missing cuff link to the back of his mind. Using a handful of gel he brushed his black hair back, flat against the scalp and then lightly patted his face with a small amount of cologne.

His wife, Marjorie, her hair bobbed with curled ends, picked out a long glamorous chiffon sleeveless beaded dress. Standing in front of a full length mirror in nothing but her lingerie, suspenders and stockings, she pressed the garment up against her body.

‘What do you think Matthew?’

‘Perfect,’ he told her, ‘but then again you always look perfect,’ he wrapped his arms around her waist, but surprisingly she pulled him away.

‘Matthew! You’re going to ruin my hair.’

‘Sorry my love,’ he began to brush away hair and lint from his blazer as she slipped cautiously into the dress.

‘I’m looking forward to this dinner,’ she talked to him through the mirror.

‘What if that wretched ex-boyfriend of yours shows up?’

‘Oh, forget about him honey, he’s all bark and no bite.’

‘He’s a pain in the ass, that’s what he is.’

‘He’s hurting, that’s all,’ she said, ‘don’t forget we were engaged before you came along.’

Matthew Yorke smiled pleasingly, content in the knowledge that he won her over. ‘Sometimes I wonder if it was for my money.’

She spun round to face him, placed her arms around his neck, ‘how can you think of such a thing darling? Of course I married you for your money,’ she jested.

He leaned in to kiss her but she pulled back, ‘no no, lipstick darling, you’ll smudge my lipstick.’

He sighed hopelessly, ‘you women and your makeup.’

‘Surely you want me to look my best, don’t you? You can show me off to the rest of your friends.’

‘Oh come on, I don’t show you off.’

‘Of course you do darling, but that’s perfectly alright, it thrills me.’

The timing was perfect; from the inside pocket of his blazer he handed her a long, black velvet case, ‘here, I saw this and immediately thought of you.’

‘Oh my God,’ she took the box and carefully opened the lid. As soon as she saw the contents Marjorie inhaled with disbelief, ‘it’s gorgeous.’

‘It goes with that dress and your eyes,’ Matthew told her as he removed the diamond and sapphire necklace, placed it around her neck and fastened the clasp.

She felt the weight and coolness press against her décolleté, ‘it truly is beautiful,’ she said with teary eyes, ‘but why?’

‘Because I love you,’ he confessed, ‘and I want to show you my appreciation.’

‘Well, if they weren’t going to stare at me before they will now,’ she said joyfully.

In the cocktail lounge the men wore traditional morning suits, smoked cigars, pipes and enjoyed their favourite brandy or whiskey; the women, in their glamorous long beaded evening gowns and an assortment of gaudy hats and bonnets, smoked cigarettes through holders and pampered over their individual cocktails, sporadically feigning laughter to a conversation in which there was very little fascination.

Each one, if so desired, received a complimentary flute of champagne off a silver platter cordially served by a LNER waitress. In another part of the lounge, in the corner directly opposite to the bar, a pianist keyed popular classic tunes on an upright piano.

‘What’s this? Couldn’t you get a grand piano in here?’ one of the men jested, his joke only appreciated by a smattering of men around him.

Émile Cairo, wearing a shawl collared ivory dinner jacket over dark trousers, wing tipped shirt and black bow tie, sat on the same stool where Beecham had sat earlier, unassumingly sipping a glass of port and smoking a cigarillo.

Moments later, his contemplation was interrupted by a stranger; a young man in a brown sport coat and patent leather shoes. He ordered a brandy and, almost as if he couldn’t contain himself, turned to Cairo.

‘You’re him aren’t you? You’re that detective, Émile Cairo?’

‘Oui, guilty as charged, and you are Monsieur Yorke.’

‘I see the word’s got around,’ they shook hands. ‘I can’t drink champagne with a cigar,’ he said, ‘only a brandy will do.’

‘I agree Monsieur Yorke, though I prefer a port myself.’

‘Then allow me to get you another one.’

‘That is very kind of you Monsieur,’ Cairo accepted the young man’s offer.

‘I saw you at the wedding.’

‘Oui, I was there, did you enjoy it?’

‘What was there not to enjoy? Though I found it a little too extravagant for my liking,’ he admitted. ‘My wife and I had a somewhat smaller affair when we married.’

Cairo looked across to where Marjorie Yorke was standing, enjoying a jubilant conversation with a group of women who were all admiring her necklace.

‘Ah oui, she is a very beautiful woman.’

‘Yes she is,’ Matthew Yorke looked back at her, ‘I am a very lucky man.’

‘She is the daughter of Samuel Butkin, is she not?’

‘Yes, yes, she is, you are in the know aren’t you Monsieur Cairo?’

‘Pardon, it’s an old habit of mine, my profession gives me a curious mind.’

‘Ahh, but let’s not forget what killed the proverbial cat Monsieur Cairo – curiosity.’

‘The important thing in life, Monsieur Yorke, is never to stop asking questions.’

‘Touché Monsieur Cairo, touché,’ he handed Cairo his port, ‘cheers.’

‘Santé.’

‘Tell me Monsieur Cairo, in your capacity as a private detective, where do you stand on those who harass and shadow you?’

‘You are being harassed Monsieur?’

‘Yes, from that chap Stevenson,’ Yorke told him, ‘you see he was once engaged to my wife, but of course things took a different turn when we met; now he won’t leave us alone.’

‘Malheureusement Monsieur Yorke, unless he threatens you or your wife’s life, there is very little anyone can do.’

‘I thought as much,’ Yorke sounded disappointed, ‘I must get back to Marjorie before some other beady eyed fellow whisks her away,’ quipped Yorke.

‘Of course.’

‘See you later.’

‘Bonne journée.’

As Matthew Yorke walked away Captain Beecham entered the cocktail carriage and made his way directly to Émile Cairo.

‘We meet again Monsieur Cairo,’ he greeted him.

‘Indeed we do.’

‘I must admit I’m ready for a good nosh.’

‘Nosh?’

‘Yes, food.’

‘Ahh oui, nosh, I have never heard that term before.’

‘Something we used to say in the army.’

‘If I may Captain, you look far more debonair in a tuxedo than you do in an army uniform.’

‘Thank you, so do you; not that I’ve ever seen you in an army uniform you understand,’ Cairo smiled at him as the Captain ordered a brandy from the bar and then began to pat his pockets.

‘You are searching for something?’

‘Yes, my cigars, I seemed to have left them back in my compartment.’

‘Here let me,’ Cairo opened a silver case of cigarillos.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he took a cigarillo and then reached into his pocket for a lighter.

‘No, no Captain,’ Cairo stopped him in his tracks, ‘never light a cigar with a lighter.’

‘No?’

‘No, the gas can affect the taste, use long matches and light it above the flame so the tobacco does not burn,’ Cairo explained handing him a box of matches.

‘Really, you’re knowledge knows no bounds Monsieur Cairo.’

‘My father used to smoke cigars.’

‘Was that Matthew Yorke you were just talking to?’

‘Oui, he is a fine, but troubled, man.’

‘How so?’

Cairo then related the conversation noting how there seemed to be a correlation to the small altercation the Captain mentioned earlier.

‘Well, this chap Stevenson seems to be aggravating everyone he meets.’

‘There are too many skeletons in his closet.’

‘His wife’s a stunner though,’ the Captain admitted without reservations, ‘look at the necklace she’s wearing.’

‘Yes, I see, diamonds and sapphires,’ Cairo pointed out.

‘Very extravagant, I must say, must be worth a fortune.’

‘An overwhelming temptation for any would be thief, do you not think?’ Cairo smiled.

The Captain lit his cigar in the manner Cairo had described and coughed as he took his first draw, ‘bit strong old friend.’

‘They are Spanish.’

‘So what about Matthew Yorke, what do you think of him?’

Cairo shrugged his shoulders, ‘he is concerned mon ami.’

So there might be something to what I said?’

‘Possibly so Captain, possibly so; but as I have just said to our young friend, we must not stop asking questions.’

‘So tell me Monsieur Cairo, how does one become a detective?’

Émile Cairo laughed, ‘you are going to take me at my word I imagine.’

‘Well, you did say never stop asking questions.’

‘C'est vrai Captain,’ Cairo took a sip of his port, ‘I began shortly after the war, just small cases here and there, my standing grew from there.’

‘Right, do you work from home, or do you have an office, or is it all word of mouth?’

‘Non Captain, one must have an office, you would be surprised how much paperwork a case can generate, it all needs to be kept in order and filed away. One must have a place to meet and interview clients; I have an office in Pimlico; my associate, Miss Leyton keeps an eye on things when I’m away.’

‘I say that’s rather plush,’ said the Captain, ‘an office in Pimlico and a secretary eh?’

‘Miss Leyton is not a secretary, you would know if you were ever to call her that; I also keep business cards with me at all times,’ Cairo pulled one out of the breast pocket of his waist jacket and handed it over to the Captain.

‘Very nice, do you mind if I keep this one?’

‘Not at all.’

‘So do you live there? I mean in Pimlico?’

‘Non, I have a small cottage in Hooton Allhallows, I go there at weekends if I am not on a case.’

‘So, you commute every day?’

‘Non, non, it is too far; I have a residential flat above the office.’

‘Somewhere to convalescence, this house of yours, is it?’

‘Exactement my friend, one needs to escape from all the wickedness.’

‘And how do you convalesce? I mean, do you hunt, shoot, fish?’

‘Non Captain, I do not indulge in the brutal pass times of the rich; I tend to my garden, I have a passion for growing roses.’

‘Well, I dare say I would not have pegged you for a gardener.’

‘I find it very therapeutic,’ Cairo pointed out, ‘what about you Captain?’

‘I fish,’ he proudly admitted, ‘I started as a little boy with my father; strictly catch and release you understand.’

‘Such a pass time requires patience does it not? One sits for hours without a bite.’

‘Yes that is true Monsieur Cairo; but as you say it’s very therapeutic; Britain has some of the most beautiful rivers and lakes in Europe, I can sit on the bank of a river all day just watching the wildlife and catch nothing.’

Cairo pondered for a moment, ‘you know Captain, I can relate to that.’

‘Well, in that case, maybe I should take you fishing one day?’

‘I’m very much in favour of that idea; there are some beautiful rivers not far from my village.’

‘Well that settles it,’ the Captain raised his glass and took a celebratory drink.

‘Ah Captain Beecham, I was hoping I’d find you here,’ the young man approached him. For a mere moment neither Cairo nor the Captain recognised him; the young man, now in control of his faculties, was all spruced up, shaved and his hair neatly trimmed, wearing a suave and distinct tuxedo, but it was the prominent limp that gave him away.

‘Good God,’ the Captain exclaimed, ‘Stevenson.’

‘You sound surprised Captain.’

‘Well, a sharply dressed man,’ he declared, ‘let me introduce you to my good friend Monsieur Cairo, Émile Cairo - this is Philip Stevenson.’

They shook hands, ‘a pleasure sir, of course I know who you are, your reputation precedes you.’

‘I’m flattered Monsieur,’ Cairo smiled.

‘Can I buy you gentlemen a drink? I can’t abide champagne.’

‘So how’s Maude?’ the Captain asked him as Stevenson gave the bartender his order.

‘Maude?’

‘Your forthcoming fiancée.’

‘Oh yes, she’s fine, she’d calmed down, all is well,’ Stevenson sounded ambiguous.

‘You have known her long Monsieur Stevenson?’ Cairo asked, but the young man seemed preoccupied, looking round the room at the guests.

‘What? Oh sorry, I’m just looking for Raymond Black, I feel I own him an apology.’

But he was looking at the wrong end of the lounge, Cairo observed. Stevenson was glancing towards Marjorie Yorke who was standing with her husband conversing with another couple. Subtly, she fleetingly glanced back at him tapping the diamond and sapphire necklace around her neck.

Stevenson quaffed his first whiskey and immediately ordered another one. ‘Em, we’ve known each other about a year now, I think,’ he finally answered.

‘Will she be joining us?’ the Captain asked.

‘I hope so; she’s not feeling too bright.’

‘Sorry to hear that, hope it’s nothing serious.’

‘What? Oh no, she’s just a little under the weather.’

‘You are most welcome to join us,’ Cairo suggested.

‘Well that’s awfully decent of you.’

The dining carriage was far more orderly than earlier on. The kitchen staff had clad each table with clean fresh fine cotton satin cloths; laid out gold plated cutlery, crystal glasses, china ware; a small flute vase with a single red rose and a candle which was only lit once the diners sat at their table.

Émile Cairo reserved his table before hand, ensuring he sat at the same one and as soon as they were settled Stevenson ordered a round of drinks and then ordered the food.

‘So tell me, what do you do now?’ the Captain asked him.

‘Well, I was a Head Foreman at one of Marston’s depots; then I became a freelance journalist and photographer.’

‘Jolly good,’ the Captain sounded genuinely thrilled, ‘have I read any of your work?’

‘Probably not, mainly gossip magazines and the like, newspapers are harder to come by as they usually have their own photographers and journalists; the trick is to find that one big scoop the papers haven’t got their hands on yet.’

‘You were taking pictures at the wedding, were you not?’ Cairo asked.

‘Yes, yes, I was,’ Stevenson admitted, ‘however the Prince placed a number of strict limitations; I could only supply two magazines and even then it had to be fashion related – strictly no gossip.’

‘Well I dare say you had your work cut out for you, there were a lot of fashionable dressed women at the wedding.’

‘What about you Monsieur Cairo, any juicy cases recently?’

‘Pardon Monsieur, but I do not discuss my cases.’

‘Especially to a journalist I suspect.’

‘Non, non, it is one of my own ethics,’ Cairo explained as the food and wine arrived.

‘At last!’ exclaimed the Captain, ‘I am famished!’

‘I deal with a lot of people, usually of high standing, that would prefer their skeletons to remain in their closets,’ Cairo smiled tucking into a prawn cocktail, he then summoned one of the waiters.

‘Everything in order Sir?’

‘Oui, oui, but this wine, it is white.’

‘That’s correct Sir.’

‘You have no red wine?’

‘But you’re having smoked salmon Sir,’ the waiter sounded mystified.

‘C'est correct, but I do not like white wine; fetch me a bottle of red wine, s'il vous plait.’

‘But Sir, red wine is served with red meat, white wine is generally served with fish.’

‘Pardon garcon, if I have broken the law you can have me arrested later; now bring me a bottle of red wine.’

The waiter could see Émile Cairo was getting irate, avoiding any additional confrontation he accepted his request without further argument.

‘Mon dieu,’ Cairo cussed, ‘what is this country coming to when one is told what to eat and drink?’ The Captain and Stevenson laughed at Cairo’s blatant indifference to food etiquette, ‘I find white wine too dry, and it has the taste of vinegar.’

‘You’re not a wine connoisseur are you Cairo?’ The Captain postulated.

‘I am a connoisseur of nothing my dear Captain; I only know what tastes good and what does not and what does not I avoid it like the plague.’

‘That’s the best philosophy I’ve heard all week,’ Stevenson gleefully admitted.

‘Except for roses.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Except for roses,’ the Captain added, ‘you have a passion for roses; you must be an expert when it comes to roses.’

Émile Cairo pondered for a moment, ‘oui, you are correct my dear Captain, I do know a lot about roses.’

‘There you are then, you’re a rose connoisseur.’

‘Tell me,’ Stevenson butted in, ‘what kind of person does it take to commit murder?’

The question stopped Cairo in his tracks just as the waiter returned with a bottle of red wine and poured him a measure to sample, ‘merci.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt,’ Stevenson apologised, ‘but a man in your field of work must have incredible insight into the human psyche.’

‘That’s okay Monsieur,’ Cairo sipped and approved the wine, ‘we are all capable of murder.’

The answer surprised him, ‘really?’

‘Oui, all that is needed is the right trigger; one catastrophic moment in one’s life that ignites the rage in all of us.’

‘That’s rather frightening,’ the Captain admitted.

‘Do you apply that philosophy to all crimes Monsieur Cairo?’

‘Non, I believe the ones that suffer the most are the ones who try to do right in a corrupt society.’

‘You’re mind, Monsieur Cairo, must be a store of human psychology.’

The conversation quickly dissipated when another group of guests entered the dining carriage. Stevenson was sitting in the wrong seat, with his back to the door, forcing him to crick his neck every time someone walked in.

‘You are looking for someone Monsieur Stevenson?’ Cairo asked.

Stevenson was instantly evasive, ‘well, I’m still trying to get to see Raymond Black.’

‘Oh, I’d have thought you’d be looking out for your fiancée?’ the Captain said curiously.

Stevenson bowed his head and hopelessly sighed, ‘okay look, we’re not that close, we’re barely friends; truth of the matter is the woman’s driving me crazy.’

‘How so?’ Cairo asked.

‘She modelled for me once,’ Stevenson said shamefully, ‘then one thing led to another and we spent one night together.’

‘I say, jolly good show old chum,’ the Captain commended him.

‘Nothing to be proud of Captain, since then the woman has followed me everywhere, stalking me, hounding me, it’s an obsession I tell you.’

‘Have you tried talking to her?’ the Captain asked.

‘Of course I have, but she doesn’t hear me.’

‘So why did she throw her drink in your face?’

‘She suggested we should get married, I flatly refused.’

‘Very persistent woman,’ The Captain remarked.

‘Maybe there was a reason for her persistency mon ami?’ Cairo suggested.

‘No, none that I can think of,’ Stevenson said.

At that precise moment the object of Stevenson’s attention walked into the dining lounge and the conversation ended abruptly.

‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ as if in a fluster, he dabbed his lips with a napkin, rose from his seat and tersely shoved his way past George Gillian, collidi9ng with his shoulder. Stevenson left the carriage leaving both men aggravated at his unwarranted assault.

‘I say, did you see that?’ the Captain asked.

Oui, mon ami,’ Cairo answered, ‘Monsieur Stevenson seems to be a very angry man.’

Raymond Black noticed the table from which he left and whispered something in Gillian’s ear. He then turned his gaze towards Émile Cairo and unexpectedly began to walk towards his table.

He sat down uninvited, where Stevenson sat moments ago. He picked up the unfinished whiskey and took a sip.

‘Mister Black is rather concerned,’ Gillian began. He was a brawn individual with wide shoulders, with uncharacteristically short hair; almost down to the scalp.

‘And what is concerning him Monsieur Gillian?’ Cairo asked, the uninvited guest slightly taken aback that he knew his name.

‘He is concerned, as am I, that your associate Philip Stevenson may have been gossiping a little too much.’

‘Gossiping?’

‘Mister Black is very concerned that certain, let’s say, restricted industrial information may have been, unintentionally, imparted to undesirable individuals.’

Cairo took a bite of his smoked salmon and heedlessly sipped his red wine. Intentionally keeping Gillian waiting for a response, he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and turned to the Captain, ‘I think the salmon is a little dry.’

‘I was thinking that myself,’ the Captain followed Cairo’s lead, ‘overcooked I dare say.’

Cairo turned to face Gillian, ‘let me give you some advice Monsieur.’

‘Please do,’ he smiled wirily.

‘Do not have the smoked salmon.’

His smile turned into a disappointing pout; he rose from his seat, ‘I will inform Mister Black – to avoid the smoked salmon.’

‘Bon,’ Cairo smiled up at him.

‘Let me give you some advice, Monsieur Cairo,’ Gillian said glaringly boasting that he knew his name too, ‘you really shouldn’t be drinking red wine with fish.’

‘So I have been informed.’

After their meal they were served a selection of cheese and biscuits, ordered a glass of brandy each and lit one of Cairo’s cigarillos.

‘Well, so what did you make of all that?’ the Captain asked referring to their brief encounter with George Gillian.

‘He is a treacherous man mon ami,’ Cairo admitted.

‘Yes, I got the same feeling,’ the Captain agreed, ‘it makes you wonder how far they would stoop to achieve their aims.’

‘This is not just about a disgruntled employee.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘Do not forget that Monsieur Stevenson has embarked on a career in journalism, I would surmise this has made Raymond Black - how you say - twitchy?’

‘I see what you mean; you think he may have taken that path intentionally?’

‘That is one possibility my dear Captain,’ Cairo pondered, ‘who is to say what is in Monsieur Stevenson’s mind,’ Cairo wiped his lips, ‘for now I shall retire to my compartment for a rest,’ he looked at his pocket watch, ‘we will arrive at King’s Cross Station in two hours.’

‘Jolly good.’

Émile Cairo fell into a partial sleep when the solitude, was once again, disturbed by a fracas outside his door. This time he restrained his curiosity, deciding that whatever was causing the commotion was of no interest to him.

He could hear frantic footsteps racing up and down the passageway, muffled words of alarmed passengers and the commanding voice of an anxious porter; until eventually, the mêlée reached his compartment and the sound of a frenetic concierge pounding on his door.

‘Un moment s'il vous plaît.’

Reluctantly he rose from his bed and unlocked the door; the porter virtually fell into his carriage.

‘What is it?’

‘Something terrible has happened Monsieur Cairo,’ the porter exclaimed trying to catch his breath, ‘there’s been a death, a murder.’

‘Mon dieu, please show me.’

Squeezing through the crowd of stunned and curious onlookers, the porter escorted him through to the next carriage. Two other porters were standing at the door pressing inquisitive passengers away from the scene.

Inside, a woman in a floral dress lay sprawled across her seat with a minuscule stab wound to the chest.

‘There was no one else in authority on board,’ the porter explained, ‘that’s why I came to you.’

Cairo stood at the door looking in; conscious that the scene would be compromised if he entered. ‘That’s okay, you did the right thing.’

The woman’s blood had seeped from under her, over the edge of the seat and amassed in a pool on the floor. At first glance there seemed to be no signs of a struggle, apart from an opened dressing box on the table by the window, nothing seemed out of place; more significantly, and more disappointingly, there was no sign of the murder weapon.

Only one odd thing caught his eye. In the pool of blood was a tiny, small glinting object, which appeared to look like a cuff link.

‘D'accord,’ Cairo stepped back into the passageway, ‘do you know who she is?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t, I’d need to check the passenger manifest.’

‘Lock the door; under no circumstance allow anyone to enter,’ Cairo explained just as Captain Beecham’s face appeared peering over the porter’s shoulder.

‘Good God, that’s Maude!’

‘Maude?’ Cairo looked at him inquisitively.

‘Philip Stevenson’s girlfriend; you know, the stalker!’

‘Oh my God,’ the porter exclaimed, ‘of course, I’ve just remembered, I saw them arguing in the corridor.’

‘When was this?’ Cairo asked.

‘Earlier on today, maybe a couple of hours ago, I can’t be precise.’

‘We must find Monsieur Stevenson; and it is imperative I send an urgent telegram,’ he fervently instructed.

‘But Monsieur Cairo, the telegraph is for official use only.’

‘Monsieur Porter, a murder has been committed.’

The porter grasped his brainless remark, ‘sorry, my mind is totally out of sorts; come with me, there’s one in the dynamometer carriage.’

‘Qu'est-ce que c est dynamometer?’

‘It’s full of instruments for measuring the performance of the locomotive, especially speed, we’re hoping it might top one hundred miles an hour, breaking the world record,’ the porter smiled proudly and then realised the insignificance of his comment. ‘Em, the telegraph is in there.’

‘Then you must take me there.’

Inexplicably, by the time the Scotsman pulled into King’s Cross Station, the word had got out.

Following Cairo’s instruction via a telegram, the police had gathered on the platform trying to keep the journalists and curious onlookers at bay.

As soon as the train came to a complete standstill the police stepped forward to stop anyone from disembarking.

Amidst the outcries and protestations of the irate passengers, one man, dressed in a dishevelled trench coat and hat, paced up and down looking into each door until he caught the sight of Émile Cairo.

‘Cairo!’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Faraday!’ Cairo waved his fedora hat.

‘Let him through,’ Faraday instructed the constable.

Cairo stepped off the train and looked at the mayhem on the station, ‘what is going on?’

‘You tell me Cairo,’ Faraday sounded incensed, ‘somehow they got wind of this; damned reporters, they’re like bloody vultures.’

‘Comment est-ce possible? The only way to communicate from the train is through the telegraph.’

‘That’s it then, isn’t it? Some bright spark thought he could make a quick shilling,’ he deduced, ‘anyway, what have we got?’

‘A young woman.’

‘You’d best show me the way then,’ he suggested as he gestured to one of the medical examiners, accompanied by a photographer, to follow him onto the train.

The porter unlocked the compartment; the scene was exactly as they had left it and the ME quickly deduced the weapon was a short, thin blade, barely half an inch in width, but long enough to penetrate the heart.

‘I say, poor girl.’

Cairo and Faraday looked behind them to see who made the remark; Captain Beecham was standing there, back in his officer’s uniform, peering over their shoulders.

‘Who the devil is this?’

‘Oh Captain Beecham,’ the officer introduced himself reaching for the Inspector’s hand to shake it, ‘at your service.’

‘A friend of yours Cairo?’

Cairo gave a cagey smile, ‘he might be of some use Chief Inspector, he knows a lot about the people on this train.’

‘Does he now, what makes you an authority on this lot?’

‘Em, I travel around in high society circles Inspector.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ he corrected him.

‘Yes, of course.’

Faraday turned his attention back to the ME, ‘what else have you got?’

‘Well, stabbed between the