Murder on the Limited

nced through the window of the men's smoking compartment and saw the lights of Bellefontaine rush up on their left and then drop behind. He set his watch back an hour to Central Standard time. Bellefontaine was the last point on Eastern time. What a break if he could do that with his own life--set it back and gain a handicap, as the Limited did.

Above the hum of steel on steel and the song of the wheels he heard the ring of the porter's buzzer at the other end of the car. Queer that--at this hour in the morning.

A moment later steps sounded in the vestibule and Jeb, the porter, pushed his head through the curtain. His black face, extra dark against the spotless white of his jacket, was set in a frown halfway between worry and fear.

"Boss, lady wants to see you. Lower Three--"

A woman pushed by him hastily, pulling a thin kimono about her nightgown. She was middle-aged and plump. Stanley recognized her. She and her husband had made the run from New York. Her white face and haggard eyes