Chapter 6 - The Stowaway’s Ghost
The beam of Julien’s flashlight remained fixed on the pile of heavy canvas tarpaulins at the back of Baggage Car 8. The train gave a violent shudder as it curved along a steep embankment, the squeal of the steel wheels piercing the freezing air inside the compartment.
"I will count to three," Julien said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that cut through the mechanical roar. "One. Two..."
Before he could reach three, the tarpaulin shifted. A figure crawled out from beneath the heavy canvas, raising his hands in a defensive gesture against the blinding light. He was a young man, barely twenty-five, wearing a grease-stained worker’s denim jacket and heavy leather cap. His face was smudged with coal dust, and his eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and calculation.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot, please!" the man yelled, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from the freezing cold of the cargo hold. "I didn't hurt him! I swear to God I didn't touch the old man!"
Julien kept his revolver leveled at the man’s chest, gesturing for him to step into the clearing between the wooden crates. "Your name."
"Gaston," the man stammered, his body shivering violently. "Gaston Moreau... no relation to the doctor, I swear! I'm a mechanic from the Paris rail yards. I didn't have money for a ticket to Brussels, so I sneaked into the baggage car while it was being loaded at Gare du Nord. I've been hiding back here the whole time."
Doctor Moreau stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined Gaston’s grease-stained clothing. "If you've been here the whole time, you must have seen who dragged Monsieur Grimaldi into this car."
"I did! I did!" Gaston nodded frantically, his hands still raised. "It was dark, and the train was shaking, but about twenty minutes ago, the iron door from the passenger car flew open. A man dragged the old gentleman in. The old man was completely limp. The guy threw him into that wicker hamper, searched his pockets, took a small metal briefcase, and ran back into the passenger car. He locked the door behind him—or at least, I thought he did."
"Can you describe him?" Julien asked, his analytical mind testing the boy's story against the physical evidence. "His height? His clothing?"
"He was wearing a dark coat... a premium one, like the rich folks wear," Gaston said, straining his memory over the roaring noise. "And he had leather gloves on. I couldn't see his face because he had a wool scarf pulled up high. But he was fast, real fast. He knew exactly what he was doing."
Julien lowered his flashlight slightly, letting his gaze track the floorboards between Gaston and the wicker hamper where Grimaldi had been hidden. The floor was covered in a thin layer of fine black coal dust and train grease. If a man had entered from the passenger car, walked to the back, and hidden a body, he would have left distinct footprints.
Julien shone his light directly at the floor near the fire door.
There were footprints in the dust, indeed. But as Julien examined them closely, his brow furrowed. The footprints didn't lead from the fire door to the wicker hamper. They only existed around the wicker hamper itself, and then led directly toward the back of the car where Gaston had been hiding.
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Furthermore, the footprints were made by heavy, thick-soled worker's boots—the exact same pattern as the boots Gaston was currently wearing.
"A compelling performance, Gaston," Julien said softly, his grey eyes turning to ice as he raised his revolver once more. "But the dust on the floorboards never lies."
