Chapter 7 - The Carbon Blueprint
Gaston froze, his face turning an even deeper shade of grey under the coal dust. "What... what do you mean, Inspector? I told you, I was hiding!"
"If an intruder had entered from the passenger car, they would have had to walk across this pristine layer of soot and grease to reach the hamper," Julien explained, his voice projecting the calm, crushing authority of a forensic scientist. "Yet, the only footprints connecting the fire door to the cargo are completely absent. The only tracks here belong to your heavy work boots, Gaston. You didn't see anyone enter this car because you were the one who dragged Grimaldi in."
"That's impossible!" Gaston shouted, backing away against a large wooden crate. "How could I have attacked him in his compartment if the fire door was locked from the passenger side? You said it yourself, the conductor checked it!"
"The fire door was filed down from the inside of this baggage car weeks ago," Julien countered, taking a step forward. "You are a rail yard mechanic. You had access to this train while it was parked in the maintenance sheds at Paris. You filed the keeper so you could push the door open from the cargo side. You engineered the steam leak through the maintenance hatch beneath Grimaldi's cabin using a specialized pressure wrench, forcing Roger to leave his desk. You entered Car 7 from the back, picked the lock of Compartment 7, chloroformed Grimaldi, and dragged him back here."
Gaston looked around wildly, his eyes darting toward the heavy iron side-doors of the baggage car that opened to the outside world. "You can't prove any of this!"
"I don't need to," Julien smiled coldly. "Where is the steel briefcase, Gaston? A first-class first-class carriage passenger’s briefcase doesn't simply evaporate. If you didn't return to the passenger car, the briefcase must still be in this room."
Julien turned his flashlight toward the stack of heavy canvas tarpaulins where Gaston had been hiding. With his left hand, he ripped the heavy canvas away.
There, hidden beneath a spare iron coupling link, sat the reinforced steel briefcase.
Gaston let out a sharp, animalistic snarl. Realizing he was trapped, he lunged forward, drawing a heavy, iron spanner wrench from his denim jacket, swinging it wildly at Julien’s head.
Julien didn't flinch. In the late 1940s, the French Surete had trained its elite inspectors in a specialized form of close-quarters combat designed for narrow spaces like train corridors. Julien stepped inside the swing, his left hand catching Gaston’s wrist, twisting it sharply until the iron wrench clattered to the floor. With a swift, fluid motion, Julien drove his right elbow into Gaston’s ribs, sending the young mechanic crashing heavily against a wooden crate, gasping for air.
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Within seconds, Julien had his iron handcuffs snapped tightly around Gaston’s wrists.
"Doctor, please check on Monsieur Grimaldi again," Julien said, his breathing barely elevated. "We need to move him back into the warmth of the passenger car. The stowaway is secured."
