LITMIR.BIZ

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      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2012 by Philip Harbottle

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For Claire Jane King

      CHAPTER ONE

      DEATH ON A TRAIN

      A cloud of smoke, a deluge of sparks, and a roar like a hundred Niagaras—then screaming onwards into the winter dark, rocking over the points, blasting through remote and solitary stations, gradually coming ever nearer towards Scotland. The Scots Express was two and a half minutes behind time, and the passengers within it were well aware of the fact as they swayed gracefully with the lurching of the train.

      Morgan Dale, London financier, muttered something uncomplimentary as he dropped his ballpoint and rocked back from the sheet of calculations he was studying. Instantly his chief clerk dived to retrieve it. He held it out in a thin hand.

      “Thanks,” Dale growled.

      “He seems to be making up for lost time, Mr. Dale,” the chief clerk murmured, but this time he only received a grunt in reply. Morgan Dale had gone back to his calculations, his broad back wedged into the upholstery of the corner seat as he strove to keep himself steady....

      The two men had the first class reserved compartment to themselves and the blinds were drawn—save one, which gave a limited view of the corridor outside. Beyond it there was a vision of shifting lights in the darkness as towns and homesteads fled by. Martin Lee, the chief clerk, sat looking at the lights through his own reflection, his thoughts miles away. He was a rather weary-looking man of average height, neatly dressed, with a thin pale face and emaciated hands.

      He was a very capable chief clerk, otherwise he would not have kept his job with Morgan Dale for over twenty years. He was also a good mathematician and, though few would have suspected it, a deep schemer. And he hated Morgan Dale absolutely. He loathed the man’s dominance, his monetary power, and his apparent mastery of every difficult situation.... Deep in the mind of Martin Lee was an insatiable longing to change places with Morgan Dale—not physically, of course, but circumstantially, and make him take the orders for a change.

      Martin Lee sighed over the vain speculation. That had always been the trouble throughout his life: he had always dreamed vast dreams, and never seen them materialise. Indeed he had made no particular effort to make them do so, mainly because there never seemed to have been a golden opportunity.

      A figure passed in the corridor outside, moving from left to right across Lee’s line of vision. In five seconds he registered in his mind that he was looking at a young woman, blonde and hatless, wearing a mustard-coloured suit and carrying a black handbag. Nothing very odd about this: the odd part came a few seconds later when she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. In that moment Lee recognised her—and she him, apparently. For the briefest instant their eyes met, then they went on up the corridor, moving unsteadily with the swaying of the train.

      Lee stirred and looked across at Dale. The big fellow was still busy studying calculations, the light above his head giving a sheen to his bald pate. His bulldog face was in shadow, averted as he bent over the figures.

      Lee ventured, “Er—Mr. Dale—”

      “Well, what is it?” Dale did not trouble to look up.

      “Does it interest you to know that Miss Elton is on this train?”

      “Elton?” Dale’s craggy face came into view, masked in thought. “Elton? Who the hell’s—? You don’t mean Janice Elton, that no-good ex-secretary of mine?”

      “Either her or her double,” Lee said mildly. “She just went along the corridor.”

      Dale debated this for a moment, then he shrugged fleshy shoulders.

      “Well, frankly, I couldn’t care less. Nothing to stop her taking the train for Scotland if she wants.” The bushy eyebrows notched suddenly. “Mmm, it’s a bit odd, though. She knew I was taking the train tonight, and she also knows that I’m visiting Highland Amalgamated tomorrow. It was in the appointments book for her to see before I fired her.”

      “Yes, sir,” Lee said quietly; then he jumped a little as a train slammed and roared in the opposite direction.

      Dale returned to his computations, then at length he put the sheets of paper down on the seat beside him and gave a gesture of exasperation.

      “Damned train’s shaking so much I can’t keep my pen still.” He capped it and thrust it in his breast pocket “Maybe I’d better give up— Look, Lee, you’ve got all the details of the Colwin Merger, haven’t you?”

      “Everything, sir.” Lee touched the briefcase beside him.

      “And the estimates for the Pentland Project?”

      “Worked out to the last detail, Mr. Dale.”

      “Mmm....” Dale gave a heavy smile that did little to iron out the bulldog characteristics of his face. “You never make a mistake in matters like that, do you, Lee?”

      “Never, sir.” Lee smiled faintly and tapped the window frame. “Touch wood.”

      “I could say that I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lee—but I won’t. Mainly because nobody is really indispensable. Just the same, you’re my right-hand man. I will admit that much.”

      “Thank you, sir.”

      “Now look, about the Pentland Project, I think we ought to tell Benson tomorrow that we’re—”

      Dale stopped. A woman was looking through the one clear space of window that gave on to the corridor—a blonde woman in a mustard coloured suit with a big black handbag under her arm. Dale gazed at her in surprise for a moment, then he surged to his feet and slid the door back.

      “Well, Miss Elton?” His voice was coldly courteous. “Is there something you want?”

      She did not answer immediately. She was a good-looking girl in the late twenties, but somehow she had none of the vitality normal to a girl of her age. Her grey eyes seemed cloudily tired, and there was a droop to her delicately made-up mouth and features. She stood appraising Dale’s great figure as he stood just within the compartment looking out on her.

      “Matter of fact,” she said at length, “I’ve been looking up and down the train for you. It wasn’t until I caught a glimpse of Mr. Lee a moment ago that I realised you must be here.... I’d like a few words with you.”

      “Oh?”

      “In private, if you don’t mind.”

      “You pick the oddest places,”

      “Oh, I don’t know. A train compartment is the most private spot in the world.”

      “And for that reason you chose the Scots Express because you knew I’d be travelling on it tonight?”

      “Since you ask me, yes. I’ve something very urgent to tell you.”

      Dale seemed to come to a decision, “Look, Miss Elton, when I dismissed you from my organisation our business association ended. You can’t have anything further to say to me—and I certainly have nothing to say to you. So, if you’ll excuse me....”

      “This concerns your private life, Mr. Dale. Something which I must tell you, and which it will be to your advantage to hear.” The girl’s grey eyes strayed to Martin Lee as he sat listening. “I’m quite sure you wouldn’t wish it to go...any further.”

      Silence for a moment, except for the distant scream of the engine whistle and the rhythm of wheels over the rail joints.

      “All right,” Dale said finally, shrugging. “I’ll spare you a few moments. Lee, find something to do elsewhere. I’ll be finished in five minutes.”

      The chief clerk said nothing. Getting to his feet he left the compartment and went out into the corridor. The girl passed inside and took the seat he had been occupying, Dale slammed

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