Death on a Branch line

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‘Palace Hotel,’ said the voice from Scarborough.

‘Have you any rooms for tonight and tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the voice, ‘but we’re quite full up.’

‘Any good?’ asked Wright, and he propped open the police office door to let in fresh air, or what passed for it in York station.

I put the receiver back on its cradle and shook my head.

‘Pity,’ said Wright. ‘It’s a good one is that. Bang on the front.’

Old man Wright, the police office clerk, already had his weekend by the sea booked so he’d been pretty cheerful all that Friday — and pretty annoying with it. Just now, we were the only two in the office and he was giving me the benefit of his full attention. He stepped forward to wind the handle again.

‘How about trying the Grand?’ he said.

‘I can’t run to that,’ I said.

‘Eh?’ he said, for he was connected to the station operator again, and had only one ear cocked in my direction.

The office clock said three twenty-two. I still hadn’t eaten my dinner, and it sat on the desk in front of me: bread and cheese and a bottle of warmish tea — an engineman’s snap.

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