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He says that France has found judges to be corrupt and juries to be inept. Justice is becoming for the French an impossible ideal unable to be implemented from the crooked benches of its more crooked courts. The country has left justice in the hands of you seven passengers. It is your duty to reach a verdict. It is your duty to make France proud again.

A vote can be taken at any time in secret or by a show of hands. In order to reach a verdict, the vote of conviction must be no more than one vote shy of unanimity. France will only accept one guilty party. And that guilty party must be sitting at the table. Anything less will reflect shame and dishonor upon the good people of France. Upon the arrival of an acceptable verdict, the murderer will be swiftly, and -- the gendarmes assure you -- brutally disposed off. The decision before each of you is a simple interrogative.

Who killed the Barman? You glare at the ghost of the Peasant. There is only one thought in your mind. Can anything ever kill Communism? The Conductor The setup is different in each person's room. The Conductor. Had a suspicious conversation with the Peasant. Asked me the value of gold in France. Appeared to have a a large number of gold coins in his room. This is unusual, considering he is wearing a burlap sack for a coat and, from the smell that radiates from his body, has not showered in at least one year.

Three days on this train and this is the only lead you've got: a peasant from India with a couple of gold coins. They're probably not even real for God's sake. You've heard that these peasant types like to carry around fake coins to sacrifice or donate or whatever they did to their gods when they get sick. It's no wonder the Peasant has so many, considering his deplorable hygiene. All this is typical of a Scotland Yard investigation: unscrupulous and brash.

It is bad enough that you had to get a job as a conductor on this godforsaken train, owned by the Barman, a fiery Catholic who, among other things, forces you to tithe ten percent of your salary to the Pope. The bastard thinks he's smart. You also have to be at the beck and call of the likes of the unfathomably base Peasant, whose immoderate requests have not been few in number. The only redeeming part of the job is that the angelic Tennis Star happens to be riding this train too.

You reach for the Scotland Yard background report you requested on the Tennis Star two days ago. The pages are already withered from repeated readings. Immigrated to Britain from New York at the age of twelve to live with her uncle and further her tennis career.

Tennis playing ability is considered to be mediocre to poor. Married to affluent but reclusive Lord of Winchester. Also has a nice rack. That last line had been scrawled in the margin by you yesterday. You feel it rounds off the description of the Tennis Star rather nicely.

It is more than true. Yesterday you acquired the evidence to prove it. You were carrying out a routine photoinvestigation of the Tennis Star's bathroom with your Scotland Yard issue Polaroid camera when her breasts inadvertently obscured your field of view. It isn't the first time you've made such a mistake in your years of undercover work, but the Tennis Star is, shall we say, the crowned jewel of your accidental subjects.

Of course she hasn't the foggiest idea you've done it; you are a well-trained detective who knows how to carry. Procedure normally dictates that all photographs be incinerated following such a secretive investigation - to protect the innocent - but you have suspended that rule for these most exceptional items of evidence.

Investigative probes have provided some inconclusive evidence that must be pursued further today. Another investigation of the Tennis Star's bathroom has been scheduled, with the addition of her underwear drawer.

You chuckle silently. No stone goes unturned when the Conductor is on the case. You glance at the clock on your desk.

It's a quarter till three and your teatime break is over. You get up from your chair and grab your Conductor's hat begrudgingly as you head down to report to the Barman. You descend the staircase and pass through the empty Businessman's quarters on the way. His sharp gold-tipped pen glints at you from his desk. The Businessman is another bastard you have to serve on this train.

His hygiene is slightly more refined than the Peasant's, but you can't say as much for his tastes. He has ordered a T-bone steak, medium rare, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. If being grotesquely obese was a crime, you'd have your man and be off this train before dinner. But it isn't, and nor is being a pain in the ass, which disqualifies just about everybody else on this train too. Which brings you to the Barman. He's standing at the counter now, clutching his bloody rosary, with the usual stupid grin on his babyface.

You can hear him reciting the Hail Mary under his breath. You snort. He glares. Let's finish the Hail Mary together, Conductor. Consider it a perk of the job, my good man. He pokes his tongue through the hole as he smiles. You must muster all of your strength to prevent yourself from vomiting.

Ahem, speak up, my good man. He continues anyway. He puts down his rosary. If you don't agree, you will find yourself sore-assed on the platform of the next stop, and mark my words, you'll never work within two hundred miles of this railroad. You've still got twenty-four more hours on this job. No sense in making life unpleasant for yourself. I have an important, er, appointment with a patron who should be arriving any moment, and I would like to moisturize my hands.

That will be all for now,. On your way up you're still laughing at the Barman's stupid expression when a noise that wanders into the stairwell from the compartment below causes your stomach to drop. It's the distinctive click of the Tennis Star's high heels — you know it well. You freeze and listen a little harder.

The clicks meander from the front of the Businessman's compartment to the back, towards the bar car, and then abruptly stop. Then the Tennis Star's heavenly voice rises above the humdrum noise of the locomotive. No need to disturb the other good passengers on the train. It's all becoming clear now.

The Vaseline. The appointment. The high ball. The Tennis Star's high-pitched tremolo of a voice, so full and rich. Was it - soon to be sullied by that asshole? You listen hard at the edge of the staircase for ten minutes, but no more sound can be heard. Gravely you open the door to your room and collapse into your chair lifelessly. You can scarcely believe that a princess like the Tennis Star would stoop so low. You mull the matter over in your head.

You feel wronged, played by the Tennis Star. After all those looks she had given you while you served her dinner. After looking so innocent, so beautiful, so unknowing in that shower, washing her supple breasts with refractive droplets of clear water. She should have been yours. But that bloody oaf, the Barman, had whisked her away from under your nose. Suddenly the words from the British law books flash past your eyes. Section 2, Paragraph 6 of the Royal Marriage Code. You instinctively grab for your pencil to draft a wire to Scotland Yard concerning this matter, but you spy out of the corner of your eye that it's already Where has the time gone?

The Businessman insists on having his dinner at four o'clock sharp, and it's time to take his order. You already know what he wants, but the Barman makes you go through the formality every time.

You put down the pencil, grab your hat, and head downstairs. The Barman stands alone at the counter in the otherwise empty car, holding his rosary, smiling his gaudy smile exactly as you left him. You notice he has changed his shirt. You question him on the matter, but he obliquely replies that the excessive heat in the bar had caused him to sweat too much on the other one.

Sweat indeed. You leave him and push through the door into the cigar car where everyone takes their meals. The Businessman and the Magician sit amidst a cloud of cigar smoke. It looks as if the Magician is showing the Businessman some photos of previous magic shows, but you don't care to look any closer. You've learned over the course of the journey that the Magician has a penchant for pretending to kill his assistants — by drowning, sawing, or the noose — before revealing that it's all a trick.

You cringe to think what terrible devices must be in his room. You tap the Businessman on the shoulder and wait for the usual ramble. It comes as one long roar, exactly as it had yesterday and the previous day. I want them boiled with the skins still on so that it breaks right off as soon as the fork touches it.

Did I mention I want some Tabasco sauce? You know the order by heart now. The Barman looks at it and furrows his brow. We cannot allow such heresy to take place in God-fearing train, can we, Conductor? He lets loose a long cackle. You are sure he had. You watch has he puts the two objects into the toaster, cooks for one minute, and removes them browned on the outside.

The Violinist wanders through the car towards the Businessman's quarters but you pay her no mind - you're watching the Barman as he slaps the tofu onto a silver platter, places a shining silver top over it, and gives it to you. You know that the Businessman is not going to be too happy about his special meal, but you don't say a word.

You take the silver platter out to him and lay it on the table with a wince. You're not expecting what follows to be a pretty sight, and it sure isn't. I ordered a T-Bone steak, medium-rare that is, with.. It does no good. He follows at a somewhat slower pace, his balance being slightly offset by the rolls of fat hanging from his abdomen which bounce up and down each time he makes a step. Then, as if pushed by an invisible hand, the Businessman makes a jab for the Barman.

A shocked expression stretches across the Barman's face, and he sidesteps, leaps over the counter, and sprints in the direction of the Businessman's room. The Businessman, now far behind, waddles after him, his butt cheeks rising and falling with his trod. You happily watch him go. It's beginning to look like you won't even need to cook up any evidence on the Barman to get him out of your way, provided the Businessman doesn't have heart attack before he reached him — which is, on second thought, is not extremely unlikely.

You decide to play it safe, and you grab one of the Barman's soiled aprons and tuck it under your arm. It will be useful for acquiring fingerprints later. You look at the clock. It's already , time for your scheduled visit to the Tennis Star's quarters. You troop back to your room to grab your camera, passing the Violinist, who is carrying her violin in the other direction, looking flustered.

You hear screaming up ahead and figure her practice must have been disturbed by the noise. In your room you throw the Barman's apron in the closet, grab your camera bag, and then set off in the direction of the Tennis Star's room. But you have scarcely reached the cigar car when the Violinist's voice calls out to you, taking you by surprise. You glance up see that she's now got a rose in her hand and she's looking mighty happy talking to the Magician, who is staring at you with a look of disapproval.

You're not too good a thinking on the spot so you do what all great government agents do when confronted with a hairy question: lie. You just keep walking and push right on through into the next room, the odor of which reminds you all too readily that you've arrived at the Peasant's onerous habitat. On your way in you bump into the Lord of Winchester — the same one who is married to the Tennis Star. Upon collision a slew of gold coins fall from his pockets. The Peasant looks on quietly — a little too quietly for your liking.

You look a little more carefully around the room. There are cards scattered on a table, and a few more gold coins floating in a puddle of saliva in front of the Peasant. You walk coolly to the table and take one of the coins, wiping the saliva off on the Peasant's coat. You also take one of the Lord's coins. You bite both of them carefully, testing to see if they are fake as you had suspected previously.

The Peasant's is considerably softer than the Lord's - you would expect nothing more from that two-bit carpetbagger - but they are both real. Alarms go off in the back of your head. It would seem that Scotland Yard's anonymous informant was correct for once. You clear your throat and prepare to fulfill your duty as an agent of the crown by informing the Lord of the illicit nature of his activities. The Lord is evasive. His threats are very unbecoming of a Lord, his ignorance of the law is all too obvious.

And the fact that he has been to bed to the Tennis Star does not exactly make you feel more affable towards him. You reach for your Scotland Yard badge and flash it at his unsuspecting eyes, allowing its reflected rays to illuminate his stupefied expression. You stare at him for a few minutes, debating whether to arrest him now or write him up for future litigation. Scotland Yard will surely give you a promotion for this magnificent catch.

And the Tennis Star, well, she'll be needing some comfort at such a time of loss. You decide upon the arrest.

An unmistakable hiss of shower water can be heard from the Tennis Star's bathroom. On second thought, you decide the Lord could use a little time to think about what he's done. You grab for your notebook and scribble as quickly as you can. Discovered Lord of Winchester participating in nefarious activities with aforementioned Peasant.

Activities include illegal transactions of Royal gold. Will request that Lord be apprehended by authorities upon return to Britain. The Lord and Peasant are staring at you expectantly, probably ready to wet themselves for fear. You tell them nonchalantly that you're going to photograph some of the French vineyards from the balcony of the caboose.

Then you simply walk out, ignoring the flabbergasted looks on their faces. You'll let them roast in their guilt and they'll be begging for mercy on the way back. You feel mighty powerful as you push through the door into the Lord's room and head up the stairs quietly. You are greeted by a panoramic view of the Tennis Star's radiant skin — all of it.

You had discovered yesterday that she likes to shower with the door open, and as you stand in the center of her room you pull out your camera to snap a few shots of the suspicious bar of soap that she's rubbing on her tush.

She turns around, but she can't see you due to the steam clouding up the bathroom. You snap a few more shots of the suspicious necklace between her breasts. You have collected yourself a fine bit of evidence when suddenly you hear footsteps from the direction of the stairwell. You throw your camera back into the bag and make a dash for the closet, closing the door behind you. The footsteps enter the room and clomp towards the bathroom. You hear a sharp slap, then laughter.

You wonder whether it's the Barman engaging in such abusive behavior, and make a note in your journal to add that to his list of crimes. Next comes the tinkling sound a man makes in front of the toilet. But no flush follows. You also make note of this. You can't recall what other sounds you heard because by then your eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the closet and you realized you are standing directly in front of the Tennis Star's clothes hamper.

Your eyes widen in eager anticipation, and you thrust your hand into it, searching for the. You find it quickly — today's used underwear. It's still warm. You shove the little gem into your pocket - you'll dust it for fingerprints and compare them to the prints on the Barman's apron when you get back to your room. Your stream of thought is interrupted by the sound of smashing glass.

That Pollyanna is another suspicious character, like the Tennis Star. So suspicious that you had to devote a two-page spread to her in your album of top secret evidence. Inside the casement is a heavy pipe that, if swung heedlessly, could kill a man. You wonder what the Barman would want with such a thing. You hear the Barman's confident clomp - even his walk is smug - meander out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

You wait about ten minutes — maybe a little longer — for him to clear out of the area, then you get ready to make a break for it. Water's still running in the shower so you figure the coast is clear. On your way out you stop to take a peek into the Tennis Star's underwear drawer - just to get an idea of the personality of the lady you're dealing with. There are a lot of reds and blacks, just as you expected.

Not much nylon but a lot of lace. Nylon makes you itch. Suddenly your hand comes upon a hard glass bottle. It feels suspicious so you pull it out and read the bold words on the front. Only a sweeny like the Barman wouldn't use a condom during sex. Well, you can't blame the Tennis Star not wanting to taint her flawless set of genes with the Barman's rotten gametes.

No — she is a saint for that, and in your eyes it would be a crime any other way. But in the Crown's eyes corrective measures such as abortion are not looked so highly upon — in fact, they're downright frowned upon - and - well - if a certain set of pills should be appropriated by a certain Scotland Yard agent and a certain Tennis star knew about these matters, she might be a little more inclined to choose a lover who is — well — a little less of a sweeny and a little more Your heart leaps as you plan your next move, and you dash through the Lord's room without seeing a soul.

In the next compartment the Peasant is sitting exactly where you left him, but he doesn't fall to his knees, begging for mercy as you expected him to - he's biting his gold like a buffoon. Perhaps the anxiety of being in the clutches of the Law has driven him mad. You pause a moment to catch your breath - the Tennis Star's underwear drawer got you a bit tipsy - and watch with fascination as he chews each piece meticulously, savoring the taste.

You decide to leave him to his simple-minded endeavors and head for the door. But you don't get far before erupts into hysteric laughter. But your path is obscured yet again by the Businessman, who steps in heedlessly from the bar car, nearly running you over. You've already got one passenger displaying disturbing symptoms of psychosis, no sense in making that two.

But it's too late. As you try to circumnavigate his enormous waist, he grabs you by the collar and roars at you in his usual fashion. You can't tell if he's serious or joking, but you try to cover yourself either way. You cite a few laws that permit the carrying of cameras in public places, just to make sure he knows you're serious. His breath smells terribly of whiskey. The Businessman doesn't know a thing; he's just a drunk man rambling about photos of the Magician's assistants.

You decide to throw the old dog a bone. But he does not relent. You take a look at your schedule and tell him the next stop will be at the French village Pont de Muertre in — you glance at your watch and see that it's - about half an hour.

You shake on the deal, but he still doesn't quit. At least there is one other man on this train who has not slept with the Tennis Star, you think. Thank God for that. You walk back to your room, noticing on the way that the Barman is still absent from his post. Maybe the Businessman caught up with him after all. You decide that the Businessman is not such a bad of a fellow — he chooses his enemies well, and you like that in a man.

You'll probably even be sorry to see him go. But not too sorry. You pull out the Barman's apron and your Scotland Yard issue fingerprint dusting kit. It's almost out of dust, but you have just enough for the apron and the underwear. With a quick, experienced hand you dab the dust onto the fabric and three sets of fingerprints turn up: one that you know to be your own, and a small feminine set and a larger masculine set, both of which appear on the apron and the underwear.

You make a note of this in your book and sit down to prepare the wire that will seal the Barman's fate. If you're quick you might even be able have the Barman off this train and in the cage by the next stop. But then you have a change of heart. If the Barman goes, the train stops. And if the train stops, the Tennis Star gets off. And if the Tennis Star gets off You decide the Barman, along with the Lord, can wait until the end of the line before you deal them what's due.

In the meantime, the Tennis Star will have a few obligations — of both the legal and illegal variety - to. But first thing's first — you must still maintain the facade of a conductor and that means informing everyone on the train that it will be stopping in twenty minutes.

You stash the fingerprint kit and the garments into your closet, grab your camera bag — no sense in leaving such valuables unattended - and make your way down the steps, and hang a right towards the good Doctor's room. He's counting an enormous stack of one-hundred dollar bills at his desk. You had no idea the healthcare industry was doing so well, especially in these times of economic depression.

But you have no time to tarry on the matter. You oblige. What is his exact location as we speak? Surprised he's not here though - I thought after the Businessman was through with him he'd be needing your attention. But they both left as good as they came. I didn't think anyone still believed that poison in our enlightened times.

But the Doctor's voice echoes from behind. I need something with which to cut my dinner steak. But suddenly, from out of nowhere, the Doctor incapacitates you with a firm karate chop to the shoulder. You feel your body go completely limp and fall to the ground. The Doctor rummages through your pockets - then your bag. The pills! The expression on his face tells you he's found something in the bag, but before he can pull it out, the train's brakes screech as it begins to pull into the station.

The Doctor is thrown to the ground, and you take the opportunity to grab your bag and dash out of the room. You decide this train is full of nutjobs. Nutjobs who, regrettably, must be reminded the train is stopping at Pont de Muetre. The Businessman's compartment is empty. You move to the next room, shouting your message, and just catch a glimpse of the tails of the Businessman's coat as he hops off the train.

You enter the cigar car and repeat your alert, but there's nobody around to listen. You notice that someone's left the door to the maintenance closet open. You shut the door without bothering to look inside. You go all the way back to the caboose, shouting, but the only person you see is the Peasant, who seems have regained his wits as he is now counting, instead of chewing, his gold coins.

Yes, there is no mistaking that he is his old self again: on your way back he asks what the going rate for young girls is at Pont de Muertre. You punch him in the face, and he collapses into the pool of saliva on his table.

You hope he drowns. The blow you deal to the Peasant gets you feeling uppity. Things are all beginning to fall into place.

You've cooked up enough dirt to throw the Barman and the Lord in the slammer for the next couple of years, and by your calculation that would leave the Tennis Star on the open market. Even if she doesn't think so herself, you believe you can convince her otherwise with those pills.

The train's whistle blows, signaling that it will be pulling out of the station soon. And that means it's time for you to take a much needed break. You take a look around the bar car, but there's not a soul in sight, so you open up your camera bag and dump out the contents. The bottle, the camera, and the pictures, which have by now developed. Boy have they developed. You have a seat at the counter of the bar and hold them up one by one, taking a good look at the gorgeous views they offer up to you.

Each one is a snapshot of heaven, and it's a pity that you're the only man who will ever-- A poodle barks, startling you and causing the pictures to go flying.

You turn your head and see a large man in a mink coat, yellow fedora and sunglasses holding the poodle's leash, staring back at you — well, to be precise, staring at the photos you've now dropped.

He must have jumped the train just as it left the station. You dive down, trying to hide the pictures, but you accidentally knock over the bottle of pills, sending them flying them all over the bar car too. You go for the pictures and the he goes for the pills.

In seconds he's got them loaded back into the bottle and he saunters into the next room — the cigar car. You don't follow him. No, you are too smart for that.

Before you give the cad what he deserves retreat back to your room to get the pictures of the Tennis Star off you before another unexpected encounter. You shove them in your drawer and curse that bastard with his damn poodle. But no matter. He's not going anywhere fast unless he happens to be a suicidal maniac who enjoys jumping out of trains traveling at seventy-five mile per hour. Before you smash that lowlife to smithereens you figure you have a little time to write the Tennis Star the note that you've been cooking up.

You're looking for something warm, something that will accentuate your ability to passionately make love to her, but you want to be firm, too. You've got to show her you mean business. It takes you a few tries but you finally come up with something you feel gets the point across without smashing her over the head. To the love of my life, We have scarcely had a chance to get to know each other on this short journey. But I confess that I have fallen madly in love with you, and I would be lying if I said that I have not noticed your modest eyes wandering in my direction as well.

Let's run away together. I have connections in governments across Europe and can get us a nice house with a pension, and I will make your life far more interesting than that insipid Lord could ever do.

I know, by way of the grapevine, that he has left you unsatisfied in certain departments and you have looked to the Barman to make your life whole. I also know that you would now like your life to be a little less whole.

I will eliminate the menace if you leave him for me. Signed with all the passion in my heart, Conductor. Just then you hear the Tennis Star's familiar clickity click coming from downstairs. It's You grab the note and wander after her. When you get downstairs you just catch a glimpse of her tiny little black skirt bouncing into the bar car, and you hurriedly rush through the room, your thoughts enraptured by her. You don't see her in the bar car - which is still devoid of the Barman or anyone else - and you dash through to the next car.

It's empty too. But then you spy out of the corner of your eye the door to the maintenance closet is open again. You creep up behind it and and curling your hand into a cone-like shape, you place the hand on the door and your ear on the hand.

Then you listen. I am your wife. Do to him what you did to my husband. You shake your head in utter confusion. The Tennis Star and the Lord, plotting against the Barman? You barely have a chance to get your head around the matter before you are incapacitated by a deafening roar coming from the water pipe that lines the corner of your room. You jump onto your bed and bury your head underneath your pillow to protect your precious eardrums. After a few minutes the noise dies down - likely because the train ran out of water.

You pull your head out from under your pillow and open your eyes - whoa, wait a minute. You see nothing. You blink, and put your hand in front of your face - no, there's nothing, only darkness. The electricity must be out. The train is slowing to a halt, too.