Nicky was still at the map measuring distances with a pencil. “Exactly nine miles from Hadley is the Old Sumter Inn,” he announced.

“Old Sumter Inn,” I echoed. “But that upsets the whole theory. You can arrange for transportation there as easily as you can in a town.”

He shook his head. “The cars are kept in an enclosure and you have to get an attendant to check you through the gate. The attendant would remember anyone taking out his car at a strange hour. It’s a pretty conservative place. He could have waited in his room until he got a call from Washington about someone on the Flyer — maybe the number of the car and the berth. Then he could just slip out of the hotel and walk to Hadley.”

I stared at him, hypnotized.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to slip aboard while the train was taking on water, and then if he knew the car number and the berth —”

“Nicky,” I said portentously, “as the reform district attorney who campaigned on an economy program, I am going to waste the taxpayers’ money and call Boston long distance. It’s ridiculous; it’s insane — but I’m going to do it!”

His little blue eyes glittered and he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Go ahead,” he said hoarsely.

I replaced the telephone in its cradle. “Nicky,” I said, “this is probably the most remarkable coincidence in the history of criminal investigation: A man was found murdered in his berth on last night’s twelve forty-seven from Washington! He’d been dead about three hours, which would make it exactly right for Hadley.”

“I thought it was something like that,” said Nicky. “But you’re wrong about its being a coincidence. It can’t be. Where did you get that sentence?”