One of the Samsonites could be ruled out, since it was mine, which left me four cases to worry about. The content of one of these would tell me who it was that was here to kill me – and he didn’t have to open it up to show me. In fact, I was pretty damn sure he had no intention of opening that briefcase until long after this train had reached Montreal.

It would be highly unlikely for any man to carry a briefcase with him on a long train journey, and not to open that case at any time during that journey. On an hour-long commuter ride, most men click their cases open at least once; on a forty-hour journey, the man who did not open his briefcase would start to stand out like a sore thumb to anyone interested enough to take the trouble to notice. And I was plenty interested enough.

I put down my book and picked up my New York Sunday Times magazine and turned to the mammoth crossword. I pulled my gold Cross ball-point from my pocket, looked down towards the crossword, and tapped the top of the pen thoughtfully in my mouth. Gripping the pen in my teeth I looked up after some moments, then lowered my eyes back down towards the crossword. Fourteen across: Short Richard’s offspring divides nation with friendly underground railroad? Where the hell did I begin on that one? Normally I liked crosswords; in the long and boring hours of tailing someone, when it wasn’t possible to read a book in case one missed something, at least the clues of a crossword gave me something to chew on. But right now, I had plenty to chew on without this particular puzzle. I had a puzzle that was far more complex, and if I didn’t solve it fast, there was a pension-fund manager in England who was going to have one less pension to worry about. I squinted my eyes down towards the crossword, but it wasn’t the clues that were printed on the paper that were going to help me – it was the rotating digits in the dial that was concealed in the barrel of my pen.

After a few minutes my right leg went to sleep for the fifteenth time. I tried to move it and it hurt like hell, but not moving it hurt even more. I needed to go for a walk – if I was even capable of standing up. Apart from a brief trip to the washroom earlier, I hadn’t moved since boarding the train at Winnipeg last night. I had reclined my seat to go to sleep, and tilted it up again to eat the breakfast that appeared on a tray. I had a splitting headache, and my nose was running. The way I must have looked, I was worth gold nuggets to the advertising agency of any airline.