“Mr. Dilber, how many passengers is your train carrying?”

“One hundred twenty-seven.”

“One of them is a murderer.”

“A murderer,” the conductor echoed tranquilly. Bell was not surprised. As captain of a crack luxury express train, William Dilber was to remain unflappable in the face of derailments, disgruntled tycoons, and snowbound Pullmans.

“You’ll want to see the passenger list, Mr. Bell. Got it right here.”

He unfolded it from his immaculate blue tunic.

“Do you know many of the passengers?”

“Most. We get a lot of regulars. Most from Chicago. Businessmen back and forth to New York.”

“That will help. Could you point out those you don’t know?”

The conductor traced name by name with a clean, manicured fingernail. He was indeed familiar with most, for the 20th Century Limited was very much a rolling private club. The costly excess-fare express drew on the tiny minority of passengers who were extremely well off, and the train ran a proscribed route between New York and Chicago that was fully booked and rarely took on passengers at intermediate stations. Bell saw well-known names in business, politics, and industry, and some famous touring actors. He noted the names of those few Dilber didn’t know.

“I am particularly interested in foreigners.”

“We’ve got the usual handful. Here’s an Englishman.”

“Arnold Bennett. The writer?”

“I believe he is on a lecture tour. Traveling with these two Chinamen. Harold Wing and Louis Loh. They are missionary students, from an English seminary, I believe. Mr. Bennett made a point of telling me personally that he’s their protector in case anyone gives them trouble. I told him it was all the same to me as long as they pay their fare.”

“Did he say what’s he’s protecting them from?”

“Remember that murder last month in Philadelphia? The girl, and all that white-slaving talk in the papers? The police are shadowing Chinamen hot and heavy.”

Train conductor Dilber continued down the list. “I don’t know this German gentleman. Herr Shafer. His ticket was booked by the German Embassy.”

Bell, make a note.

“Here’s one I know,” the detective said. “Rosania—if he’s traveling under his own name. But he can’t be—a natty dresser of about forty?”

“That’s him. Snappy as a magazine ad.”

“What are you carrying in the express car?”

“The usual stocks and banknotes. Why do you ask?”

“The fellow is a regular wizard with nitroglycerine.”

“A train robber?” the conductor asked less unflappably.

Bell shook his head. “Not as a rule. Rosania generally favors mansions he can talk his way into to blow the jewelry safes after everyone goes to bed. Master of his craft. He can detonate an explosion in the library that they’ll never hear upstairs. But last I knew, he was at Sing Sing State Prison. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with him and see what’s up.”