Harry
Passers-by glancing into the car saw a quiet woman reading. Politeness kept most people from staring into the car as they went by, except, perhaps, the first time if they were of an overly curious nature. And there really wasn't much at her end of the train to require people to pass by. So when the handsome, well-dressed gentleman seemed to come by more often than others, with a steely glance into the car each time, she took note.
She wasn't quite sure why, but she decided to remove the derringer from her reticule and put it in her lap, tucked into the folds of her skirt. The reticule itself remained at her side and her book now rested on the gun, mere inches from her fingers.
She glanced up as the man sidled down the corridor yet again, glancing both ways before opening her door and slipping in, promptly taking a seat across from her as if he belonged there. She just stared at him, letting him begin the conversation. She had learned from observing her father that most people seemed not to be able to handle silence and would soon start babbling just to fill the void.
Mentally thanking her father for the various nuggets she had gleaned from him over the years about people, she remained still as the man darted his eyes about and then returned them to her.
“Where is it?” he demanded of her, and then repeated, “Where is it?”
Slowly she inserted her bookmark and closed the volume, leaving it on her lap but keeping her fingers curled around the book, where they were actually touching the gun. She refrained from fingering it, or otherwise moving her fingers, and portrayed absolute calmness, although her heart had started thundering in her chest.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but we have not been introduced.”
He stared at her as if she had spoken in Greek to him. His reaction gave her a bit of confidence.
“I'm afraid you will have to remove yourself,” she continued, as if chatting with a friend at tea, “as you are unknown to me.”
A crafty look came into his eyes.
“We may not have met but your stepmother asked me to watch out for you.”
“I fear you are mistaken if you believe that will commend you to me.” She casually shifted, lifting her left hand to rest upon the armrest.
She had deliberately brushed her fingers against her reticule, as if to ensure its location, and, as she had hoped, his eyes were caught by the bag and didn't notice that her fingers we're now pressing the call button set into the armrest. The agreed signal had been one long and two short rings. She could only hope that someone was within hearing distance of the bell.
The stranger's eyes were still locked on her reticule and he suddenly demanded in a bark, “You had best pass that purse to me.”
“I am sorry,” she said, “I thought you said you were checking on me on behalf of Step-mama.”
He laughed harshly. “Yes, and she asked me to check your reticule.”
“I'm afraid that is not appropriate,” she responded stiffly.
His handsome face morphed into an ugly mask and his eyes became balls of steel, while his voice dropped to a gravelly range.
“Give.Me.The.Reticule. Now!”
For whatever reason, Miranda was beginning to enjoy herself. Lowering her eyes and peering through her lashes, she did her best to appear the Damsel in Distress as she reached her left hand down and grasped the reticule reluctantly, then glanced at the bag and back up at her adversary.
“Now!” he ground out again, more loudly.”
She gradually lifted the bag, bending forward slightly to hand it to him. His hand snaked out and snatched it from her. His eyes were on the reticule, as she slid her derringer out from under the book and pointed it at him. She did have some money in her bag, but anything of value was in the pocket of her chemise, securely out of sight.
His hands rapidly tore through the contents and then dumped the remainder onto the seat beside him.
“Where is it?” he barked.
“Where is what?” she responded.
“The necklace! The diamond necklace!”
She watched his eyes widen as he became aware of the gun pointed at his middle.
“I know you have it hidden on you someplace!” he exclaimed, tensing his muscles as if to attack her.
“Don't you know I cannot miss at this range?” she queried calmly. “While you might survive being gut-shot, it would not be a pleasant recovery for you, especially from a jail cell.”
His eyes dropped to the gun and he seemed to relax a fraction and then his muscles started to bunch again. But she had seen a movement behind him and smiled. The smile stopped him. There weren't too many women who would actually pull a trigger but someone who would smile while doing it—that was someone to be afraid of. Harriet Krause was like that.
Miranda was startled to see the man turn white and drop back into the seat. She could see Peters and the conductor approaching her door and, flourishing the gun just slightly, nodded in their direction.
“No,” said Harry, “you're not going to get me that way. I know there's no one out there.” His smile broadened.
“Believe what you wish.” And then in a conversational tone she asked, “Are you the one they call Handsome Harry?”
She saw him start to preen at the moniker.
“Oh, I see you are. So is there anyone else with you or was it just you and Sunny?”
His eyes bugged out just a bit. He had seen Sunny pulled off the train and hadn't realized this woman was behind it. Who was she? He thought it was her father who
