Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

“Damn,” he said, under his breath, like a man who’d discovered his bank account was skinnier than he thought. He set it again. It was almost 9:30. We nursed the coffees for another few songs, then sat for a while after that. My feet had warmed up and the shoes were beginning to pinch a little. When the clock said ten, I watched Caspar carefully count out the money. One dollar, a dime, a nickel, and three pennies. A dollar and eighteen cents’ worth of heat and coffee. We got up without leaving a tip. I was about to open the door when the sweaty guy with a stained apron spoke up.

“Hey guys, you owe me some more money.” Caspar wrinkled his face as he turned. He was usually careful about such things.

“I counted out a dollar eighteen,” he said.

“Yeah, but the change is Canadian. Ain’t worth as much.”

Caspar and I wandered over and looked. The dollar was okay but change that should have carried the likes of Roosevelt, Jefferson, and Lincoln was showing Queen Elizabeth.

“I’ve got no problem with Canadian money,” said the beef with the apron, “but it ain’t worth as much. You owe me a dime more.” Casper quickly reached into his jacket. The change was American. He handed over a dime then slipped the rest back into his pocket.

“Thanks.”

Caspar nodded and we braced for the cold. Once outside, Caspar reached into his jacket again. The change that came out was Canadian. I was pondering it all when Caspar peered at the watch. It said 11:57. Suddenly his eyes grew colder than the night. He shoved his hand in his pocket, pulled out the ID and studied it.

I was craning for a look when without a word, Caspar began running towards where we had left the dead bum. I tried to keep up with him but the shoes pinched too much. I slowed to a hobbling walk as he disappeared into the brush. When I finally got back to the body, Caspar was gone. But lying on the dead man’s chest was everything Caspar had taken: a small pile of change — American — the watch, scarf, and faded ID.

I picked it all up, kept the still-warm small shoes on, and worked my way back to the shack. Empty. The coffee can was snowball cold. I roamed the rail yard looking for Caspar. While I searched I began to worry about the body and the police. Caspar could have set it all up after finding him. Maybe the old guy had some cash on him and Caspar wanted to travel rather than divvy up. Maybe he’d tell the police I had something to do with the bum being dead just so he could stay warm for the night, maybe even get a free meal. That would be like Caspar. He was probably getting me into trouble, and the best thing for me to do was catch the next train south — but I didn’t want any problems following me.

I began to backtrack until I got to the path into the brush. I found the body and hiked it onto my shoulder, carrying it like a fat plank. Shoving the branches aside, I worked my way to the edge of the tangle and stood the body up. I leaned it against my back and waited, waited while the wind iced my skin and the dead bum stared at the stars.

Just about the time my feet were starting to freeze again, I heard the Quebec-bound train rumble into the rail yard. It had to slow for the diamond where the rails crisscross, cutting through each other. As I watched, the dark hulk curved through the yard, then slowly began to pick up speed again. That’s when I saw Caspar, his moon-pale face searching the tracks for me. He was hiding behind an empty caboose.

Running beside the train, he jumped through the open door of the first empty boxcar. I knew right then our traveling days were over. I could tell by the way he quickly looked around that he was anxious to get out of there, anxious enough to hop a northbound train in January. While I watched him disappear aboard, I saw my opportunity.

As the open door approached, I cradled the hard body in my arms, estimated the speed of the train, then quickly took three long steps, tossing the bum almost into Caspar’s lap. I spun and ducked into the brush still seeing the horror on Caspar’s face as the body bounced towards him. I didn’t look back.

When I got to the streetlight, I checked the change in my pocket. American. Enough for two cups of coffee, maybe a cup and doughnut. I looked at the watch. It said 11:58. I reset it to about 11:17 and headed for the cafe.

I ordered a coffee, then a refill as I sponged up the heat and listened to the jukebox. Caspar, and any of his schemes, was heading northward with company unless he kicked the body out on Casco Bay bridge. I finished the coffee. It was his problem, not mine. I was heading south.

As warm as crisp toast, I slapped some change on the counter, wrapped the scarf around my neck and headed for the door. I knew a tin-can stove that would keep me alive until the 4:00 A.M. came through. Then it was south to Boston, maybe farther if I was lucky and caught an east-coast freight. I could be in Atlanta or Miami in a week or so. I was almost out the door when the apron behind the counter stopped me.