for women. He had been in that station before and he knew there was no upstairs to go to. Mr. Wheeler never took chances.
Inside the station café it was warm and light; the tables were shiny from wiping and on some there were red and white striped table cloths; and there were blue and white striped table cloths on the others and on all of them baskets with pretzels in glazed paper sacks. The chairs were carved but the wood seats were worn and comfortable. There was a clock on the wall, a zinc bar at the far end of the room, and outside the window it was snowing. Two of the station porters sat drinking new wine at the table under the clock.
Another porter came in and said the Simplon-Orient Express was an hour late at Saint-Maurice. The waitress came over to Mr. Johnson’s table.
“The Express is an hour late, sir,” she said. “Can I bring you some coffee?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Please?” asked the waitress.
“I’ll take some.”
“Thank you.”
She brought the coffee from the kitchen and Mr. Johnson looked out the window at the snow falling in the light from the station platform.
“Do you speak other languages besides English?” he asked the waitress.
“Oh, yes, I speak German and French and the dialects.”
“Would you like a drink of something?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is not permitted to drink in the café with the clients.”
“Have a cigar?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she laughed. “I don’t smoke, sir.”
“Neither do I,” said Johnson. “It’s a dirty habit.”
