Cat Among the Pigeons (4 page)

“We've a lot of baggage, you know. We were going home by long sea—next Wednesday. The sea voyage will be good for Jen
nifer. The doctor said so. I really must absolutely decline to alter all my arrangements and be flown to England in this silly flurry.”

The unhappy looking man said encouragingly that Mrs. Sutcliffe and her daughter could be flown, not to England, but to Aden and catch their boat there.

“With our baggage?”

“Yes, yes, that can be arranged. I've got a car waiting—a station wagon. We can load everything right away.”

“Oh well.” Mrs. Sutcliffe capitulated. “I suppose we'd better pack.”

“At once, if you don't mind.”

The woman in the bedroom drew back hurriedly. She took a quick glance at the address on a luggage label on one of the suitcases. Then she slipped quickly out of the room and back into her own just as Mrs. Sutcliffe turned the corner of the corridor.

The clerk from the office was running after her.

“Your brother, the Squadron Leader, has been here, Mrs. Sutcliffe. He went up to your room. But I think that he has left again. You must just have missed him.”

“How tiresome,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “Thank you,” she said to the clerk and went on to Jennifer, “I suppose Bob's fussing too. I can't see any sign of disturbance
myself
in the streets. This door's unlocked. How careless these people are.”

“Perhaps it was Uncle Bob,” said Jennifer.

“I wish I hadn't missed him … Oh, there's a note.” She tore it open.

“At any rate
Bob
isn't fussing,” she said triumphantly. “He obviously doesn't know a thing about all this. Diplomatic windup, that's all it is. How I hate trying to pack in the heat of the day. This
room's like an oven. Come on, Jennifer, get your things out of the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. We must just shove everything in anyhow. We can repack later.”

“I've never been in a revolution,” said Jennifer thoughtfully.

“I don't expect you'll be in one this time,” said her mother sharply. “It will be just as I say. Nothing will happen.”

Jennifer looked disappointed.

I
t was some six weeks later that a young man tapped discreetly on the door of a room in Bloomsbury and was told to come in.

It was a small room. Behind a desk sat a fat middle-aged man slumped in a chair. He was wearing a crumpled suit, the front of which was smothered in cigar ash. The windows were closed and the atmosphere was almost unbearable.

“Well?” said the fat man testily, and speaking with half-closed eyes. “What is it now, eh?”

It was said of Colonel Pikeaway that his eyes were always just closing in sleep, or just opening after sleep. It was also said that his name was not Pikeaway and that he was not a colonel. But some people will say anything!

“Edmundson, from the F.O., is here sir.”

“Oh,” said Colonel Pikeaway.

He blinked, appeared to be going to sleep again and muttered:

“Third secretary at our Embassy in Ramat at the time of the Revolution. Right?”

“That's right, sir.”

“I suppose, then, I'd better see him,” said Colonel Pikeaway without any marked relish. He pulled himself into a more upright position and brushed off a little of the ash from his paunch.

Mr. Edmundson was a tall fair young man, very correctly dressed with manners to match, and a general air of quiet disapproval.

“Colonel Pikeaway? I'm John Edmundson. They said you—er—might want to see me.”

“Did they? Well, they should know,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “Siddown,” he added.

His eyes began to close again, but before they did so, he spoke:

“You were in Ramat at the time of the Revolution?”

“Yes, I was. A nasty business.”

“I suppose it would be. You were a friend of Bob Rawlinson's, weren't you?”

“I know him fairly well, yes.”

“Wrong tense,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “He's dead.”

“Yes, sir, I know. But I wasn't sure—” he paused.

“You don't have to take pains to be discreet here,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “We know everything here. Or if we don't, we pretend we do. Rawlinson flew Ali Yusuf out of Ramat on the day of the Revolution. Plane hasn't been heard of since. Could have landed in some inaccessible place, or could have crashed. Wreckage of a plane has been found in the Arolez mountains. Two bodies. News will be released to the Press tomorrow. Right?”

Edmundson admitted that it was quite right.

“We know all about things here,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “That's what we're for. Plane flew into the mountain. Could have been weather conditions. Some reason to believe it was sabotage.
Delayed action bomb. We haven't got the full reports yet. The plane crashed in a pretty inaccessible place. There was a reward offered for finding it, but these things take a long time to filter through. Then we had to fly out experts to make an examination. All the red tape, of course. Applications to a foreign government, permission from ministers, palm greasing—to say nothing of the local peasantry appropriating anything that might come in useful.”

He paused and looked at Edmundson.

“Very sad, the whole thing,” said Edmundson. “Prince Ali Yusuf would have made an enlightened ruler, with democratic principles.”

“That's what probably did the poor chap in,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “But we can't waste time in telling sad stories of the deaths of kings. We've been asked to make certain—inquiries. By interested parties. Parties, that is, to whom Her Majesty's Government is well-disposed.” He looked hard at the other. “Know what I mean?”

“Well, I have heard something.” Edmundson spoke reluctantly.

“You've heard perhaps, that nothing of value was found on the bodies, or amongst the wreckage, or as far as is known, had been pinched by the locals. Though as to that, you can never tell with peasants. They can clam up as well as the Foreign Office itself. And what else have you heard?”

“Nothing else.”

“You haven't heard that perhaps something of value
ought
to have been found? What did they send you to me for?”

“They said you might want to ask me certain questions,” said Edmundson primly.

“If I ask you questions I shall expect answers,” Colonel Pikeaway pointed out.

“Naturally.”

“Doesn't seem natural to you, son. Did Bob Rawlinson say anything to you before he flew out of Ramat? He was in Ali's confidence if anyone was. Come now, let's have it. Did he say anything?”

“As to what, sir?”

Colonel Pikeaway stared hard at him and scratched his ear.

“Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “Hush up this and don't say that. Overdo it in my opinion! If you don't know what I'm talking about, you don't know, and there it is.”

“I think there was something—” Edmundson spoke cautiously and with reluctance. “Something important that Bob might have wanted to tell me.”

“Ah,” said Colonel Pikeaway, with the air of a man who has at last pulled the cork out of a bottle. “Interesting. Let's have what you know.”

“It's very little, sir. Bob and I had a kind of simple code. We'd cottoned on to the fact that all the telephones in Ramat were being tapped. Bob was in the way of hearing things at the Palace, and I sometimes had a bit of useful information to pass on to him. So if one of us rang the other up and mentioned a girl or girls, in a certain way, using the term ‘out of this world' for her, it meant something was up!”

“Important information of some kind or other?”

“Yes. Bob rang me up using those terms the day the whole show started. I was to meet him at our usual rendezvous—outside one of the banks. But rioting broke out in that particular quarter
and the police closed the road. I couldn't make contact with Bob or he with me. He flew Ali out the same afternoon.”

“I see,” said Pikeaway. “No idea where he was telephoning from?”

“No. It might have been anywhere.”

“Pity.” He paused and then threw out casually:

“Do you know Mrs. Sutcliffe?”

“You mean Bob Rawlinson's sister? I met her out there, of course. She was there with a schoolgirl daughter. I don't know her well.”

“Were she and Bob Rawlinson very close?”

Edmundson considered.

“No, I shouldn't say so. She was a good deal older than he was, and rather much of the elder sister. And he didn't much like his brother-in-law—always referred to him as a pompous ass.”

“So he is! One of our prominent industrialists—and how pompous can they get! So you don't think it likely that Bob Rawlinson would have confided an important secret to his sister?”

“It's difficult to say—but no, I shouldn't think so.”

“I shouldn't either,” said Colonel Pikeaway.

He sighed. “Well, there we are, Mrs. Sutcliffe and her daughter are on their way home by the long sea route. Dock at Tilbury on the
Eastern Queen
tomorrow.”

He was silent for a moment or two, whilst his eyes made a thoughtful survey of the young man opposite him. Then, as though having come to a decision, he held out his hand and spoke briskly.

“Very good of you to come.”

“I'm only sorry I've been of such little use. You're sure there's nothing I can do?”

“No. No. I'm afraid not.”

John Edmundson went out.

The discreet young man came back.

“Thought I might have sent him to Tilbury to break the news to the sister,” said Pikeaway. “Friend of her brother's—all that. But I decided against it. Inelastic type. That's the F.O. training. Not an opportunist. I'll send round what's his name.”

“Derek?”

“That's right,” Colonel Pikeaway nodded approval. “Getting to know what I mean quite well, ain't you?”

“I try my best, sir.”

“Trying's not enough. You have to succeed. Send me along Ronnie first. I've got an assignment for him.”

II

Colonel Pikeaway was apparently just going off to sleep again when the young man called Ronnie entered the room. He was tall, dark, muscular, and had a gay and rather impertinent manner.

Colonel Pikeaway looked at him for a moment or two and then grinned.

“How'd you like to penetrate into a girls' school?” he asked.

“A girls' school?” The young man lifted his eyebrows. “That will be something new! What are they up to? Making bombs in the chemistry class?”

“Nothing of that kind. Very superior high-class school. Meadowbank.”

“Meadowbank!” the young man whistled. “I can't believe it!”

“Hold your impertinent tongue and listen to me. Princess
Shaista, first cousin and only near relative of the late Prince Ali Yusuf of Ramat, goes there this next term. She's been at school in Switzerland up to now.”

“What do I do? Abduct her?”

“Certainly not. I think it possible she may become a focus of interest in the near future. I want you to keep an eye on developments. I'll have to leave it vague. I don't know what or who may turn up, but if any of our more unlikeable friends seem to be interested, report it … A watching brief, that's what you've got.”

The young man nodded.

“And how do I get in to watch? Shall I be the drawing master?”

“The visiting staff is all female.” Colonel Pikeaway looked at him in a considering manner. “I think I'll have to make you a gardener.”

“A gardener?”

“Yes. I'm right in thinking you know something about gardening?”

“Yes, indeed. I ran a column on
Your Garden
in the
Sunday Mail
for a year in my younger days.”

“Tush!” said Colonel Pikeaway. “That's nothing! I could do a column on gardening myself without knowing a thing about it—just crib from a few luridly illustrated Nurseryman's catalogues and a Gardening Encyclopedia. I know all the patter. ‘
Why not break away from tradition and sound a really tropical note in your border this year? Lovely Amabellis Gossiporia, and some of the wonderful new Chinese hybrids of Sinensis Maka foolia. Try the rich blushing beauty of a clump of Sinistra Hopaless, not very hardy but they should be all right against a west wall.
'” He broke off and grinned. “Nothing to it! The fools buy the things and early frost sets in and kills them and they wish they'd
stuck to wallflowers and forget-me-nots! No, my boy, I mean the real stuff. Spit on your hands and use the spade, be well acquainted with the compost heap, mulch diligently, use the Dutch hoe and every other kind of hoe, trench really deep for your sweet peas—and all the rest of the beastly business. Can you do it?”

“All these things I have done from my youth upwards!”

“Of course you have. I know your mother. Well, that's settled.”

“Is there a job going as a gardener at Meadowbank?”

“Sure to be,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “Every garden in England is short staffed. I'll write you some nice testimonials. You'll see, they'll simply jump at you. No time to waste, summer term begins on the 29th.”

“I garden and I keep my eyes open, is that right?”

“That's it, and if any oversexed teenagers make passes at you, Heaven help you if you respond. I don't want you thrown out on your ear too soon.”

He drew a sheet of paper towards him. “What do you fancy as a name?”

“Adam would seem appropriate.”

“Last name?”

“How about Eden?”

“I'm not sure I like the way your mind is running. Adam Goodman will do very nicely. Go and work out your past history with Jenson and then get cracking.” He looked at his watch. “I've no more time for you. I don't want to keep Mr. Robinson waiting. He ought to be here by now.”

Adam (to give him his new name) stopped as he was moving to the door.

“Mr. Robinson?” he asked curiously. “Is
he
coming?”

“I said so.” A buzzer went on the desk. “There he is now. Always punctual, Mr. Robinson.”

“Tell me,” said Adam curiously. “Who is he really? What's his real name?”

“His name,” said Colonel Pikeaway, “is Mr. Robinson. That's all I know, and that's all anybody knows.”

III

The man who came into the room did not look as though his name was, or could ever have been, Robinson. It might have been Demetrius, or Isaacstein, or Perenna—though not one or the other in particular. He was not definitely Jewish, nor definitely Greek nor Portuguese nor Spanish, nor South American. What did seem highly unlikely was that he was an Englishman called Robinson. He was fat and well-dressed, with a yellow face, melancholy dark eyes, a broad forehead, and a generous mouth that displayed rather over-large very white teeth. His hands were well-shaped and beautifully kept. His voice was English with no trace of accent.

He and Colonel Pikeaway greeted each other rather in the manner of two reigning monarchs. Politenesses were exchanged.

Then, as Mr. Robinson accepted a cigar, Colonel Pikeaway said:

“It is very good of you to offer to help us.”

Mr. Robinson lit his cigar, savoured it appreciatively, and finally spoke.

“My dear fellow. I just thought—I hear things, you know. I know a lot of people, and they tell me things. I don't know why.”

Colonel Pikeaway did not comment on the reason why.

He said:

“I gather you've heard that Prince Ali Yusuf's plane has been found?”

“Wednesday of last week,” said Mr. Robinson. “Young Rawlinson was the pilot. A tricky flight. But the crash wasn't due to an error on Rawlinson's part. The plane had been tampered with—by a certain Achmed—senior mechanic. Completely trustworthy—or so Rawlinson thought. But he wasn't. He's got a very lucrative job with the new
régime
now.”

“So it was sabotage! We didn't know that for sure. It's a sad story.”

“Yes. That poor young man—Ali Yusuf, I mean—was ill equipped to cope with corruption and treachery. His public school education was unwise—or at least that is my view. But we do not concern ourselves with him now, do we? He is yesterday's news. Nothing is so dead as a dead king. We are concerned, you in your way, I in mine, with what dead kings leave behind them.”