Cat Among the Pigeons (5 page)

“Which is?”

Mr. Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

“A substantial bank balance in Geneva, a modest balance in London, considerable assets in his own country now taken over by the glorious new
régime
(and a little bad feeling as to how the spoils have been divided, or so I hear!), and finally a small personal item.”

“Small?”

“These things are relative. Anyway, small in bulk. Handy to carry upon the person.”

“They weren't on Ali Yusuf's person, as far as we know.”

“No. Because he had handed them over to young Rawlinson.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Pikeaway sharply.

“Well, one is never sure,” said Mr. Robinson apologetically. “In a palace there is so much gossip. It cannot
all
be true. But there was a very strong rumour to that effect.”

“They weren't on young Rawlinson's person, either—”

“In that case,” said Mr. Robinson, “it seems as though they must have been got out of the country by some other means.”

“What other means? Have you any idea?”

“Rawlinson went to a café in the town after he had received the jewels. He was not seen to speak to anyone or approach anyone whilst he was there. Then he went to the Ritz Savoy Hotel where his sister was staying. He went up to her room and was there for about 20 minutes. She herself was out. He then left the hotel and went to the Merchants Bank in Victory Square where he cashed a cheque. When he came out of the bank a disturbance was beginning. Students rioting about something. It was some time before the square was cleared. Rawlinson then went straight to the airstrip where, in company with Sergeant Achmed, he went over the plane.

“Ali Yusuf drove out to see the new road construction, stopped his car at the airstrip, joined Rawlinson and expressed a desire to take a short flight and see the dam and the new highway construction from the air. They took off and did not return.”

“And your deductions from that?”

“My dear fellow, the same as yours. Why did Bob Rawlinson spend twenty minutes in his sister's room when she was out and he had been told that she was not likely to return until evening? He left her a note that would have taken him at most three minutes to scribble. What did he do for the rest of the time?”

“You are suggesting that he concealed the jewels in some appropriate place amongst his sister's belongings?”

“It seems indicated, does it not? Mrs. Sutcliffe was evacuated that same day with other British subjects. She was flown to Aden with her daughter. She arrives at Tilbury, I believe, tomorrow.”

Pikeaway nodded.

“Look after her,” said Mr. Robinson.

“We're going to look after her,” said Pikeaway. “That's all arranged.”

“If she has the jewels, she will be in danger.” He closed his eyes. “I so much dislike violence.”

“You think there is likely to be violence?”

“There are people interested. Various undesirable people—if you understand me.”

“I understand you,” said Pikeaway grimly.

“And they will, of course, double cross each other.”

Mr. Robinson shook his head. “So confusing.”

Colonel Pikeaway asked delicately: “Have you yourself any—er—special interest in the matter?”

“I represent a certain group of interests,” said Mr. Robinson. His voice was faintly reproachful. “Some of the stones in question were supplied by my syndicate to his late highness—at a very fair and reasonable price. The group of people I represent who were interested in the recovery of the stones, would, I may venture to say, have had the approval of the late owner. I shouldn't like to say more. These matters are so delicate.”

“But you are definitely on the side of the angels,” Colonel Pikeaway smiled.

“Ah, angels! Angels—yes.” He paused. “Do you happen to know who occupied the rooms in the hotel on either side of the room occupied by Mrs. Sutcliffe and her daughter?”

Colonel Pikeaway looked vague.

“Let me see now—I believe I do. On the left hand side was Señora Angelica de Toredo—a Spanish—er—dancer appearing at the local cabaret. Perhaps not strictly Spanish and perhaps not a very good dancer. But popular with the clientèle. On the other side was one of a group of schoolteachers, I understand—”

Mr. Robinson beamed approvingly.

“You are always the same. I come to tell you things, but nearly always you know them already.”

“No no.” Colonel Pikeaway made a polite disclaimer.

“Between us,” said Mr. Robinson, “we know a good deal.”

Their eyes met.

“I hope,” Mr. Robinson said rising, “that we know enough—”

I

“R
eally!” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, in an annoyed voice, as she looked out of her hotel window, “I don't see why it always has to rain when one comes back to England. It makes it all seem so depressing.”

“I think it's lovely to be back,” said Jennifer. “Hearing everyone talk English in the streets! And we'll be able to have a really good tea presently. Bread and butter and jam and proper cakes.”

“I wish you weren't so insular, darling,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “What's the good of my taking you abroad all the way to the Persian Gulf if you're going to say you'd rather have stayed at home?”

“I don't mind going abroad for a month or two,” said Jennifer. “All I said was I'm glad to be back.”

“Now do get out of the way, dear, and let me make sure that they've brought up all the luggage. Really, I do feel—I've felt ever since the war that people have got very dishonest nowadays. I'm sure if I hadn't kept an eye on things that man would have gone
off with my green zip bag at Tilbury. And there was another man hanging about near the luggage. I saw him afterwards on the train. I believe, you know, that these sneak thieves meet the boats and if the people are flustered or seasick they go off with some of the suitcases.”

“Oh, you're always thinking things like that, Mother,” said Jennifer. “You think everybody you meet is dishonest.”

“Most of them are,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe grimly.

“Not English people,” said the loyal Jennifer.

“That's worse,” said her mother. “One doesn't expect anything else from Arabs and foreigners, but in England one's off guard and that makes it easier for dishonest people. Now do let me count. That's the big green suitcase and the black one, and the two small brown and the zip bag and the golf clubs and the racquets and the holdall and the canvas suitcase—and where's the green bag? Oh, there it is. And that local tin we bought to put the extra things in—yes, one, two, three, four, five, six—yes, that's all right. All fourteen things are here.”

“Can't we have some tea now?” said Jennifer.

“Tea? It's only three o'clock.”

“I'm awfully hungry.”

“All right, all right. Can you go down by yourself and order it? I really feel I must have a rest, and then I'll just unpack the things we'll need for tonight. It's too bad your father couldn't have met us. Why he had to have an important directors' meeting in Newcastle-on-Tyne today I simply cannot imagine. You'd think his wife and daughter would come first. Especially as he hasn't seen us for three months. Are you sure you can manage by yourself?”

“Good gracious, Mummy,” said Jennifer, “what age do you
think I am? Can I have some money, please? I haven't got any English money.”

She accepted the ten shilling note her mother handed to her, and went out scornfully.

The telephone rang by the bed. Mrs. Sutcliffe went to it and picked up the receiver.

“Hallo … Yes … Yes, Mrs. Sutcliffe speaking….”

There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Sutcliffe said, “Just one moment” to the receiver, laid it down and went over to the door. A young man in dark blue overalls was standing there with a small kit of tools.

“Electrician,” he said briskly. “The lights in this suite aren't satisfactory. I've been sent up to see to them.”

“Oh—all right….”

She drew back. The electrician entered.

“Bathroom?”

“Through there—beyond the other bedroom.”

She went back to the telephone.

“I'm so sorry … What were you saying?”

“My name is Derek O'Connor. Perhaps I might come up to your suite, Mrs. Sutcliffe. It's about your brother.”

“Bob? Is there—news of him?”

“I'm afraid so—yes.”

“Oh … Oh, I see … Yes, come up. It's on the third floor, 310.”

She sat down on the bed. She already knew what the news must be.

Presently there was a knock on the door and she opened it to admit a young man who shook hands in a suitably subdued manner.

“Are you from the Foreign Office?”

“My name's Derek O'Connor. My chief sent me round as there didn't seem to be anybody else who could break it to you.”

“Please tell me,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “He's been killed. Is that it?”

“Yes, that's it, Mrs. Sutcliffe. He was flying Prince Ali Yusuf out from Ramat and they crashed in the mountains.”

“Why haven't I heard—why didn't someone wireless it to the boat?”

“There was no definite news until a few days ago. It was known that the plane was missing, that was all. But under the circumstances there might still have been hope. But now the wreck of the plane has been found … I am sure you will be glad to know that death was instantaneous.”

“The Prince was killed as well?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not at all surprised,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. Her voice shook a little but she was in full command of herself. “I knew Bob would die young. He was always reckless, you know—always flying new planes, trying new stunts. I've hardly seen anything of him for the last four years. Oh well, one can't change people, can one?”

“No,” said her visitor, “I'm afraid not.”

“Henry always said he'd smash himself up sooner or later,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. She seemed to derive a kind of melancholy satisfaction from the accuracy of her husband's prophecy. A tear rolled down her cheek and she looked for her handkerchief. “It's been a shock,” she said.

“I know—I'm awfully sorry.”

“Bob couldn't run away, of course,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “I
mean, he'd taken on the job of being the Prince's pilot. I wouldn't have wanted him to throw in his hand. And he was a good flier too. I'm sure if he ran into a mountain it wasn't his fault.”

“No,” said O'Connor, “it certainly wasn't his fault. The only hope of getting the Prince out was to fly in no matter what conditions. It was a dangerous flight to undertake and it went wrong.”

Mrs. Sutcliffe nodded.

“I quite understand,” she said. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”

“There's something more,” said O'Connor, “something I've got to ask you. Did your brother entrust anything to you to take back to England?”

“Entrust something to me?” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “What do you mean?”

“Did he give you any—package—any small parcel to bring back and deliver to anyone in England?”

She shook her head wonderingly. “No. Why should you think he did?”

“There was a rather important package which we think your brother may have given to someone to bring home. He called on you at your hotel that day—the day of the Revolution, I mean.”

“I know. He left a note. But there was nothing in that—just some silly thing about playing tennis or golf the next day. I suppose when he wrote that note, he couldn't have known that he'd have to fly the Prince out that very afternoon.”

“That was all it said?”

“The note? Yes.”

“Have you kept it, Mrs. Sutcliffe?”

“Kept the note he left? No, of course I haven't. It was quite trivial. I tore it up and threw it away. Why should I keep it?”

“No reason,” said O'Connor. “I just wondered.”

“Wondered what?” said Mrs. Sutcliffe crossly.

“Whether there might have been some—other message concealed in it. After all—” he smiled, “—There is such a thing as invisible ink, you know.”

“Invisible ink!” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, with a great deal of distaste, “do you mean the sort of thing they use in spy stories?”

“Well, I'm afraid I do mean just that,” said O'Connor, rather apologetically.

“How idiotic,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “I'm sure Bob would never use anything like invisible ink. Why should he? He was a dear matter-of-fact sensible person.” A tear dripped down her cheek again. “Oh dear, where
is
my bag? I must have a handkerchief. Perhaps I left it in the other room.”

“I'll get it for you,” said O'Connor.

He went through the communicating door and stopped as a young man in overalls who was bending over a suitcase straightened up to face him, looking rather startled.

“Electrician,” said the young man hurriedly. “Something wrong with the lights here.”

O'Connor flicked a switch.

“They seem all right to me,” he said pleasantly.

“Must have given me the wrong room number,” said the electrician.

He gathered up his tool bag and slipped out quickly through the door to the corridor.

O'Connor frowned, picked up Mrs. Sutcliffe's bag from the dressing table and took it back to her.

“Excuse me,” he said, and picked up the telephone receiver. “Room 310 here. Have you just sent up an electrician to see to the light in this suite? Yes … Yes, I'll hang on.”

He waited.

“No? No, I thought you hadn't. No, there's nothing wrong.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to Mrs. Sutcliffe.

“There's nothing wrong with any of the lights here,” he said. “And the office didn't send up an electrician.”

“Then what was that man doing? Was he a thief?”

“He may have been.”

Mrs. Sutcliffe looked hurriedly in her bag. “He hasn't taken anything out of my bag. The money is all right.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Sutcliffe, absolutely
sure
that your brother didn't give you anything to take home, to pack among your belongings?”

“I'm absolutely sure,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe.

“Or your daughter—you have a daughter, haven't you?”

“Yes. She's downstairs having tea.”

“Could your brother have given anything to her?”

“No, I'm sure he couldn't.”

“There's another possibility,” said O'Connor. “He might have hidden something in your baggage among your belongings that day when he was waiting for you in your room.”

“But why should Bob do such a thing? It sounds absolutely absurd.”

“It's not quite so absurd as it sounds. It seems possible that Prince Ali Yusuf gave your brother something to keep for him and
that your brother thought it would be safer among your possessions than if he kept it himself.”

“Sounds very unlikely to me,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe.

“I wonder now, would you mind if we searched?”

“Searched through my luggage, do you mean? Unpack?” Mrs. Sutcliffe's voice rose with a wail on that word.

“I know,” said O'Connor. “It's a terrible thing to ask you. But it might be very important. I could help you, you know,” he said persuasively. “I often used to pack for my mother. She said I was quite a good packer.”

He exerted all the charm which was one of his assets to Colonel Pikeaway.

“Oh well,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, yielding, “I suppose—If you say so—if, I mean, it's really important—”

“It might be very important,” said Derek O'Connor. “Well, now,” he smiled at her. “Suppose we begin.”

II

Three-quarters of an hour later Jennifer returned from her tea. She looked round the room and gave a gasp of surprise.

“Mummy, what
have
you been doing?”

“We've been unpacking,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe crossly. “Now we're packing things up again. This is Mr. O'Connor. My daughter Jennifer.”

“But why are you packing and unpacking?”

“Don't ask me why,” snapped her mother. “There seems to be some idea that your Uncle Bob put something in my luggage to bring home. He didn't give you anything, I suppose, Jennifer?”

“Uncle Bob give me anything to bring back? No. Have you been unpacking my things too?”

“We've unpacked everything,” said Derek O'Connor cheerfully, “and we haven't found a thing and now we're packing them up again. I think you ought to have a drink of tea or something, Mrs. Sutcliffe. Can I order you something? A brandy and soda perhaps?” He went to the telephone.

“I wouldn't mind a good cup of tea,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe.

“I had a smashing tea,” said Jennifer. “Bread and butter and sandwiches and cake and then the waiter brought me more sandwiches because I asked him if he'd mind and he said he didn't. It was lovely.”

O'Connor ordered the tea, then he finished packing up Mrs. Sutcliffe's belongings again with a neatness and a dexterity which forced her unwilling admiration.

“Your mother seems to have trained you to pack very well,” she said.

“Oh, I've all sorts of handy accomplishments,” said O'Connor smiling.

His mother was long since dead, and his skill in packing and unpacking had been acquired solely in the service of Colonel Pikeaway.

“There's just one thing more, Mrs. Sutcliffe. I'd like you to be very careful of yourself.”

“Careful of myself? In what way?”

“Well,” O'Connor left it vague. “Revolutions are tricky things. There are a lot of ramifications. Are you staying in London long?”

“We're going down to the country tomorrow. My husband will be driving us down.”

“That's all right then. But—don't take any chances. If anything in the least out of the ordinary happens, ring 999 straight away.”

“Ooh!” said Jennifer, in high delight. “Dial 999. I've always wanted to.”

“Don't be silly, Jennifer,” said her mother.

III

Extract from account in a local paper.