PASSENGER TO FRANKFURT Agatha Christie was born in Torquay of an English mother and an American father^ Her first novel was The Mysterious Affair at Styles, written towards the end of the First World War, in which she served as a V.A.D. in France. It was in this book that she created the brilliant little Belgian detective with the egg shaped head and the impressive moustaches, Hercule Poirot, who was destined to become the most popular detective in crime fiction since Sherlock Holmes. In 1926 she wrote what is still considered her masterpiece. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. This was the first of her books to be published by William Collins, who have been her publishers ever since. Her 73rd detective novel. Elephants Can Remember, appeared in November 1972. Agatha Christie, now in her eighties, is married to Sir Max Mallowan, a well-known archaeologist, and apart from her writing, her husband's subject, archaeology, remains her chief outside interest. They live in a beautiful house in Devon, overlooking the river Dart, and they also have a home in London. Hallowe'en Party Sad Cypress Cat Among the Pigeons Parker Pyne Investigates Dead Man's Folly Murder in Mesopotamia The Moving Finger A Pocket Full of Rye The Hollow The Body in the Library Third Girl Hercule Poirot's Christmas Why Didn't They Ask Evans? Appointment with Death Lord Edgware Dies The Hound of Death Towards Zero The A.B.C. Murders Hickory Diekory Dock Five Little Pigs and many others AGATHA CHBISTE Passenger to Frankfurt AN EXTRAVAGANZA FONTANA/CoUins First published by Wm. Collins 1970 First issued in Pontana Books 1973 Second Impression August 1973 Third Impression September 1973 © Agatha Christie Ltd., 1970 Printed in Great Britain Collins Clear-Type Press London and Glasgow TO MARGARET GUILLAUME CONDITIONS OF SALE: This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser CONTENTS Introduction 7 BOOK 1: INTERRUPTED JOURNEY 1 Passenger to Frankfurt 13 2 London 21 3 The Man from the Cleaners 28 4 Dinner with Eric 36 5 Wagnerian Motif 45 6 Portrait of a Lady 50 7 Advice from Great-Aunt Matilda 58 8 An Embassy Dinner 63 9 The House near Godalming 72 BOOK 2: JOURNEY TO SIEGFRIED 10 The Woman in the Schloss 89 11 The Young and the Lovely 103 12 Court Jester 109 BOOK 3: AT HOME AND ABROAD 13 Conference in Paris 117 14 Conference in London 121 15 Aunt Matilda Takes a Cure 131 16 Pikeaway Talks 141 17 Herr Heinrich Spiess 145 18 Pikeaway's Postscript 156 19 Sir Stafford Nye Has Visitors 158 20 The Admiral Visits an Old Friend 164 21 Project Benvo 172 22 Juanita 174 23 Journey to Scotland 177 Epilogue 190 'Leadership, besides being a great creative force, can be diabolical . . .' jan smuts INTRODUCTION The Author speaks: The first question put to an author, personally, or through the post, is: 'Where do you get your ideas from?' The temptation is great to reply: 'I always go to Harrods,' or 'I get them mostly at the Army & Navy Stores,' or, snappily, 'Try Marks and Spencer.' The universal opinion seems firmly established that there is a magic source of ideas which authors have discovered how to tap. One can hardly send one's questioners back to Elizabethan times, with Shakespeare's: Tell me, where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head, How begot, how nourished? - Reply, reply. You merely say firmly: "My own head.' That, pf course, is no help to anybody. If you like the look of your questioner you relent^and go a little further. 'If one idea in particular seems attractive, and you feel you could do something with it, then you toss it around, play tricks with it, work it up, tone it down, and gradually get it into shape. Then, of course, you have to start writing it. That's not nearly such fun--it becomes hard work. Alternatively, you can tuck it carefully away, in storage, for perhaps using in a year or two years' time.' A second question--or rather a statement--is then likely to be: 'I suppose you take most of your characters from real life?' An indignant denial to that monstrous suggestion. 'No, I don't. I invent them. They are mine. They've got to be my characters--doing what I want them to do, being what I want them to be--coming alive for me, having then- own ideas sometimes, but only because I've made them become real.' So the author has produced the ideas, and the characters --but now comes the third necessity--the setting. The first two come from inside sources, but the third is outside-- 7 'Leadership, besides being a great creative force, can be diabolical . . .' JAN SMUTS INTRODUCTION \ The Author speaks: The first question put to an author, personally, or through the post, is: 'Where do you get your ideas from?' The temptation is great to reply: 'I always go to Harrods,' or 'I get them mostly at the Army & Navy Stores,' or, snappily, Try Marks and Spencer.' The universal opinion seems firmly established that there is a magic source of ideas which authors have discovered how to tap. One can hardly send one's questioners back to Elizabethan times, with Shakespeare's: Tell me, where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the bead, How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. You merely say firmly: "My own head.' That, of course, is no help to anybody. If you like the look of your questioner you relent_and go a little further. 'If one idea in particular seems attractive, and you feel you could do something with it, then you toss it around, play tricks with it, work it up, tone it down, and gradually get it into shape. Then, of course, you have to start writing it. That's not nearly such fun--it becomes hard work. Alternatively, you can tuck it carefully away, in storage, for perhaps using in a year or two years' time.' A second question--or rather a statement--is then likely to be: 'I suppose you take most of your characters from real life?' An indignant denial to that monstrous suggestion. 'No, I don't. I invent them. They are mine. They've got to be my characters--doing what I want them to do, being what I want them to be--coming alive for me, having their own ideas sometimes, but only because I've made them become reed.' So the author has produced the ideas, and the characters --but now comes the third necessity--the setting. The first two come from inside sources, but the third is outside-- 7 it must be there--waiting--in existence already. You don't invent that--it's there--it's real. You have been perhaps for a cruise on the Nile--you remember it all--just the setting you want for this particular story. You have had a meal at a Chelsea cafe. A quarrel was going on--one girl pulled out a handful of another girl's hair. An excellent start for the book you are going to write next. You travel on the Orient Express. What fun to make it the scene for a plot you are considering. You go to tea with a friend. As you arrive her brother closes a book he is reading--throws it aside, says: 'Not bad, but why on earth didn't they ask Evans?' So you decide immediately a book of yours shortly to be written will bear the title. Why Didn't They Ask Evans? You don't know yet who Evans is going to be. Never mind. Evans will come in due course--the title is fixed. So, in a sense, you don't invent your settings. They are outside you, all around you, in existence--you have \only to'lstretch out your hand and pick and choose. A railway train, a hospital, a London hotel, a Caribbean beach, a country village, a cocktail party, a girls' school. But one thing only applies--they must be there--in existence. Real people, real places. A definite place in time and space. If here and now--how shall you get full information-- apart from the evidence of your own eyes and ears? The answer is frighteningly simple. It is what the Press brings to you every day, served up in your morning paper under the general heading of News. Collect it from the front page. What is going on in the world today? What is everyone saying, thinking, doing? Hold up a mirror to 1970 in England. Look at that front page every day for a month, make notes, consider and classify. Every day there is a killing. A girl strangled. Elderly woman attacked and robbed of her meagre savings. Young men or boys--attacking or attacked. Buildings and telephone kiosks smashed and gutted. Drug smuggling. .""" . Robbery and assault. Children missing and children's murdered bodies found not far from their homes. Can this be England? Is England really like this? One feels--no--not yet, but it could be. Fear is awakening--fear of what may be. Not so much because of actual happenings but because of the possible causes behind them. Some known, some unknown, but felt. And not only in our own country. There are smaller paragraphs on other pages--giving news from Europe--from Asia --from the Americas--Worldwide News. Hi-jacking of planes. Kidnapping. Violence, Riots. Hate. Anarchy--aD growing stronger. All seeming to lead to worship of destruction, pleasure in cruelty. What does it all mean? An Elizabethan phrase echoes from the past, speaking of Life: < .. it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, , Signifying nothing. And yet one knows--of one's own knowledge--how much goodness there is in this world of ours--the kindnesses done, the goodness of heart, the acts of compassion, the kindness of neighbour to neighbour, the helpful actions of girls and boys. Then why this fantastic atmosphere of daily news--of things that happen--that are actual facts? To write a story in this year of Our Lord 1970--you must come to terms with your background. If the background is fantastic, then the story must accept its background. It, too, must be a fantasy--an extravaganza. The setting must include the fantastic facts of daily life. Can one envisage a fantastic cause? A secret Campaign for Power? Can a maniacal desire for destruction create a new world? Can one go a step further and suggest deliverance by fantastic and impossible-sounding means? Nothing is impossible, science has taught us that. This story is in essence a fantasy. It pretends to be nothing more. But most of the things that happen in it are happening, or giving promise of happening in the world of today. It is not an impossible story--it is only a fantastic one. Book I i; INTERRUPTED JOURNEY Chapter 1 PASSENGER TO FRANKFURT Fasten your seat-belts, please.' The diverse passengers in the plane were slow to obey. There was a general feeling that they couldn't possibly be arriving at Geneva yet. The drowsy groaned and yawned. The more than drowsy had to be gently roused by an authoritative stewardess. "Your seat-belts, please.' The dry voice came authoritatively over the Tannoy. It explained in German, in French, and in English that a short period of rough weather would shortly be experienced. Sir Stafford Nye opened his mouth to its full extent, yawned and pulled himself upright in his seat. He had been dreaming very happily of fishing an English river. He was a man of forty-five, of medium height, with a smooth, olive, clean-shaven face. In dress he rather liked to affect the bizarre. A man of excellent family, he felt fully at ease indulging any such isartorial whims. If it made the more conventionally dressed of his colleagues wince occasionally, that was merely a source of malicious pleasure to him. There was something about him of the eighteenthcentury buck. He liked to be noticed. His particular kind of affectation when travelling was a kind of bandit's cloak which he had once purchased in Corsica. It was of a very dark purply-blue, had a scarlet lining and had a kind of burnous hanging down behind which he could draw up over his head when he wished to, so as to obviate draughts. Sir Stafford Nye had been a disappointment in diplomatic circles. Marked out in early youth by his gifts for great things, he had singularly failed to fulfil his early promise. A peculiar and diabolical sense of humour was wont to afflict him in what should have been his most serious moments. When it came to the point, he found that he always preferred to indulge his delicate Puckish malice to boring himself. He was a well-known figure in public life without ever having reached eminence. It was felt that Stafford Nye, though definitely brilliant, was not--and presumably never would be--a safe man. In these days of tangled politics and tangled foreign relations, safety, especially if one were to reach ambassadorial rank, was preferable to brilliance. Sir Stafford Nye was relegated to the shelf, though he was occa13 sionally entrusted with such missions as needed the art of intrigue, but were not of too important or public a nature. Journalists sometimes referred to him as the dark horse of diplomacy. _ Whether Sir Stafford himself was disappointed with his own career, nobody ever knew. Probably not even Sir Stafford himself. He was a man of a certain vanity, but he was also a man who very much enjoyed indulging his own proclivities for mischief. He was returning now from a commission of inquiry in Malaya. He had found it singularly lacking in interest. His colleagues bad, in his opinion, made up their minds beforehand what their findings were going to be. They saw and they listened, but their preconceived views were not affected. Sir Stafford had thrown a few spanners into the works, more for the hell of it than from any pronounced convictions. At all events, he thought, it had livened things up. He wished there were more possibilities of doing that sort of thing. His fellow members of the commission had been sound, dependable fellows, and remarkably dull. Even the well-known Mrs Nathaniel Edge, the only woman member, well known as having bees in her bonnet, was no fool when it came down to plain facts. She saw, she listened and she played safe. He had met her before on the occasion of a problem to be solved in one of the Balkan capitals. R was there that Sir Stafford Nye had not been able to refrain from embarking on a few interesting -suggestions. In that scandalloving periodical Inside News it was insinuated that Sir Stafford Nye's presence in that Balkan capital was intimately connected with Balkan problems, and that his mission was a secret one of the greatest delicacy. A kind friend had sent Sir Stafford a copy of this with the relevant passage marked. Sir Stafford was not taken aback. He read it with a delighted grin. It amused him very much to reflect how ludicrously far from the truth the journalists were on this occasion. His presence in Sofiagrad had been due entirely to a blameless interest in the rarer wild flowers and to the urgencies of an elderly friend of his. Lady Lucy Cleghorn, who was indefatigable in her quest for these shy floral rarities, and who at any moment would scale a rock cliff or leap joyously into a bog at the sight of some flowerlet, the length of whose Latin name was in inverse proportion to its size. A small band of enthusiasts had been pursuing this botanical search on the slopes of mountains for about ten 14 days when it occurred to Sir Stafford that it was a pity the paragraph was not true. He was a little--just a little-- tired of wild flowers and, fond as he was of dear Lucy, her ability despite her sixty-odd years to race up hills at top speed, easily outpacing him, sometimes annoyed him. Always just in front of him he saw the seat of those bright royal blue trousers and Lucy, though scraggy enough elsewhere, goodness knows, was decidedly too broad in the beam to wear royal blue corduroy trousers. A nice little international pie, he had thought, in which to dip his fingers, in which to play about . . . In the aeroplane the metallic Tannoy voice spoke again. It told the passengers that owing to heavy fog at Geneva, the plane would be diverted to Frankfurt airport and proceed from there to London. Passengers to Geneva would be re-routed from Frankfurt as soon as possible. It made no difference to Sir Stafford Nye. If there was fog in London, he supposed they would re-route the plane to Prestwick. He hoped that would not happen. He had been to Prestwick once or twice too often. Life, he thought, and journeys by air, were really excessively boring. If only--he didn't know --if only--what? It was warm in the Transit Passenger Lounge at Frankfurt, so Sir Stafford Nye slipped back his cloak, allowing its crimson lining to drape itself spectacularly round his shoulders. He was drinking a glass of beer and listening with half an ear to the various announcements as they were made. 'Flight 4387. Flying to Moscow. Flight 2381 bound for Egypt and Calcutta.' <._ Journeys all over the globe. How romantic it ought to be. But there was something about the atmosphere of a Passengers' Lounge in an airport that chilled romance. It was too full of people, too full of things to buy, too full of similarly coloured seats, too full of plastic, too full of human beings, too full of crying children. ?He tried to remember who had said: I wish I loved the Human Race; I wish I loved its silly face Chesterton perhaps? It was undoubtedly true. Put enough people together and they looked so painfully alike that one could hardly bear it. An interesting face now, thought Sir Stafford. What a difference it would make. He looked 15 disparagingly at two young women, splendidly made up. dressed in the national uniform of their country—England he presumed—of shorter and shorter miniskirts, and another young woman, even better made up—in fact quite goodlooking—who was wearing what he believed to be called a culotte suit. She had gone a little further along the road of fashion. He wasn't very interested in nice-looking girls who looked like all the other nice-looking girls. He would like someone to be different. Someone sat down beside him on the plasticcovered artificial leather settee on which he was sitting. Her face attracted his attention at once. Not precisely because it was different, in fact he almost seemed to recognize it as a face he knew. Here was someone he had seen before. He couldn't remember where or when but it was certainly familiar. Twenty-five or six, he thought, possibly, as to age. A delicate high-bridged aquiline nose, a black heavy bush of hair reaching to her shoulders. She had a magazine in front of her but she was not paying attention to it. She was, in fact, looking with something that was almost eagerness at him. Quite suddenly she spoke. It was a deep contralto voice, almost as deep as a man's. It had a very faint foreign accent. She said, •Can I speak to you?' He studied her for a moment before replying. No—not what one might have thought—this wasn't a pick-up. This was something else. 'I see no reason,' he said, "why you should not do so. We have time to waste here, it seems.' 'Fog,' said the woman, 'fog in Geneva, fog in London, perhaps. Fog everywhere. I don't know what to do.' 'Oh, you mustn't worry,' he said reassuringly, 'they'll land you somewhere all right. They're quite efficient, you know. Where are you going?' 'I was going to Geneva.' 'Well, I expect you'll get there in the end.' 'I have to get there now. If I can get to Geneva, it will be all right. There is someone who will meet me there. I can be safe.' 'Safe?' He smiled a little. She said, 'Safe is a four-letter word but not the kind of four-letter word that people are interested in nowadays. And yet it can mean a lot. It means a lot to me.' Then she said, 'You see, if I can't get to Geneva, if I have to leave this plane here, or go on in this plane to London with no 16 arrangements made, I shall be killed.' She looked at him sharply. 'I suppose you don't believe that.' 'I'm afraid I don't.' 'It's quite true. People can be. They are, every day.' 'Who wants to kill you?' 'Does it matter?' 'Not to me.' 'You can believe me if you wish to believe me. I am speaking the truth. I want help. Help to get to London safely.' 'And why should you select me to help you?' 'Because I think that you know something about death. You have known of death, perhaps seen death happen.' He looked sharply at her and then away again. 'Any other reason?' he said, 'Yes. This.' She stretched out her narrow olive-skinned hand and touched the folds of the voluminous cloak. This,' she said. For the first time his interest was aroused. 'Now what do you mean by that?' 'It's unusual--characteristic. It's not what everyone wears.' 'True enough. It's one of my affectations, shall we say?' 'It's an affectation that could be useful to me.' 'What do you mean?' 'I am asking you something. Probably yon 'will refuse but you might not refuse because I think you are a man who is ready to take risks. Just as I am a woman who takes risks.' 'I'll listen to your project,' he said, with a faint smile. 'I want your cloak to wear. I want your passport. I want your boarding ticket for the plane. Presently, in twenty minutes or so, say, the flight for London will be called. I shall have your passport, I shall wear your cloak. And so I shall travel to London and arrive safely.' 'You mean you'll pass yourself off as me? My dear girl.' She opened a handbag. From it she took a small square mirror. 'Look there,' she said. 'Look at me and then look at your own face.' He saw then, saw what had bee'tt vaguely nagging at his mind. His sister, Pamela, who had died about twenty years ago. They had always been very alike, he and Pamela. A strong family, resemblance. She had had a slightly masculine type of face. His face, perhaps, had been, certainly in early life, of a slightly effeminate type. They had both 17 had the high-bridged nose, the tilt of eyebrows, the sligh sideways smile of the lips. Pamela had been tall, five foci eight, he himself five foot ten. He looked at the woma^ who had tendered him the mirror. There is a facial likeness between us, that's what you mean, isn't it? But my dear girl, it wouldn't deceive anyone who knew me or knew you.' 'Of course it wouldn't. Don't you understand? It doesn; need to. I am travelling wearing slacks. You have bee;. travelling with the hood of your cloak drawn up roun,. your face. All I have to do is to cut off my hair, wrap it u; in a twist of newspaper, throw it in one of the litter-baske^ here. Then I put on your burnous, I have your boards card, ticket, and passport. Unless there is someone who knows you well on this plane, and I presume there is not or they would have spoken to you already, then I cac safely travel as you. Showing your passport when it's necessary, keeping the burnous and cloak drawn up so that my nose and eyes and mouth are about all that are seen. i can walk out safely when the plane reaches its destination because no one will know I have travelled by it. Walk out safely and disappear into the crowds of the city of London.' 'And what do I do?' asked Sir Stafford, with a slight smile. 'I can make a suggestion if you have the nerve to face it' 'Suggest,' he said. 'I always like to hear suggestions.' 'You get up from here, you go away and buy a magazine or a newspaper, or a gift at the gift counter. You leave your cloak hanging here on the seat. When you come back with whatever it is, you sit down somewhere else--say at the end of that bench opposite here. There will be a glass in front of you, this glass still. In it there will be something that will send you to sleep. Sleep in a quiet corner.' 'What happens next?' 'You will have been presumably the victim of a robbery,' she said. 'Somebody will have added a few knock-out drops to your drink, and will have stolen your wallet from you. Something of that kind. You declare your identity, say that your passport and things are stolen. You can easily establish your identity.' 'You know who I am? My name, I mean?' 'Not yet,' she said. 'I haven't seen your passport yet. I've no idea who you are.' 'And yet you say I can establish my identity easily.' 18 'I am a good judge of people. I know who is important or who isn't. You are an important person.' And why should I do all this?' Perhaps to save the life of a fellow human being.* 'Isn't that rather a highly coloured story?' 'Oh yes. Quite easily not believed. Do you believe it?' He looked at her thoughtfully. 'You know what you're talking like? A beautiful spy in a thriller.' 'Yes, perhaps. But I am not beautiful.' 'And you're not a spy?' 'I might be so described, perhaps. I have certain information. Information I .want to preserve. You will have to take my word for it, it is information that would be valuable to your country.' 'Don't you think you're being rather absurd?' 'Yes I do. If this was written down it would look absurd, But so many absurd things are true, aren't they?' He looked at her again. She was very like Pamela. Her voice, although foreign in intonation, was like Pamela's. What she proposed was ridiculous, absurd, quite impossible, and probably dangerous. Dangerous to him. Unfortunately, though, that was what attracted him. To have the nerve to Jggest such a thing to him! What would come of it all? It mid be interesting, certainly, to find out. What do I get out of it?' he said. That's what I'd like to know.' She looked at him consideringly. 'Diversion,' she said. 'Something out of the everyday happenings? An antidote to boredom; perhaps. We've not got very long. It's up to you.' 'And what happens to your passport? Do I have to buy myself a wig, if they sell such a thing, at the counter? Do I have to impersonate a female?' 'No. There's no question of exchanging places. You have been robbed and drugged but you remain yourself. Make up your mind. There isn't long. Time is passing very quickly. I have got to do my own transformation.' 'You win,' he said. 'One mustn't refuse the unusual, if it is offered to one.' 'I hoped you might feel that way, but it was a tossup.' From his pocket Stafford Nye took out his passport. He slipped it into the outer pocket of the cloak he had been Wearing. He rose to his feet, yawned, looked round him, Fked at his watch, and strolled over to the counter where ious goods were displayed for-sale. He did not even look 19 back. He bought a paperback book and fingered some sin; woolly animals, a suitable gift for some child. Finally L^ chose a panda. He looked round the lounge, came bac< to where he had been sitting. The cloak was gone and sc had the girl. A half glass of beer was on the table still Here, he thought, is where I take the risk. He picked up the glass, moved away a little, and drank it. Not quickly Quite slowly. It tasted much the same as it had tasted before 'Now I wonder,' said Sir Stafford. 'Now I wonder.' He walked across the lounge to a far corner. There wa.. a somewhat noisy family sitting there, laughing and talkir.K together. He sat down near them, yawned, let his head fa ; back on the edge of the cushion. A flight was announced leaving for Teheran. A large number of passengers got u; and went to queue by the requisite numbered gate. The lounr,; still remained half full. He opened his paperback book. R: yawned again. He was really sleepy now, yes, he was ver sleepy . . . He must just think out where it was best for him ' go off to sleep. Somewhere where he could remain . . . Trans-European Airways announced the departure o; their plane. Flight 309 for London. Quite a good sprinkling of passengers rose to their feet t; obey the summons. By this time though, more passenger? had entered the transit lounge waiting for other planes. Ar nouncements followed as to fog at Geneva and other dis abilities of travel. A slim man of middle height wearing ; dark blue cloak with its red lining showing and with a hoot- drawn up over a close-cropped head, not noticeably more untidy than many of the heads of young men nowadays, walked across the floor to take his place in the queue toi the plane. Showing a boarding ticket, he passed out througu gate No. 9. More announcements followed. Swissair flying to Zurich BEA to Athens and Cyprus--And then a different type of announcement. 'Will Miss Daphne Theodofanous, passenger to Geneva, kindly come to the flight desk. Plane to Geneva is delayed owing to fog. Passengers will travel by way of Athens. The aeroplane is now ready to leave.' Other announcements followed dealing with passengers to Japan, to Egypt, to South Africa, air lines spanning the world. Mr Sidney Cook, passenger to South Africa, was urged if- come to the flight desk where there was a message for hiir; Daphne Theodofanous was called for again. 20 This is the last call before the departure of Flight 309.' In a corner of the lounge a little girl was looking up at a man in a dark suit who was fast asleep, his head resting against the cushion of the red settee. In his hand he held a small woolly panda. ' The little girl's hand stretched out towards the panda, Her mother said: 'Now, Joan, don't touch that. The poor gentleman's asleep.' 'Where is he going?' 'Perhaps he's going to Australia too,' said her mother, 'like we are.' 'Has he got a little girl like me?' 'I think he must have,' said her mother. The little girl sighed and looked at the panda again. Sir Stafford Nye continued to sleep. He was dreaming that he was trying to shoot a leopard. A very dangerous animal, he was saying to the safari guide who was accompanying him. 'A very dangerous animal, so I've always heard. You can't trust a leopard.' The dream switched at that moment, as dreams have a habit of doing, and he was having tea with his Great-Aunt Matilda, and trying to make her hear. She was deafer than ever! He had not heard any of the announcements except the first one for Miss Daphne Theodofanous, The little girl's mother said: 'I've always wondered, you know, about a passenger that's missing. Nearly always, whenever you go anywhere by air, you hear it. Somebody they can't find. Somebody who hasn't heard the call or isn't on the plane or something like that. I always wonder who it is and what they're doing, and why they haven't come. I suppose this Miss What's-a-name or whatever it is will just have missed her plane. What will they do with her then?' Nobody was able to answer her question because nobody had the proper information. / Chapter 2 LONDON Sir Stafford Nye's flat was a very pleasant one. It looked out upon Green Park. He switched on the coffee percolator and went to see what the post had left him this morning. 21 It did not appear to have left him anything very inte ing. He sorted through the letters, a bill or two, a re< and letters with rather uninteresting postmarks. He shu them together and placed them on the table where s mail was already lying, accumulating from the last days. He'd have to get down to things soon, he suppo^ His secretary would be coming in some time or other ; afternoon. He went back to the kitchen, poured coffee into a cup and brought it to the table. He picked up the two or three letters that he had opened late last night when he arrived. One of them he referred to, and smiled a little as he read it. 'Eleven-thirty,' he said. 'Quite a suitable time. I woncer now. I expect I'd better just think things over, and get ; re- pared for Chetwynd.' Somebody pushed something through the letter-box. Ha went out into the hall and got the morning paper. Thera was very little news in the paper. A political crisis, an ite;i;i of foreign news- which might have been disquieting, but he didn't think it was. It was merely a journalist letting .':;! steam and trying to make things rather more import a :'ii than they were. Must give the people something to re^d. A girl had been strangled in the park. Girls were alw--:,s being strangled. One a day, he thought callously. No cr^id had been kidnapped or raped this morning. That was a \^'x surprise. He made himself a piece of toast and drank .-'s coffee. Later, he went out of the building, down into the street, and walked through the park in the direction of Whiteh; i He was smiling to himself. Life, he felt, was rather go J this morning. He began to think about Chetwynd. Ci. : wynd was a silly fool if there ever was one. A good fa9a :'. important-seeming, and a nicely suspicious mind. He'd ra; " enjoy talking to Chetwynd. He reached Whitehall a comfortable seven minutes \'. That was only due to his own importance compared v a that of Chetwynd, he thought. He walked into the roi Chetwynd was sitting behind his desk and had a lot i papers on it and a secretary there. He was looking prop ^ important, as he always did when he could make it. 'Hullo, Nye,' said Chetwynd, smiling all over his pressively handsome face. 'Glad to be back? How - ^ Malaya?' 'Hot,' said Stafford Nye. 'Yes. Well, I suppose it always is. You meant atmospherically. I suppose, not politically?' 'Oh, purely atmospherically,' said Stafford Nyei He accepted a cigarette and sat down. Get any results to speak of?' 'Oh, hardly. Not what you'd call results. I've sent in my report. All a lot of talky-talky as usual. How's Lazenby?' 'Oh, a nuisance as he always is. He'll never change,' said Chetwynd. 'No, that would seem too much to hope for. I haven't served on anything with Bascombe before. He can be quite fun when he likes.' 'Can he? I don't know him very well Yes. I suppose he can.' 'Well, well, well. No other news, I suppose?' 'No, nothing. Nothing I think that would interest you.* 'You didn't mention in your letter quite why you wanted to see me.' 'Oh, just to go over a few things, that's all. You know, in case you'd brought any special dope home with you. Anything we ought to be prepared for, you know. Questions in the House. Anything like that' 'Yes, of course.' 'Came home by air, didn't you? Had a bit of trouble, I gather.' Stafford Nye put on the face he had been determined to put on beforehand. It was slightly rueful, with a faint tinge of annoyance. *0h, so you heard about that, did you?' he said. 'Silly business.' 'Yes. Yes, must have been.' 'Extraordinary,' said Stafford Nye, 'how things always get into the press. There was a paragraph in the stop press this morning.' 'You'd rather they wouldn't have, I suppose?' ''Well, makes me look a bit of an ass, doesn't it?' said Stafford Nye. 'Got to admit it. At my age too!' 'What happened exactly? I wondered if the report in the paper had been exaggerating.' 'Well, I suppose they made the most of it, that's all. You know what these journeys are. Damn boring. There was fog at Geneva so they had to re-route the plane. Then there was two hours' delay at Frankfurt.' 'Is that when it happened?' ; 23 'Yes. One's bored' stiff in these airports. Planes comin planes going. Tannoy going full steam ahead. Flight 3( leaving for Hong Kong, Flight 109 going to Ireland. Tfc that and the other. People getting up, people leaving. Ai you just sit there yawning.' 'What happened exactly?' said Chetwynd. 'Well, I'd got a drink in front of me, Pilsner as a matt of fact, then I thought I'd got to get something else to rea I'd read everything I'd got with me so I went over to tl counter and bought some wretched paperback or other: Detective story, I think it was, and I bought a woolly animal for one of my nieces. Then I came back, finism i my drink, opened my paperback and then I went to sleep ' 'Yes, I see. You went to sleep.' 'Well, a very natural thing to do, isn't it? I suppose the called my flight but if they did I didn't hear it. I didn : hear it apparently for the best of reasons. I'm capable <; going to sleep in an airport any time but I'm also capab of hearing an announcement that concerns me. This tin :. I didn't. When I woke up, or came to, however you lil<', to put it, I was having a bit of medical attention. Somi body apparently had dropped a Mickey Finn or somethini- or other in my drink. Must have done it when I was away getting the paperback.' 'Rather an extraordinary things to happen, wasn't it'/' said Chetwynd. 'Well, it's never happened to me before,' said Stafford Nye. 'I hope it never will again. It makes you feel an awfi;; fool, you know. Besides having a hangover. There was s doctor and some nurse creature, or something. Anyway. there was no great harm done apparently. My wallet ha": been pinched with some money in it and my passport. It we; awkward of course. Fortunately, I hadn't got much money My travellers' cheques were in an inner pocket. There alway- has to be a bit of red tape and all that if you lose yol; passport. Anyway, I had letters and things and identificatio': was not difficult. And in due course things were, square. up and I resumed my flight.' 'Still, very annoying for you,' said Chetwynd. 'A perso of your status, I mean.' His tone was disapproving. 'Yes,' said Stafford Nye. 'It doesn't show me in a ver good light, does it? I mean, not as bright as a fellow c my--er--status ought to be.' The idea seemed to amuse him 'Does this often happen, did you find out?' *I don't think it's a matter of general occurrence. It coul 24 be. I suppose any person with a pick-pocket trend could notice a fellow asleep and slip a hand into a pocket, and if he's accomplished in his profession, get hold of a wallet or a pocket-book or something like that, and hope for some luck.' 'Pretty awkward to lose a passport.' 'Yes, I shall have to put in for another one now. Make a lot of explanations, I suppose. As I say, the whole thing's a damn silly business. And let's face it, Chetwynd, it doesn't show me in a very favourable light, does it?' 'Oh, not your fault, my dear boy, not your fault. It could happen to anybody, anybody at all.' 'Very nice of you to say so,' said Stafford Nye, smiling at him agreeably. 'Teach me a sharp lesson, won't it?' 'You don't think anyone wanted your passport specially?' I shouldn't think so,' said Stafford Nye. 'Why should they want my passport. Unless it was a matter of someone who wished to annoy me and that hardly seems likely. Or somebody who took a fancy to my passport photo--and that seems even less likely!' 'Did you see anyone you knew at this--where did you say you were--Frankfurt?' 'No, no. Nobody at all.' Talk to anyone?' 'Not particularly. Said something to a nice fat woman who'd got a small child she was trying to amuse. Came from Wigan, I think. Going to Australia. Don't remember anybody else.' 'You're sure?' There was some woman or other who wanted to know what she did if she wanted to study archaeology in Egypt. Said I didn't know anything about that. I told her she'd better go and ask the British Museum. And I had a word or two with a man' who I think was an anti-vivisectionist. Very passionate about it.' 'One always feels,' said Chetwynd, 'that there might be something behind things like this.' Things like what?' 'Well, things like what happened to you.* 'I don't see what can be behind this,' said Sir Stafford. 'I daresay journalists could make up some story, they're so clever at that sort of thing. Still, it's a silly business. For goodness' sake, let's forget it.'I suppose now it's been mentioned in the press, all my friends will start asking me about it. How's old Leyland? What's he up to nowadays? I heard 25 one or two things about him out there. Leyland always ta ? a bit too much,' The two men talked amiable shop for ten minutes or then Sir Stafford got up and went out. 'I've got a lot of things to do this morning,' he said. 'P sents to buy for my relations. The trouble is that if one gi ._ to Malaya, all one's relations expect you to bring excre presents to them. I'll go round to Liberty's, I think. Thay have a nice stock of Eastern goods there.' He went out cheerfully, nodding to a couple of men s;a knew in the corridor outside. After he had gone, Chetwy:ij spoke through the telephone to his secretary. 'Ask Colonel Munro if he can come to me.' Colonel Munro came in, bringing another tall middle- aged man with him. 'Don't know whether you know Horsham,' he said, in Security.' Think I've met you,' said Chetwynd. 'Nye's just left you, hasn't he?' said Colonel Munro. 'Ar ything in this story about Frankfurt? Anything, I mean, tl.a.t we ought to take any notice of?' 'Doesn't seem so,' said Chetwynd. 'He's a bit put c't about it. Thinks it makes him look a silly ass. Which it doe:;, of course.' The man called Horsham nodded his head.- That's the way he takes it, is it?' 'Well, he tried, to put a good face upon it,' said Chetwyr, '. 'All the same, you know,' said Horsham, 'he's not really a silly ass, is he?' Chetwynd shrugged his shoulders. These things nappe" ' he said. 'I know,' said Colonel Munro, 'yes, yes, I know. All t^s same, well, I've always felt in some ways that Nye is a ' 't unpredictable. That in some ways, you know, he mighfc i be really sound in his views.' The man called Horsham spoke. 'Nothing against bin he said. 'Nothing at all as far as we know.' 'Oh, I didn't mean there was. I didn't mean that at a" ' said Chetwynd. 'It's just--how shall I put it?--he's d always very serious about things.' Mr Horsham had a moustache. He found it useful have a moustache. It concealed moments when he found difficult to avoid smiling. 'He's not a stupid man,' said Munro. 'Got brains, y< 26 know. You don't think that--well, I mean you don't think there could be anything at all doubtful about this?' 'On his part? It doesn't seem so.' 'You've been into it all, Horsham?' 'Well, we haven't had very much time yet. But as far as it goes it's all right. But his passport was used.' 'Used? In what way?' ^It passed through Heathrow.' You mean someone represented himself as SSr Stafford Nye?' 'No, no,' said Horsham, 'not in so many words. We could hardly hope for that. It went through with other passports. There was no alarm out, you know. He hadn't even woken up, I gather, at that time, from the dope or whatever it was he was given. He was still at Frankfurt.' 'But someone could have stolen that passport and come on the plane and so got into England?' 'Yes,' said Munro, 'that's the presumption. Either someone took a wallet which had money in it and a passport, or else someone wanted a passport and settled on Sir Stafford Nye as a convenient person to take it from. A drink was waiting on a table, put a pinch in that, wait till the man went off to sleep, take the passport and chance it.' 'But after all, they look at a passport. Must have seen it wasn't the right man,' said Chetwynd. 'Well, there must have been a certain resemblance, certainly,' said Horsham. 'But it isn't as though there was any notice of his being missing, any special attention drawn to that particular passport in any way. A large crowd comes through on a plane that's overdue. A man looks reasonably like the photograph in his passport. That's all. Brief glance, handed back, pass it on. Anyway what they're looking for usually is the foreigners that are coming in, not the British lot. Dark hair, dark blue eyes, clean shaven, five foot ten or whatever it is. That's about all you want to see. Not on a list of undesirable aliens or anything like that.' 'I know, I know. Still, you'd say if anybody wanted merely to pinch a wallet or some money or that, they wouldn't use the passport, would they. Too much risk.' 'Yes,' said Horsham. 'Yes, that is the interesting part of it. Of course,' he said, 'we're making investigations, asking a few questions here and there.' 'And what's your own opinion?' 'I wouldn't like to say yet,' said Horsham. 'It takes a little time, you know. One can't hurry things' 27 'They're all the same,' said Colonel Munro, when H< sham had left the room. 'They never will tell you anytnii those damned security people. If they think they're on t trail of anything, they won't admit it.' 'Well, that's natural,' said Chetwynd, 'because they mig be wrong.' It seemed a typically political view. 'Horsham's a pretty good man,' said Munro. They thi very highly of him at headquarters. He's not likely to wrong.' Chapter 3 THE MAN FROM THE CLEANERS Sir Stafford Nye returned to his flat. A large woman bounced out of the small kitchen with welcoming words. 'See you got back all right, sir. Those nasty planes. Yru never know, do you?' 'Quite true, Mrs Worrit,' said Sir Stafford Nye. Two how late, the plane was.' 'Same as cars, aren't they,' said Mrs Worrit. 'I mea you never know, do you, what's going to go wrong wi..« them. Only it's more worrying, so to speak, being up in t;e air, isn't it? Can't just draw up to the kerb, not the sane way, can you? I mean, there you are. I wouldn't go by one myself, not if it was ever so.' She went on, 'I've ordered ;n a few things. I hope that's all right. Eggs, butter, cofft:, tea--' She ran off the words with the loquacity of a Ne '" Eastern guide showing a Pharaoh's palace. There,' said M''s Worrit, pausing-to take breath, 'I think that's all as you're likely to want. I've ordered the French mustard.' 'Not Dijon, is it? They always try and give you Dijoi ''I don't know who he was, but it's Esther Dragon, ti one you like, isn't it?' "Quite right,' said Sir Stafford, 'you're a wonder.' Mrs Worrit looked pleased. She retired into the kitchi again, as Sir Stafford Nye put his hand on his bedroom do handle preparatory to going into the bedroom. 'All right to give your clothes to the gentleman wh i called for them, I suppose, sir? You hadn't said or left we or anything like that.' 'What clothes?' said Sir Stafford Nye, pausing. 28 'Two suits, it was, the gentleman said as called for them. Twiss and Bonywork it was, think that's the same name as called before. We'd had a bit of a dispute with the White Swan Laundry if I remember rightly.' •Two suits?' said Sir Stanford Nye. 'Which suits?' 'Well, there was the one you travelled home in, sir. I made out that would be one of them. I wasn't quite so sure at it the other, but there was the blue pinstripe that you d' ; 't leave no orders about when you went away. It could : i with cleaning, and there was a repair wanted doing •' the right-hand cuff, but I didn't like to take it on myseh hile you were away. I never likes to do that,' said Mrs W.--rit with an air of palpable virtue. 'So ; -•;; chap, whoever he was, took those suits away?' 'I h. ,e I didn't do wrong, sir.' Mrs Worrit became worried. 'I don't mind the blue pinstripe. I daresay it's all for the best. The suit I came home in, well—' 'It's a bit thin, that suit, sir, for this time of year, you know, sir. All right for those parts as you've been in where * it's hot. And it could do with a clean. He said as you'd rung up about them. That's what the gentleman said as called for them.' 'Did he go into my room and pick them out himself?' 'Yes, sir. I thought that was best.' 'Very interesting,' said Sir Stafford. 'Yes, very interesting.' He went into his bedroom and looked round it. It was neat and tidy. The bed was made, the hand of Mrs Worrit was apparent, his electric razor was on charge, the things on the dressing-table were neatly arranged. He went to the wardrobe and looked inside. He looked in the drawers of the tallboy that stood against the wall near the window. It was all quite tidy. It was tidier indeed than it should have been. He had done a little unpacking last night and what little he had done had been of a cursory nature. He had thrown underclothing and various odds and ends in the appropriate drawer but he had not arranged them neatly. He would have done that himself either today or tomorrow. He would not have expected Mrs Worrit to do it for him. He expected her merely to keep things as she found them. Then, when he came back from abroad, there would be a time for rearrangements and readjustments because of climate and other matters. So someone had looked round here, ^onieone had taken out drawers, looked through them quickly, ^""rriedly, had replaced things, partly because of his hurry, 29 more tidily and neatly than he should have done. A qui careful job and he had gone away with two suits Sand ; plausible explanation. One suit obviously worn by Sir Staso ; when travelling and a suit of thin material which might ha .. been one taken abroad and brought home. So why? 'Because,' said Sir Stafford thoughtfully, to himself, b \ cause somebody was looking for something. But what? Ar who? And also perhaps why?' Yes, it was interesting. He sat down in a chair and thought about it. Present his eyes strayed to the table by the bed on which se rather pertly, a small furry panda. It started a train i thought. He went to the telephone and rang a number. That'you. Aunt Matilda?' he said. 'Stafford here.' 'Ah, my dear boy, so you're back. I'm so glad. I read the paper they'd got cholera in Malaya yesterday, at lea I think it was Malaya. I always get so mixed up with tho places. I hope you're coming to see me soon? Don't pretend you're busy. You can't be busy all the time. One reaFv only accepts that sort of thing from tycoons, people industry, you know, in the middle of mergers and tsk overs. I never know what it all really means. It uscl mean doing your work properly but now it means it'-Rgs all tied up with atom bombs and factories in concrete, a'd Aunt Matilda, rather wildly. 'And those terrible comp"'*: that get all one's figures wrong, to say nothing of m&' i them the wrong shape. Really, they have made lif& so dsi cult for us nowadays. You wouldn't believe the things they' done to my bank account. And to my postal address to Well, I suppose I've lived too long.' 'Don't you believe it! All right if I come down next week 'Come down tomorrow if you like. I've got the vic