Cat Among the Pigeons

  “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 ru
nning. 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.”

  “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—”

  Four

  RETURN OF A TRAVELLER

  I

  “Really!” 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, d
arling,” 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?”