Cat Among the Pigeons

  “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.

  A man appeared before the Magistrate’s court yesterday charged with breaking into the residence of Mr. Henry Sutcliffe with intent to steal. Mrs. Sutcliffe’s bedroom was ransacked and left in wild confusion whilst the members of the family were at Church on Sunday morning. The kitchen staff who were preparing the midday meal, heard nothing. Police arrested the man as he was making his escape from the house. Something had evidently alarmed him and he had fled without taking anything.

  Giving his name as Andrew Ball of no fixed abode, he pleaded guilty. He said he had been out of work and was looking for money. Mrs. Sutcliffe’s jewellery, apart from a few pieces which she was wearing, is kept at her bank.

  “I told you to have the lock of that drawing room french window seen to,” had been the comment of Mr. Sutcliffe in the family circle.

  “My dear Henry,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, “you don’t seem to realize that I have been abroad for the last three months. And anyway, I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that if burglars want to get in they always can.”

  She added wistfully, as she glanced again at the local paper:

  “How beautifully grand ‘kitchen staff’ sounds. So different from what it really is, old Mrs. Ellis who is quite deaf and can hardly stand up and that half-witted daughter of the Bardwells who comes in to help on Sunday mornings.”

  “What I don’t see,” said Jennifer, “is how the police found out the house was being burgled and got here in time to catch him?”

  “It seems extraordinary that he didn’t take anything,” commented her mother.

  “Are you quite sure about that, Joan?” demanded her husband. “You were a little doubtful at first.”

  Mrs. Sutcliffe gave an exasperated sigh.

  “It’s impossible to tell about a thing like that straight away. The mess in my bedroom—things thrown about everywhere, drawers pulled out and overturned. I had to look through everything before I could be sure—though now I come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing my best Jacqmar scarf.”

  “I’m sorry, Mummy. That was me. It blew overboard in the Mediterranean. I’d borrowed it. I meant to tell you but I forgot.”

  “Really, Jennifer, how often have I asked you not to borrow things without telling me first?”

  “Can I have some more pudding?” said Jennifer, creating a diversion.

  “I suppose so. Really, Mrs. Ellis has a wonderfully light hand. It makes it worthwhile having to shout at her so much. I do hope, though, that they won’t think you too greedy at school. Meadowbank isn’t quite an ordinary school, remember.”

  “I don’t know that I really want to go to Meadowbank,” said Jennifer. “I knew a girl whose cousin had been there, and she said it was awful. They spent all their time telling you how to get in and out of Rolls-Royces, and how to behave if you went to lunch with the Queen.”

  “That will do, Jennifer,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “You don’t appreciate how extremely fortunate you are in being admitted to Meadowbank. Miss Bulstrode doesn’t take every girl, I can tell you. It’s entirely owing to your father’s important position and the influence of your Aunt Rosamond. You are exceedingly lucky. And if,” added Mrs. Sutcliffe, “you are ever asked to lunch with the Queen, it will be a good thing for you to know how to behave.”

  “Oh well,” said Jennifer. “I expect the Queen often has to have people to lunch who don’t know how to behave—African chiefs and jockeys and sheikhs.”

  “African chiefs have the most polished manners,” said her father, who had recently returned from a short business trip to Ghana.

  “So do Arab sheikhs,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “Really courtly.”

  “D’you remember that sheikh’s feast we went to,” said Jennifer. “And how he picked out the sheep’s eye and gave it to you, and Uncle Bob nudged you not to make a fuss and to eat it? I mean, if a sheikh did that with roast lamb at Buckingham Palace, it would give the Queen a bit of a jolt, wouldn’t it?”

  “That will do, Jennifer,” said her mother and closed the subject.

  IV

  When Andrew Ball of no fixed abode had been sentenced to three months for breaking and entering, Derek O’Connor, who had been occupying a modest position at the back of the Magistrate’s Court, put through a call to a Museum number.

  “Not a thing on the fellow when we picked him up,” he said. “We gave him plenty of time too.”

  “Who was he? Anyone we know?”

  “One of the Gecko lot, I think. Small time. They hire him out for this sort of thing. Not much brain but he’s said to be thorough.”

  “And he took his sentence like a lamb?” At the other end of the line Colonel Pikeaway grinned as he spoke.

  “Yes. Perfect picture of a stupid fellow lapsed from the straight and narrow path. You’d never connect him with any big time stuff. That’s his value, of course.”

  “And he di
dn’t find anything,” mused Colonel Pikeaway. “And you didn’t find anything. It rather looks, doesn’t it, as though there isn’t anything to find? Our idea that Rawlinson planted these things on his sister seems to have been wrong.”

  “Other people appear to have the same idea.”

  “It’s a bit obvious really … Maybe we are meant to take the bait.”

  “Could be. Any other possibilities?”

  “Plenty of them. The stuff may still be in Ramat. Hidden somewhere in the Ritz Savoy Hotel, maybe. Or Rawlinson passed it to someone on his way to the airstrip. Or there may be something in that hint of Mr. Robinson’s. A woman may have got hold of it. Or it could be that Mrs. Sutcliffe had it all the time unbeknownst to herself, and flung it overboard in the Red Sea with something she had no further use for.

  “And that,” he added thoughtfully, “might be all for the best.”

  “Oh, come now, it’s worth a lot of money, sir.”

  “Human life is worth a lot, too,” said Colonel Pikeaway.

  Five

  LETTERS FROM MEADOWBANK SCHOOL

  Letter from Julia Upjohn to her mother:

  Dear Mummy,

  I’ve settled in now and am liking it very much. There’s a girl who is new this term too called Jennifer and she and I rather do things together. We’re both awfully keen on tennis. She’s rather good. She has a really smashing serve when it comes off, but it doesn’t usually. She says her racquet’s got warped from being out in the Persian Gulf. It’s very hot out there. She was in all that Revolution that happened. I said wasn’t it very exciting, but she said no, they didn’t see anything at all. They were taken away to the Embassy or something and missed it.

  Miss Bulstrode is rather a lamb, but she’s pretty frightening too—or can be. She goes easy on you when you’re new. Behind her back everyone calls her The Bull or Bully. We’re taught English literature by Miss Rich, who’s terrific. When she gets in a real state her hair comes down. She’s got a queer but rather exciting face and when she reads bits of Shakespeare it all seems different and real. She went on at us the other day about Iago, and what he felt—and a lot about jealousy and how it ate into you and you suffered until you went quite mad wanting to hurt the person you loved. It gave us all the shivers—except Jennifer, because nothing upsets her. Miss Rich teaches us Geography, too. I always thought it was such a dull subject, but it isn’t with Miss Rich. This morning she told us all about the spice trade and why they had to have spices because of things going bad so easily.