‘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