Jayram smiled softly. “A policeman has to be many things, Major. Let us look at it this way-the stone was placed in the safekeeping of the Resident by Savaji Rao. It is his responsibility until it is placed on the ship bound for England. Perhaps the Resident merely placed it in his pocket as a precaution when the thief was brought in. I suggest that you, Major Foran, now take charge of the genuine stone, on behalf of the Resident, and see that it goes safely aboard the SS Caledonia tomorrow. Lord Chetwynd Miller has only a few months before his retirement to England, so he will hardly be left in his position of trust much longer. He is a man who has already destroyed his honor in his own eyes-why make his dishonor public when it will gain nothing?”
Foran nodded agreement. “And Cassian must never be informed of how the stone was removed from him.”
“Just so,” Jayram agreed.
Sir Rupert Harvey rose with a thin-lipped look of begrudging approval at the Bengali. “An excellent solution. That is a Christian solution. Forgiveness, eh?”
Ram Jayram grinned crookedly at the baronet. “A Hindu solution,” he corrected mildly. “We would agree that sometimes justice is a stronger mistress than merely the law.”
MURDER IN THE AIR
Chief Steward Jeff Ryder noticed the worried expression on the face of Stewardess Sally Beech the moment that she entered the premier class galley of the Global Airways 747, Flight GA 162. He was surprised for a moment, as he had never seen the senior stewardess looking so perturbed before.
“What’s up, Sal?” he greeted in an attempt to bring back her usual impish smile. “Is there a wolf among our first-class passengers causing you grief?”
She shook her head without a change of her pensive expression. “I think one of the passengers is locked in the toilet,” she began.
Jeff Ryder’s smile broadened, and he was about to make some ribald remark.
“No,” she interrupted as if she had interpreted his intention. “I am serious. I think that something might have happened. He has been in there for some time, and the person with whom he was traveling asked me to check on him. I knocked on the door, but there was no reply.”
Ryder suppressed a sigh. A passenger locked in the toilet was uncommon but not unknown. He had once had to extricate a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Texan from an aircraft toilet once. It was not an experience that he wanted to remember.
“Who is this unfortunate passenger?”
“He’s down on the list as Henry Kinloch Gray.”
Ryder gave an audible groan. “If a toilet door is stuck on this aircraft, then it just had to be Kinloch Gray who gets stuck with it.
Do you know who he is? He’s the chairman of Kinloch Gray and Brodie, the big multinational media company. He has a reputation for eating company directors alive, but as for the likes of you and me, poor minnows in the great sea of life…” He rolled his eyes expressively. “Oh Lord! I’d better see to it.”
With Sally trailing in his wake, Ryder made his way to the premier-class toilets. There was no one about, and he saw immediately which door was flagged as “engaged.” He went to it and called softly: “Mr. Kinloch Gray? Is everything all right, sir?” He waited and then knocked respectfully on the door.
There was still no response.
Ryder glanced at Sally. “Do we know roughly how long he has been in there?”
“His traveling companion said he went to the toilet about half an hour ago.”
Ryder raised an eyebrow and turned back to the door. His voice rose an octave. “Sir. Mr. Kinloch Gray, sir, we are presuming that you are in some trouble in there. I am going to break the lock. If you can, please stand back from the door.”
He leaned back, raised a foot, and sent it crashing against the door by the lock. The flimsy cubicle lock dragged out its attaching screws and swung inward a fraction.
“Sir?…” Ryder pressed against the door. He had difficulty pushing it; something was causing an obstruction. With some force, he managed to open it enough to insert his head into the cubicle and then only for a moment. He withdrew it rapidly; his features had paled. He stared at Sally, not speaking for a moment or two. Finally he formed some words. “I think he has been shot,” he whispered.
The toilets had been curtained off, and the captain of the aircraft, Moss Evans, one of Global Airways’s senior pilots, had been sent for, having been told briefly what the problem was. The silver-haired, sturdily built pilot had hid his concerns as he made his way from the flight deck through the premier-class section, smiling and nodding affably to passengers. His main emotion was one of irritation, for it had been only a few moments since the aircraft had passed its midpoint, the “point of no return,” halfway into its flight. Another four hours to go, and he did not like the prospect of diverting to another airport now and delaying the flight for heaven knew how long. He had an important date waiting for him.
Ryder had just finished making an announcement to premier-class passengers with the feeble excuse that there was a mechanical malfunction with the forward premier-class toilets, and directing passengers to the midsection toilets for their safety and comfort. It was typical airline jargon. Now he was waiting with Sally Beech for the captain. Evans knew Ryder well, for Jeff had been flying with him for two years. Ryder’s usually good humor was clearly absent. The girl also looked extremely pale and shaken.
Evans glanced sympathetically at her; then he turned to the shattered lock of the cubicle door. “Is that the toilet?”
“It is.”
Evans had to throw his weight against the door and managed to get his head inside the tiny cubicle.
The body was sprawled on the toilet seat, fully dressed. The arms dangled at the sides, the legs were splayed out, thus preventing the door from fully opening. The balance of the inert body was precarious. From the mouth to the chest was a bloody mess. Bits of torn flesh hung from the cheeks. Blood had splayed on the side walls of the cubicle. Evans felt the nausea well up in him but suppressed it.
As Ryder had warned him, it looked as though the man had been shot in the mouth. Automatically, Evans peered down, not knowing what he was looking for until he realized that he should be looking for a gun. He was surprised when he did not see one. He peered around again. The hands dangling at the sides of the body held nothing. The floor of the cubicle to which any gun must have fallen showed no sign of it. Evans frowned and withdrew. Something in the back of his mind told him that something was wrong about what he had seen, but he could not identify it.
“This is a new one for the company’s air emergency manual,” muttered Ryder, trying to introduce some humor into the situation.
“I see that you have moved passengers back from this section,” Evans observed.
“Yes. I’ve moved all first-class passengers from this section, and we are rigging a curtain. I presume the next task is to get the body out of there?”
“Has his colleague been told? The person he was traveling with?”
“He has been told that there has been an accident. No details.”
“Very well. I gather our man was head of some big corporation?”
“Kinloch Gray. He was Henry Kinloch Gray.”
Evans pursed his lips together in a silent whistle. “So we are talking about an influence backed by megabucks, eh?”
“They don’t come any richer.”
“Have you checked the passenger list for a doctor? It looks like our man chose a hell of a time and place to commit suicide. But I think we’ll need someone to look at him before we move anything. I’ll proceed on company guidelines of a medical emergency routine. We’ll notify head office.”
Ryder nodded an affirmative. “I’ve already had Sally check if there are any doctors on board. As luck would have it, we have two in the premier class. They are both seated together. C one and C two.”
“Right. Get Sally to bring one of them up here. Oh, and where is Mr. Gray’s colleague?”
“Seated B three. His name is Frank Tilley, and I understand he
is Gray’s personal secretary.”
“I’m afraid he’ll have to stand by to do a formal identification. We’ll have to play this strictly by the company rule book,” he added again as if seeking reassurance.
Sally Beech approached the two men in seats C one and two. They were both of the same age, mid-forties; one was casually dressed with a mop of fiery red hair, looking very unlike the stereotype idea of a doctor. The other appeared neat and more smartly attired. She halted and bent down.
“Doctor Fane?” It was the first of the two names she had memorized.
The smartly dressed man glanced up with a smile of inquiry.
“I’m Gerry Fane. What can I do for you, miss?”
“Doctor, I am afraid that we have a medical emergency with one of the passengers. The captain extends his compliments and would greatly appreciate it if you could come and take a look.”
It sounded like a well-repeated formula. In fact, it was a formula out of the company manual. Sally did not know how else to deliver it but in the deadpan way that she had been trained to do.
The man grimaced wryly. “I am afraid my doctorate is a Ph.D. in criminology, miss. Not much help to you. I think that you will need my companion, Hector Ross. He’s a medical doctor.”
The girl glanced apologetically to the red-haired man in the next seat and was glad to see that he was already rising so that she did not have to repeat the same formula.
“Don’t worry, lass. I’ll have a look, but I am not carrying my medical bag. I’m actually a pathologist returning from a conference, you understand? Not a GP.”
“We have some emergency equipment on board, Doctor, but I don’t think that you will need it.”
Ross glanced at her with a puzzled frown, but she had turned and was leading the way along the aisle.
Hector Ross backed out of the toilet cubicle and faced Captain Evans and Jeff Ryder. He glanced at his watch. “I am pronouncing death at thirteen-fifteen hours, Captain.”
Evans stirred uneasily. “And the cause?”
Ross bit his lip. “I’d rather have the body brought out where I can make a full inspection.” He hesitated again. “Before I do, I would like my colleague, Doctor Fane, to have a look. Doctor Fane is a criminal psychologist, and I have great respect for his opinion.”
Evans stared at the doctor, trying to read some deeper meaning behind his words. “How would a criminal psychologist be able to help in this matter unless-?”
“I’d appreciate it all the same, Captain. If he could just take a look?” Ross’s tone rose persuasively.
Moments later, Gerry Fane was backing out of the same toilet door and regarding his traveling companion with some seriousness.
“Curious,” he observed. The word was slowly and deliberately uttered.
“Well?” demanded Captain Evans impatiently. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Fane shrugged eloquently in the confined space. “It means that it’s not well at all, Captain,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm. “I think we should extricate the body so that my colleague here can ascertain the cause of death, and then we can determine how this man came by that death.”
Evans sniffed, trying to hide his annoyance. “I have my company’s chairman waiting on the radio, Doctor. I would like to be able to tell him something more positive. I think you will understand when I tell you that he happens to know Mr. Gray. Same golf club or something.”
Fane was ironic. “Knew, I’m afraid. Past tense. Well, you can tell your chairman that it rather looks as though his golfing partner was murdered.”
Evans was clearly shocked. “That’s impossible. It must have been suicide.”
Hector Ross cleared his throat and looked uneasily at his friend. “Should you go that far, old laddie?” he muttered. “After all-”
Fane was unperturbed and interrupted him in a calm decisive tone. “Whatever the precise method of inflicting the fatal wound, I would think that you would agree that it looked pretty instantaneous. The front parts of the head, below the eyes and nose, are almost blown away. Nasty. Looks like a gunshot wound to the mouth.”
Evans had recovered the power of speech. Now, as he thought about it, he realized the very point that had been puzzling him. It was his turn to be sarcastic.
“If a gun was fired in there, even one of low caliber with a body to cushion the impact of the bullet, it would have had the force to pierce the side of the aircraft, causing decompression. Do you know what a bullet can do if it pierces an aircraft fuselage at thirty-six thousand feet?”
“I did not say for certain that it was a gun.” Fane maintained his gentle smile. “I said that it looked like a gunshot.”
“Even if it were a gunshot that killed him, why could it not have been a suicide?” the chief steward interrupted. “He was in a locked toilet, for Chrissake! It was locked on the inside.”
Fane eyed him indulgently. “I made a point about the instantaneous nature of the wound. I have never known a corpse to be able to get up and hide a weapon after a successful suicide bid. The man is sprawled in there dead, with a nasty mortal wound that was pretty instantaneous in causing death… and no sign of any weapon. Curious, isn’t it?”
Evans stared at him in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous…” There was no conviction in his voice. “You can’t be serious? The weapon must be hidden behind the door or somewhere.”
Fane did not bother to reply.
“But,” Evans plunged on desperately, knowing that Fane had articulated the very thing that had been worrying him: the missing weapon. “Are you saying that Gray was killed and then placed in the toilet?”
Fane shook his head firmly. “More complicated than that, I’m afraid. Judging from the blood splayed out from the wound, staining the walls of the cubicle, he was already in the toilet when he was killed and with the door locked from the inside, according to your chief steward there.”
Jeff Ryder stirred uncomfortably. “The door was locked from the inside,” he confirmed defensively.
“Then how-?” began Evans.
“That is something we must figure out. Captain, I have no wish to usurp any authority, but if I might make a suggestion?…”
Evans did not answer. He was still contemplating the impossibility of what Fane had suggested.
“Captain?…”
“Yes? Sorry, what did you say?”
“If I might make a suggestion? While Hector does a preliminary examination to see if we can discover the cause of death, will you allow me to question Gray’s colleague, and then we might discover the why as well as the how?”
Evans lips compressed thoughtfully. “I don’t feel that I have the authority. I’ll have to speak to the chairman of the company.”
“As soon as possible, Captain. We’ll wait here,” Fane replied calmly. “While we are waiting, Doctor Ross and I will get the body out of the toilet.”
Hardly any time passed before Moss Evans returned. By then Ross and Fane had been able to remove the body of Kinloch Gray from the toilet and lay it in the area between the bulkhead and front row of the premier-class seats.
Evans cleared his throat awkwardly. “Doctor Fane. My chairman has given you full permission to act as you see fit in this matter… until the aircraft lands, that is. Then, of course, you must hand over matters to the local police authority.” He shrugged and added, as if some explanation were necessary: “It seems that my chairman has heard of your reputation as a… a criminologist? He is happy to leave the matter in the hands of Doctor Ross and yourself.”
Fane inclined his head gravely. “Will you be diverting the aircraft?” he asked.
“My chairman has ordered us to continue to our point of destination, Doctor. As the man is dead, it is pointless to divert in search of any medical assistance.”
“Good. Then we have over three hours to sort this out. Can your steward provide me with a corner where I can speak with Gray’s colleague? She tells me that he is his personal secretary. I want a word without
causing alarm to other passengers.”
“See to it, Jeff,” Captain Evans ordered the chief steward. He glanced at Fane. “Don’t they say that murder is usually committed by someone known to the victim? Doesn’t that make this secretary the prime suspect? Or will every passenger have to be checked out to see if they have some connection with Gray?”
Fane smiled broadly. “I often find that you cannot make general rules in these matters.”
Evans shrugged. “If it helps, I could put out an address asking all passengers to return to their seats and put on their seat belts. I could say that we are expecting turbulence. It would save any curious souls from trying to enter this area.”
“That would be most helpful, Captain,” Hector Ross assured him, looking up from his position by the corpse.
Evans hesitated a moment more. “I am going back to the flight deck. Keep me informed of any developments.”
Within a few minutes of Evans’s leaving, there came the sound of raised voices. Fane looked up to see the stewardess, Sally Beech, trying her best to prevent a young man from moving forward toward them.
The young man was very determined. “I tell you that I work for him.” His voice was raised in protest. “I have a right to be here.”
“You are in tourist class, sir. You have no right to be here in premier class.”
“If something has happened to Mr. Gray, then I demand…”
Fane moved quickly forward. The young man was tall, well spoken, and, Fane observed, his handsome looks were aided by a tan that came from a lamp rather than the sun. He was immaculately dressed. He sported a gold signet ring on his slim tapering fingers. Fane had a habit of noticing hands. He felt much could be told about a person from their hands and how they kept their fingernails. This young man obviously paid a great deal of attention to maintaining well-manicured nails.
“Is this Mr. Gray’s secretary?” he asked Sally.
The stewardess shook her head. “No, Doctor. This is a passenger from tourist class. He claims to have worked for Mr. Gray.”
An Ensuing Evil and Others Page 30