Passenger to Frankfurt Read online

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 presumab
ly 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<
br />
  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?'