Амброз Бирс - Flight or Fright - 17 Turbulent Tales

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.