John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Morphia.”

“It looks like it?”

“S elf-administered ?”

“It could be.”

“Do we know how long he’s been out?”

“No, we don’t.”

“The only way to find out would be to question the crew and the passengers,” the older man said. He was tired-looking, grey-haired, scraggy.

“If it’s that important,” remarked the younger man, who went on: “I’ll go and find out if the passengers are still at the baggage claim. If they are we can put a temporary hold on them there until the police arrive.”

“I’ll call the police,” the older man volunteered.

He meant, of course, the airport police, who would call the Long Island force if that seemed necessary. The younger man went off. He knew from experience that the best way to check the baggage claim was to see with his own eyes, telephone questions too often received inconclusive and vague answers. This was one of the smaller airport buildings, shared by several airlines, and the baggage was all brought to the conveyors and separated by porters under different flight numbers.

Three people stood by a nearly empty conveyor, above which was an illuminated sign reading: Flight 212 from Tucson. A grey-haired porter, red cap set at a rakish angle, came and asked:

“Can I help you, doc?”

“Is this all that’s left from Flight 212?”

“Sure is — these three are all that’s left.”

“Thanks,” the doctor said, ruefully.

“There any trouble, doc?”

“There’s a sick man,” the doctor answered, “If that’s trouble.”

“It’s trouble for someone,” the red cap answered, and his wrinkled face and his dark eyes had a tinge of sadness. “You suppose anyone’s come to meet the sick person, doc?”

“If they have they may be able to help us,” replied the doctor.

But no one had come to meet the man, and after many inquiries and some three hours after the aircraft had landed, a sergeant from the Long Island Homicide Squad and the man in charge of security at the airport, the young doctor and the pilot, met in a room leading off the hospital. Each had a copy of the typewritten report, prepared by the Security Officer after checking with everyone concerned and after going through the passenger’s pockets.

It was remarkably comprehensive :

Passenger’s name: Thomas G. Loman

Age: 28

Passport: U.S.A.

Condition: Unconscious from morphine poisoning

Period of unconsciousness: Estimated at one hour after removal from aircraft

Physical condition: Excellent

Operation or accident scars: None

Eyes: Blue

Complexion: Fair

Hair: Yellow

Possessions in pockets: Keys; coins; wallet containing $1,001.1; passport

Travellers cheques: $5,000

Destination: London, England

Continuation flight (shown on ticket): B.O.A.C. 505 22.30 from Kennedy

Baggage in hold (on ticket): None

Hand Baggage: None

Given address in London (on ticket): c/o Richard Rollison, 25g Gresham Terrace, W.1

Other particulars: Suspected needle puncture, right forearm. No other punctures.

All the men in the office read this carefully, the Security Officer finishing first. He looked at the others and when the pilot’s eyes were raised from the paper, said in a deep voice :

“It sure looks as if the guy was given a shot on the aircraft which put him out.”

“But it could have been taken orally,” argued the young doctor.

“Or been self-administered,” put in the pilot.

“There is no sign of a hypodermic needle in his pockets,” stated the Security Officer.

“There might be a disposable hypo in the garbage,” contributed the young doctor, eagerly.

“Not in the garbage of Flight 212,” replied the Security Officer. “We checked. We can double check, though, we kept the garbage stored, there was good time for that.”

“Nice work, Joe,” approved the man from Homicide. “What’s this about no hand baggage?”

“No hand baggage,” stated the Security Officer with assurance he showed in every utterance.

“Did he bring any on board?” inquired the man from Homicide.

This police officer was rather small, plump and pink; he looked less like a New York policeman than anyone present. He was dressed in a well-cut suit and had only one mannerism: raising his right eyebrow from time to time, either speculatively or because he had a twitch. His dark hair was smoothed over his cranium so that streaks of white pate showed through, and the parting was incongruously close to his right ear. Everything about him suggested a man of great personal carefulness; even his hands, the nails of which were manicured although not a particularly good shape.

“He had one small bag,” answered the captain.

“Don’t they search hand baggage in Tucson?” asked Homicide.

“They search it these days,” answered the pilot, “but they don’t make out a schedule, Sergeant. If a man’s clean of weapons or smuggled goods, he’s clean. All these passengers were clean. There was one guy with something in his case which ticked like a bomb but it was his alarm clock, he never trusts hotel clerks to wake him. One guy and a woman had guns, and these were taken away so they had to pick them up at the baggage claim.”

“They picked them up,” the Security Officer remarked. “From me. They were both in order.”

There was a lull in the questions and answers before the pilot asked:

“Did he have baggage checks?”

“Two,” agreed the Security Officer.

“So where are his bags?”

“Someone collected them for him.”

“Without the claim checks,” remarked Homicide. “You know how it is,” said Security wearily. “You pick on one in a dozen to see their check and the one on the baggage they are taking out are the same. We don’t have any trouble.”

“This,” remarked Homicide, heavily, “is trouble. The passenger seems to have been robbed on the aircraft and his baggage taken away from the baggage claim without a claim check. If the guy wants to sue the airline I guess he’s got a million dollar case. Joe, what about the passengers on either side of this guy? A passenger on his right could have given him a shot. Or one of the stewardesses. Or —”

“Or anyone passing along the gangway and leaning over for a magazine or, as I told you, it could have been self-administered. We’re trying to trace the man who sat on his right but it’s not easy — people changed seats a lot, the aircraft wasn’t full. The question is, do we ask for details about the guy from Tucson or do we wait until Mr. Thomas G. Loman comes round?”

Now, all eyes were on the man from Homicide, who leaned back in his chair and looked at the young doctor. “How long will he be under, Doc?”

“There’s no way of being sure, it depends on the strength of the shot and the body’s reaction to it. Some systems run it out fast, others hold it for a long time. He’s been under for more than four hours, now. He might begin to come round at any time.”

“Why don’t you go and see?” suggested Homicide, in his gentlest voice.

2

Rush!

THE YOUNG MAN with the long face and the spade of a chin was on his back in a room which had three beds, although he was the only occupant. The young doctor went in ahead of the nurse on duty, who said:

“I came in ten minutes ago, doctor, and he hadn’t moved.”

The doctor stood looking down, and after a few moments, said: “He’ll move soon.” There were changes in the breathing, in the firmness of the lips and eyes; a kind of relaxation. The doctor touched one of the large, pale eyelids and the young man flinched. The doctor turned round, almost cannoning into the Homicide sergeant, who had come silently on his heels: “Not a case for Homicide,” the doctor remarked.