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.
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
“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.
