“But it was not yours,” Sir Rupert Harvey observed in a shocked voice.
“Whom did it belong to?” demanded the Resident, a tinge of anger in his voice. “Was it Savaji Rao’s to give? Was it the Queen-Empress’s to receive? Since Colonel Vickers stole it from the statue of Shiva in Betul, it has simply been the property of thieves and only the property of the thief who could hold on to it.”
“It was the property of our Queen-Empress,” Lieutenant Tompkins said sternly. He was youthful, a simple young soldier who saw all things in black-and-white terms.
“She would have glanced at it and then let it be buried in the royal vaults forever. No one would have known whether it was genuine or fake-they would merely have seen a pretty red stone. To me, it was life; comfort and a just reward for all I had done for her miserable Empire!”
Lord Chetwynd Miller suddenly spread his arms helplessly, and a sob racked his frail body. It was the first time that those gathered around the table realized that the Resident was merely a tired old man.
“I have to tell my wife. Oh God, the shame will kill her.”
They looked at his heaving shoulders with embarrassment.
“I don’t know what to do,” muttered Foran.
“A suggestion,” interrupted Ram Jayram.
“What?”
“The stone was missing for a matter of a few minutes. It was not really stolen. What happened was a sudden impulse, an overpowering temptation which few men in the circumstances in which His Excellency found himself could have resisted. He saw the opportunity and took it.”
Foran snorted. “You sound like an advocate, Jayram,” he said. “What are you saying?”
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
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
