“Do you — do you think he’s dead?” asked the brunette.
“Could it be something he ate on the aircraft?” asked the fair girl, fearfully.
“What a thing to say before dinner,” protested the pilot. He put an arm about each girl and led the way towards the restaurant. “Come on, forget it! He looked good and healthy to me.”
As they entered the restaurant, with its soft lights and sparkling cutlery, and the manageress led them to a table for four, a doctor was touching the eyelids of the man who seemed to be asleep. This ‘hospital’ was really a first aid room but contained everything needed for emergency, including another doctor; for they had overlapped on their duty rota. The younger doctor saw that the pupils were pin points. He waited for the other, older man, who took one look and said:
“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:
“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
