could send it over with a boy.” He opened the door for her and she went out, while the tall young man sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a brown and yellow checked shirt, open at the neck, and well-tailored, sand-coloured slacks. His legs and arms were more muscular than one might have expected, and he had surprisingly broad and powerful-looking shoulders. He gave a slow, lazy smile, showing teeth both big and white.
“Thanks,” he said. “Will one of you tell me what happened?”
“You were drugged with morphia,” Luigi told him. “You were unconscious with morphine poisoning.” The doctor was more precise.
“Your hand baggage and your checked baggage was stolen,” the Homicide man stated, “but no one took your money or your travellers’ cheques.”
The young man named Thomas G. Loman put a hand to his forehead; that might have been to hide his expression of bewilderment. And no wonder, thought the Homicide man, the fellow had plenty to be bewildered about. Apart from the movement of his arm and hand, he kept very still. He seemed to be like that for a long time, before he asked in a muffled voice :
“Do you have the time?”
“Twenty of eight,” answered Luigi. “Still nighttime!”
“I have to be on a flight to London, England, at ten-thirty.”
“You have to check in at nine-thirty,” said Luigi. “You have plenty of time.”
“You need to rest,” the doctor said.
“I can rest on the flight, I guess.”
“What about your baggage?” Luigi asked.
“So I’ve no baggage.” At last Thomas G. Loman lowered his hand — and on the same instant the door opened and the nurse came in with a tray. “I’ve lost baggage before.”
“You mean you’ve had some stolen before?” Luigi demanded.
The young man looked at him levelly, and slowly shook his head. The nurse put the tray down on a bedside table and began to pour coffee. She had some cookies on a plate, also.
“I said lost,” repeated Loman.
“I said stolen.”
“Can you prove it was stolen?”
“I can prove you had a shot in the arm. Look hard enough and you will see the puncture.”
The young man said: “So I put myself to sleep.”
“With what?”
“A shot,” Loman answered.
“Where did you put the hypo?”
“Down the pan,” Loman answered. “I went along there and gave myself a shot and put the plastic hypo down the pan and came back to my seat.”
The nurse managed to ask : “Do you use cream in your coffee?”
“Sure,” said Loman.
“Not for me,” answered the doctor.
“I use facts,” Luigi said. “Why did you dope yourself, Loman?”
“Like the doctor said, I need sleep.”
“Like I said, I need facts,” retorted Luigi. He picked up a cup of coffee which had neither cream nor sugar, and sipped; his gaze did not once leave Loman’s face, but the young man stared back without apparent embarrassment.
“What did you have in your baggage?” Luigi asked. “Clothes.”
“In your hand baggage?”
“A razor and toiletries and two books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Adult books,” the young man answered amiably. “I’m an adult.” He finished his coffee, and turned to the doctor as if he were no longer interested in the policeman. The nurse had moved away and was looking from one to the other as if she could make nothing of the conversation or of the situation. “Doctor,” went on Loman, “I’m appreciative of the trouble you’ve taken and I’ll be glad to pay your fee right now. That’s if someone will hand me my billfold,” he added with a boyish grin.
“The nurse will get that,” the doctor replied. “You take it easy.”
“As soon as I’m dressed and in the B.O.A.C. lounge I’ll take it easy,” Loman assured him. “I don’t need to eat, there will be food on the aircraft.” He finished the coffee, and smiled at the nurse. “Okay for me to have the rest of my clothes now?”
She answered: “I still think you’re crazy.”
“My folks often used to say just the same thing,” Loman assured her, but now there was something so attractive in his smile that she half-laughed, and fetched his jacket.
Luigi went outside, and found the Security Officer hovering. The man crossed to him at once, and asked in his
