Sutcliffe and her daughter could be flown, not to England, but to Aden and catch their boat there.
“With our baggage?”
“Yes, yes, that can be arranged. I've got a car waiting with a station wagon. We can load everything right away.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Sutcliffe capitulated. “I suppose we'd better pack.”
“At once, if you don't mind.”
The woman in the bedroom drew back hurriedly. She took a quick glance at the address on a luggage label on one of the suitcases. Then she slipped out of the room and back into her own just as Mrs. Sutcliffe turned the corner of the corridor.
The clerk from the office was running after her.
“Your brother, the Squadron Leader, has been here, Mrs. Sutcliffe. He went up to your room. But I think that he has left again. You must just have missed him.”
“How tiresome,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “Thank you,” she said to the clerk and went on to Jennifer, “I suppose Bob's fussing too. I can't see any sign of disturbance myself in the streets. This door's unlocked. How careless these people are.”
“Perhaps it was Uncle Bob,” said Jennifer.
“I wish I hadn't missed him. Oh, there's a note.” She tore it open.
“At any rate Bob isn't fussing,” she said triumphantly. “He obviously doesn't know a thing about all this. Diplomatic wind up, that's all it is. How I hate trying to pack in the heat of the day. This room's like an oven. Come on, Jennifer, get your things out of the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. We must just shove everything in anyhow. We can repack later.”
“I've never been in a Revolution,” said Jennifer thoughtfully.
“I don't expect you'll be in one this time,” said her mother sharply. “It will be just as I say. Nothing will happen.”
Jennifer looked disappointed.
Cat Among the Pigeons
Chapter 3
INTRODUCING MR. ROBINSON
It was some six weeks later that a young man tapped discreetly on the door of a room in Bloomsbury and was told to come in.
It was a small room. Behind a desk sat a fat middle-aged man slumped in a chair. He was wearing a crumpled suit, the front of which was smothered in cigar ash. The windows were closed and the atmosphere was almost unbearable.
“Well?” said the fat man testily, and speaking with half closed eyes. “What is it now, eh?”
It was said of Colonel Pikeaway that his eyes were always just closing in sleep, or just opening after sleep. It was also said that his name was not Pikeaway and that he was not a Colonel. But some people will say anything!
“Edmundson, from the Foreign Office is here, sir.”
“Oh,” said Colonel Pikeaway.
He blinked, appeared to be going to sleep again and muttered:
“Third secretary at our Embassy in Ramat at the time of the Revolution. Right?”
“That's right, sir.”
“I suppose, then, I'd better see him,” said Colonel Pikeaway without any marked relish. He pulled himself into a more upright position and brushed off a little of the ash from his paunch.
Mr. Edmundson was a tall, fair young man, very correctly dressed with manners to match, and a general air of quiet disapproval.
“Colonel Pikeaway? I'm John Edmundson. They said you - er - might want to see me.”
“Did they? Well, they should know,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “Siddown,” he added.
His eyes began to close again, but before they did so, he spoke:
“You were in Ramat at the time of the Revolution?”
“Yes, I was. A nasty business.”
“I suppose it would be. You were a friend of Bob Rawlinson's, weren't you?”
“I know him fairly well, yes.”
“Wrong tense,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “He's dead.”
“Yes, sir, I know. But I wasn't sure...” He paused.
“You don't have to take pains to be discreet here,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “We know everything here. Or if we don't, we pretend we do. Rawlinson flew Ali Yusuf out of Ramat on the day of the Revolution. Plane wasn't heard of since. Could have landed in some inaccessible place, or could have crashed. Wreckage