by Heron Carvic
“Ecco,” exclaimed the lady and jumped to her feet.
Miss Seeton realized that she had allowed briefcases and cream cakes to divert her and, with a feeling of guilt, she looked up at the screen. The heading was GENOVA followed by some foreign words, French, she presumed, and some figures which she failed to understand. She collected her handbag and umbrella and stood, uncertain. There was no sign of Mr. Penrood—and, of course, the spelling was wrong. But then, of course, it would be, in such a huge place, and such a crowd—they all spelled their names differently—he might have easily lost his way—in different countries, that was. So very foolish to have missed the announcement in English. And now she didn’t even know where to go. Or whom to . . .
“Non si preoccupi. Presto, fa presto,” cried the cake lady. She grabbed the overnight case and thrust it into Miss Seeton’s unresisting hand. “You come wiz me. I see to. Avanti, avanti, quick.” She clutched Miss Seeton’s arm and urged her forward. “Quick for the good seat. I see to.”
Abruptly, without a word to Haley, Xerxes Tolla put down his unfinished drink and left the bar. He headed toward the banquettes outside the cafeteria, his gaze fixed on the wide corridor beyond, which leads to the numbered gates for the different flights and the plate glass sides of which look out over the tarmac, where planes line up, and to the runways in the distance. In the corridor he collided with Miss Seeton and the Italian woman, knocking Miss Seeton’s case from her hand. With profuse apologies he stooped and recovered the case, brushing it down with a handkerchief from his breast pocket before he returned it to its owner. He bowed and stood back for the ladies to pass. He watched as further down the passage her companion hustled Miss Seeton into the group descending the slope of gate 9 for the Alitalia flight to Genoa.
Miss E. D. Seeton? Something familiar . . . Miss Seeton? It came back to him: paragraphs in the newspapers under preposterous headlines with something about an umbrella. But in the stories Miss Seeton had been linked to, working with, the police—for Scotland Yard. The writing on the label—smudged, yes—but GENEVA, not GENOA or GENOVA. And anyway English people rarely used the foreign spelling even if they knew it. So—it was true she had noticed something about the briefcases. She had been going to Geneva. She was going to Genoa. She worked with the police. He remained for a moment in thought, swung about and hastened back through the cafeteria. Outside the departure lounge he crossed to the counter of one of the stands lining the opposite wall.
“I wish to send a telegram to a passenger on the Alitalia flight AZ 293 and it’s important it should catch him before he leaves the airport at Genoa.”
The girl handed him a form. “It will have to be telexed, sir, to be there on time.”
“But it will reach him?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He’ll be called over the loudspeaker while still in customs and asked to collect the message.”
“Right.” He began to print ELIO MANTONI . . .
The cream cake fancier pushed her way unceremoniously through those who were queueing to board the plane, engaging in spirited repartee with anyone bold enough to protest. Per hand-grip force Miss Seeton followed her. Nearing the air hostess, the Italian released Miss Seeton, fumbled in a pocket and produced with a flourish her boarding pass, marked GOA. Miss Seeton remembered the piece of pasteboard that Mr. Penrood had told her to keep in readiness. Grasping her overnight case in one hand, she shifted her umbrella preparatory to opening her handbag. The umbrella’s ferrule jabbed the hand of the man in front of her. Elio Mantoni dropped his briefcase and boarding pass and turned with an oath. He glared at the two women with whom he had recently shared a table.
“Oh, dear. Oh, please, I am so sorry.” Miss Seeton was contrite. “I do hope I didn’t hurt you. It’s so very difficult. And so little room.”
While the air hostess stooped to help retrieve Mantoni’s possessions, Miss Seeton’s guide towed her in triumph aboard the plane.
When Tolla suddenly quit the bar D. C. Haley studied the retreating figure with interest. Whatever else the black man had going for him it wasn’t manners. Leaving his drink on the counter he moved back a step to keep the other in view; became alert when the man bumped into Miss Seeton. The old girl’d been looking a bit het and the fat woman’d practically dragged her away. Probably she’d come all over goose pimples after letting Elio out of her sight, that he mightn’t be on the flight after all. No need to worry; he’d seen the little squirt go down the corridor toward the gate just after the Genoa flight was called. And now that Elio was under way, with MissEss sitting squarely on his tail, he could relax. This job was wound up. No . . . on second thoughts where was the black man off to now all grim and hot-foot? Forgetful of his drink, Haley went to the door and came face to face with a young man, looked him over, then stood back for him to pass. MissEss’ cod-faced boyfriend. Should he tip him the wink? Better hadn’t, not his business. The detective constable followed Tolla.
Mr. Penrood sauntering into the cafeteria, approached the table at which he had left Miss Seeton and finding it empty stared at it with disapproval. He glanced round at the other tables, inspected the throng by the refreshment counter, went quickly outside to look over the banquettes, returned with a disturbed expression and stationed himself between Miss Seeton’s late table and the ladies’ lavatory. He looked at his watch, checked it against the wall clock, glanced again at his watch, but found no comfort. Where the devil had the old dame got to?
“All passengers,” announced the loudspeaker, “for flight 813 to Geneva are requested to board their flight at gate number 12.”
Oh, hell—could she have gone ahead? But he’d told her to wait for him here. Why the devil couldn’t she do what she was told? So he’d been told to stay with her, but for God’s sake they couldn’t expect him to sit chatting up some old auntie for an hour when there were chattable birds all over the airport. His eyes strayed back to the ladies’ lavatory. Could she be ill? He took a step toward it. Should he . . .? Well, no, he couldn’t. But ought he to get someone to go in and have an eyeshot? He scanned the place for a cleaner. There was none in sight. Distracted, he stopped a passing air hostess and explained his predicament. She smiled reassurance and said that she’d get a message put out over the loudspeaker. A cleaning woman came from behind him pushing a mop. Again he sought help. She disappeared in the ladies’, but returned with a broad smile and an upheaval of shoulders and mop.
“Ain’t nobody there, dear, sick or not.”
The loudspeaker broke a silence to ask, “May I have your attention. Will passenger Seeton, on flight 813 to Geneva, please go to gate number 12 for boarding. I will repeat that. Will passenger Seeton . . .”
One of the barmen was eyeing two almost untouched glasses.
“Hey, Sid.” He handed one to his assistant.
“What’s up?” asked Sid.
“Dunno. Seems it’s our birthday, looks like.”
“Have you,” demanded Penrood, “seen an old woman?”
The barman looked at him pityingly. “Seen a coupla hundred or more.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but I’m looking for one . . .” How in hell did you describe her? All old women looked the same.
The barman waved a hand. “Take your pick. Me. I prefer ’em young.” He gulped his drink. “Good hunting—sir,” he added belatedly.
“This,” advised the loudspeaker, “is a final call for flight 813 to Geneva, now boarding at gate number 12.”
Desperate, Penrood ran from the departure lounge.
Haley had bought a magazine at one of the stalls. He flipped through it idly, standing well back to allow the noisy, jostling crowd to mill between him and his quarry. Overhead a speaker blared at intervals, too close to distinguish words. He waited for the black man to finish at the telecommunications desk. Having given in his message and paid, Tolla strode to the top of the escalator and hurried down the stairs to ground level. As soon as he was out of sight, Haley tucked his magazine under his arm and threaded his way ove
r to take the other’s place at the counter.
“Excuse me, miss.” He held out his police credentials. “I know you can’t show me the message that dark gentleman wrote without authority, but I’ll get on to the Yard and get authority and it’d save a lot of time and fret if you’d be good enough to keep a copy by you so we don’t have to comb through a whole heap of ’em later.”
A man writing at a table behind her looked up. “What is it, Dot?”
The girl explained. The man rose and came forward. He examined Haley’s identification card, ran an experienced eye over the detective constable, then collected and read the telex. Expressionless, he placed the paper on the counter.
“You’re quite right, officer. All communications”—he flicked the paper to emphasize his point and the flick spun the paper so that the writing faced Haley—“are confidential and I’m afraid, much as we should like to help the police and”—drawing out the words—“save time where possible, naturally we cannot let you have a copy without the proper authority. However, we’ll keep a record of this so that it will be available at once when the authority is produced, which I hope”—once more he slowed his words—“will make it easier for you.”
“Thanks”—Haley was copying the telex as quickly as he could into his notebook—“a lot. I’ll ring my inspector at once”—he turned the page and continued writing—“and get things moving. I expect he’ll be in touch with you.” He pocketed his pen and straightened, beaming. “And—er—thanks.” He sketched a salute to the man and the girl and moved swiftly to a telephone kiosk. He pulled the door closed behind him as a loudspeaker appealed:
“Your attention, please. Will Miss Seeton—repeat: Miss Seeton—passenger on flight 813 to Geneva, please go at once—repeat: at once—to reception desk, Swissair number 16.” The voice began to sound harassed. “Will Miss Emily Seeton—Miss Emily D. Seeton—please . . .”
A telephone on the assistant commissioner’s desk purred. Since he had given instructions that he was not to be disturbed, Sir Hubert regarded it with curiosity, lifted the receiver, listened, then held it out to Inspector Borden.
“For you.”
The inspector approached the desk. “Borden here.” He said nothing more for a full two minutes, then: “She wasn’t, she’s on her way to Geneva . . . She couldn’t’ve.” The earpiece began to cluck with excitement. The inspector listened with a gathering frown, but apart from an occasional and incredulous grunt he did not speak. At length he broke in. “Wait, I’ll take that down.” Sir Hubert pushed a pencil and memo pad toward him. When Borden had finished writing he commended, “Good. Get back here at once and let me have a full report pronto.” He cradled the receiver. “Miss Seeton,” he said in even tones, “has flown to Genoa with Mantoni.”
Sir Hubert appeared amused, Delphick resigned and the commander and Fenn frankly gaped.
“Haley,” continued Borden, “is a good boy, and noticing. When I explained she was supposed to be off to Switzerland he was very impressed. Said it was an education to watch her at work. I understand she put on a clever act of looking a bit lost toward the end and fooled some other female into practically forcing her to go. There was a black man hanging about apparently taking a bit too much interest in MissEss. Haley kept tabs on him after the passengers’d boarded. The black man sent a telex. Haley wangled a copy.” He tore the sheet off the memo pad. “Elio Mantoni,” he read, “Aeroporto di Genova . . . The rest’s in code, we’ll have to get it . . .”
“May I?” Fenn held out his hand. He studied the cryptogram.
IMSS ESEOTN LODOWMNA TA ATBEL OPLCIEASWATRSNFRE WSICTHDE LFIHGTOT OFLOLWLEIIMNTAE
His upper lip curled. “It’s quite a simple transposition”—he took a pen from his pocket and started to write—“like one of the ordinary commercial codes. But then he’d need to keep it simple and anyway sending it in English abroad should be safe enough in the ordinary way. All he’s done is to take the letters of each word in threes and put the second letter first. One over is left and two are reversed. Where words have three letters or multiples of three they join the next.” He reviewed what he had written. “I think”—he was adding some vertical strokes—“in view of this we’d best get Interpol to ask the Italian police to collect her when she lands, readdress her and send her on to Switzerland tomorrow. It’ll give me time to arrange things in Geneva.” He handed the paper to Sir Hubert. “There’s your plain text, A.C.”
The others gathered round to read:
MISS SEETON OLD/WOMAN AT TABLE POLICE/SAW/TRANSFER SWITCHED FLIGHT/TO FOLLOW/ELIMINATE
Genoa
THE PLANE BANKED, flew back over the sea in full circle, then dropped for the run in.
The air hostess expelled a silent breath of relief. From the moment that the captain had received the telex from Interpol—MISS SEETON ALIAS MISSESS KNOWN TO ENGLISH POLICE STOP ON UNAUTHORIZED FLIGHT TO GENOA STOP SURVEYANCE IMPORTANT STOP ITALIAN POLICE WILL MEET PLANE AND COLLECT—she had stood guard offering extra cups of coffee and bright conversation, finding it almost impossible to believe that this frail elderly woman was a known criminal. But now in a minute they would be down and all would be handed over to the police.
They came in low over ships at berth. The wheels touched, the plane bounced gently, ran by the water’s edge with only a grass verge between it and the sea, as it slowed to the howl of reversing jets, then bore to the right and taxied toward a long low building.
So much smaller, thought Miss Seeton, so—so much less important looking, somehow, than she had expected. Just as the water, from the glimpses she had caught of it from her aisle seat, had looked so much bigger. Bigger, that was, than the Lake of Geneva had appeared from her study of it on the map. More like the sea. In fact the place had looked really like a port, giving her a moment’s qualm. The legend in huge letters on a frame over the building in front of her—AEROPORTO INTERNAZIONALE DI GENOVA—reassured her. The word GENOVA dispelled her slight disquiet. She had arrived.
Elio Mantoni, through experience and aggression, won the battle to be first at the exit door. At the top of the flight steps he halted, petrified, and nearly lost his balance. Two uniformed policemen were stationed at the foot; beyond them others were standing by two police cars. All were watching the plane; were waiting. Were waiting, he knew it, for him. Allora, those English pigs had been playing with him—had traduced him. To let him go, to build up his confidence, only to arrange for him to be arrested now when he reached the ground, his ground, his own country. Should he drop the briefcase, leave it and pretend it was not his? Impossible. Too late. Pressured by the passengers gathered behind him, he was forced to descend. Outwardly calm, but with his stomach churning, he passed between the two officers, ignored and was ignored by those near the cars, and led the way to the customs shed. His passport was given no more than a perfunctory glance and he moved on to await his luggage.
“Ha niente da dichiarare?”
So this was the trap. To force him into a false declaration, then to arrest him for perjury, besides entering contraband and being in possession of false money. Mantoni gazed up at the customs officer; a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.
Deaf? Dumb? Both? The officer leaned down and articulated: “Ha qualche cosa da dichiarare?”
Still unable to speak, Mantoni mastered his paralysis sufficiently to shake his head. Shook it and continued shaking it until he felt that he would jolt it from its stand. The loudspeaker rescued him. When the message was repeated the sound of his own name brought him out of his stupor. Would he go to reception, where there was a message for him? He conquered his head-wagging and recovered his speech.
“Son’ io” he told the customs officer.
At once the man melted in sympathy. Povero pochino—doubtless flying home to a sick child. It became his turn for head-shaking: imagining, seeing so clearly, the ambulance, the race through the streets, the distracted mother, and now the urgent message from the hospital: Come immediately. The darkened room . . . the small fig
ure in the bed . . . the labored breathing . . . And Mantoni’s fictional progeny expired upon the thought. Quickly he marked the luggage.
“Vada presto! Corra!” he advised and turned to the next in line.
Mantoni crumpled the telex in a fury. Who and what did they consider him? The palette, not the carving knife, was his weapon. How dared they attempt to oblige him to become a common assassin? If only he could discuss . . . As always, Mantoni regretted the system under which members of the organization seldom met, more rarely spoke to one another and neither knew nor had direct contact with their employer, or employers. The most that they could do, should some query arise, was to write to an accommodation address, or, in case of emergency, telephone a given number and await new instructions. They were not, however, encouraged to avail themselves of these facilities. They were expected to obey orders with efficiency, with dispatch and without argument. Without argument; without—Mantoni sighed—discussion. And failure could be rewarded with a swimming lesson in concrete boots.
The old woman had not yet come through into reception. He moved to a spot from which he could watch the passengers still waiting for customs clearance. She was not among them. Then, where . . .? He hurried to the glass doors which opened onto the airport in time to see Miss Seeton being handed into a police car. An officer got in on each side of her. The doors slammed and the car, followed by its companion, circled and drove off the arrival area.
Mantoni bit his lip. Allora, what did they now expect of him? That he should invade la Polizia Centrale, stab the old woman, shoot the captain of the police and vanish in the disorder?
Miss Seeton was the last passenger to leave the plane. The hostess had asked her if she would mind remaining seated. There was—er—a gentleman who wished to speak to her. Having said good-bye with gratitude to her traveling companion, who, in spite of cream cakes, had done full justice to the meal provided on the journey without ill effect, Miss Seeton had resumed her seat, mystified but compliant.
