Passenger to Frankfurt

by Agatha Christie

was an answer because, after all, it was irritating not to know

  --not to have any idea what all this was about.

  He tried to recall not the girl at the airport but his sister

  Pamela's face. A long time since her death. He remembered

  her. Of course he remembered her, but he could not somehow picture her face. It irritated him not to be able to do so.

  He had paused just when he was about to cross one of the

  roads. There was no traffic except for a car jigging slowly

  along with the solemn demeanour of a bored dowager. An

  elderly car, he thought. An old-fashioned Daimler limousine,

  He shook his shoulders. Why stand here in this idiotic way,

  lost in thought?

  He took an abrupt step to cross the road and suddenly

  with surprising vigour the dowager limousine, as he had

  thought of it in his mind, accelerated. Accelerated with a 'sudden astonishing speed. It bore down on him with such

  swiftness that he only just had time to leap across on to the

  opposite pavement. It disappeared with a flash, turning

  round the curve of the road further on.

  'I wonder,' said Sir Stafford to himself. 'Now I wonder.

  Could it be that there is someone that doesn't like me? Someone

  following me, perhaps, watching me take my way home,

  waiting for an opportunity?'

  *

  Colonel Pikeaway, his bulk sprawled out in^lis chair in the small room in Bloomsbury where he sat from ten to five

  with a short interval for lunch, was surrounded as usual by an atmosphere of thick cigar smoke; with his eyes closed,

  only an occasional blink showed that he was awake and

  not asleep. He seldom raised his head. Somebody had said

  that he looked like a cross between an ancient Buddha and

  a large blue frog, with perhaps, as some impudent youngster , had added, just a touch of a bar sinister from a hippopotamus in his ancestry.

  The gentle buzz of the intercom on his desk roused him.

  He blinked three times and opened his eyes. He stretched

  forth a rather weary-looking hand and picked up the receiver.

  'Well?' he said.

  His secretary's voice spoke.

  The Minister is here waiting to see you.'

  40

  'Is he now?' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'And what Minister

  is that? The Baptist minister from the church round the

  corner?'

  'Oh no. Colonel Pikeaway, it's Sir George Packham.'

  'Pity,' said Colonel Pikeaway, breathing asthmatically. 'Great

  pity. The Reverend McGill is far more amusing. There's a

  splendid touch of hell fire about him.'

  'Shall I bring him in. Colonel Pikeaway?'

  1 suppose he will expect to be brought in at once. Under

  Secretaries are far more touchy than Secretaries of State,'

  said Colonel Pikeaway gloomily. 'All these Ministers insist

  on coming in and having kittens all over the place.'

  Sir George Packham was shown in. He coughed and

  wheezed. Most people did. The windows of the small

  room were tightly closed. Colonel Pikeaway reclined in his

  chair, completely smothered in cigar ash. The atmosphere

  was almost unbearable and the room was known in official

  circles as the 'small cathouse'.

  'Ah, my dear fellow,' said Sir George, speaking briskly

  and cheerfully in a way that did not match his ascetic and

  sad appearance. 'Quite a long time since we've met, I think.'

  'Sit down, sit down do,' said Pikeaway. 'Have a cigar?'

  Sir George shuddered slightly.

  'No, thank you,' he said, 'no, thanks very much.'

  He looked hard at the windows. Colonel Pikeaway did

  not take the hint. Sir. George cleared his throat and coughed

  again before saying:

  g 'Er--I believe Horsham has been to see you.*

  'Yes, Horsham's been and said his piece,' said Colonel' Pikeaway, slowly allowing his eyes to close again.

  !'I thought it was the best way. I mean, that he should

  call upon you here. It's most important that things shouldn't

  get, round anywhere.'

  'Ah,' said Colonel Pikeaway, 'but they will, won't they?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  They will,' said Colonel Pikeaway.

  'I don't know how much you--er--well, know about this

  last business.'

  'We know everything here,' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'That's

  what we're for.'

  'Oh--oh yes, yes certainly. About Sir S.N.--you know

  who I mean?'

  'Recently a passenger from Frankfurt,' said Colonel Pike- way.

  'Most extraordinary business. Most extraordinary. One 41

  wonders--one really does not know, one can't begin to

  imagine . ..'

  Colonel Pikeaway listened kindly.

  'What is one to think?' pursued Sir George. 'Do you know

  him personally?'

  'I've come across him once or twice,' said Colonel Pikeaway.

  'One

  really cannot help wondering--'

  Colonel Pikeaway subdued a yawn with some difficulty.

  He was rather tired of Sir George's thinking, wondering,

  and imagining. He had a poor opinion anyway of Sir George's

  process of thought. A cautious man, a man who could be

  relied upon to run his department in a cautious manner. Not

  a man of'scintillating intellect. Perhaps, thought Colonel Pikeaway,

  all the better for that. At any rate, those who think

  and wonder and are not quite sure are reasonably safe in

  the place where God and the electors have put them.

  'One cannot quite forget,' continued Sir George, 'the disillusionment

  we have suffered in the past.'

  Colonel Pikeaway smiled kindly.

  'Charleston, Conway and Courtland,' he said. 'Fully trusted,

  vetted and approved of. All beginning with C, all crooked

  as sin.'

  'Sometimes I wonder if we can trust anyone,' said Sir George

  unhappily.

  'That's easy,' said Colonel Pikeaway, 'you can't.'

  'Now take Stafford Nye,' said Sir George. 'Good family,

  excellent family, knew his father, his grandfather.'

  'Often a slip-up in the third generation,' said Colonel

  Pikeaway.

  The remark did not help Sir George.

  'I cannot help doubting--I mean, sometimes he doesn't

  really seem serious.'

  'Took my two nieces to see the chateaux of the Loire when

  I was a young man,' said Colonel Pikeaway unexpectedly.

  'Man fishing on the bank. I had my fishing-rod with me, too.

  He said to me, " Vous rfetes pas un pecheur s6rieux. Vous avez

  des femmes avec voiis" '

  'You mean you think Sir Stafford--?'

  'No, no, never been mixed up with women much. Irony's

  his trouble. Likes surprising people. He can't help liking to

  score off people.'

  'Well, that's not very satisfactory, is it?'

  'Why not?' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'Liking a private joke

  is much better than having some deal with a defector.'

  42

  'If one could feel that he was really sound. What would

  you say�your personal opinion?'

  , 'Sound as a bell,' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'If a bell is

  sound. It makes a sound, but that's different, isn't it?' He

  smiled kindly. 'Shouldn't worry, if I were you,' he said.

  Sir Stafford Nye pushed aside his cup of coffee. He picked
/>   up the newspaper, glancing over the headlines, then he turned

  it carefully to the page which gave Personal advertisements.

  He'd looked down that particular column for seven days

  now. It was disappointing but not surprising. Why on earth

  should he expect to find an answer? His eye went slowly

  down miscellaneous' peculiarities which had always made

  that- particular page rather fascinating in his eyes. They

  were not so strictly personal. Half of them or even more

  than half were disguised advertisements or offers of things for

  sale or wanted for sale. They should perhaps have been put

  under a different heading but they had found their way here

  considering that they were more likely to catch the eye that

  way. They included one or two of the hopeful variety.

  'Young man who objects to hard work and who would

  like an easy life would be glad to undertake a job that

  would suit him.'

  'Girl wants to travel to Cambodia. Refuses to look after

  children.'

  'Firearm used at Waterloo. What offers.'

  'Glorious fun-fur coat. Must be sold immediately. Owner

  going abroad.'

  'Do you know Jenny Capstan? Her cakes are superb.

  Come to 14 Lizzard Street, S.W.3.'

  For a moment Stafford Nye's finger came to a stop. Jenny

  Capstan. He liked the name. Was there any Lizzard Street?

  He supposed so. He had never heard of it. With a sigh, the

  finger went down the column and almost at once was arrested

  once more.

  'Passenger from Frankfurt, Thursday Nov. 11, Hungerford

  Bridge 7.20.'

  Thursday, November llth. That was�yes, that was today.

  Sir Stafford Nye leaned back in his chair and drank more

  coffee. He was excited, stimulated. Hungerford. Hungerford

  Bridge. He got up and went into the kitchenette. Mrs Worrit

  was cutting potatoes into strips and throwing them into a

  large bowl of water. She looked up with some slight surprise.

  "Anything you want, sir?'

  43

  ^

  'Yes,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'If anyone said Hungerford

  Bridge to you, where would you go?'

  'Where should I go?' Mrs Worrit considered. 'You mean

  if I wanted to go, do you?'

  'We can proceed on that assumption.'

  'Well, then, I suppose I'd go to Hungerford Bridge,

  wouldn't I?'

  'You mean you would go to Hungerford in Berkshire?'

  Where is that?' said Mrs Worrit.

  'Eight miles beyond Newbury.'

  'I've heard of Newbury. My old man backed a horse

  there last year. Did well, too.'

  'So you'd go to Hungerford near Newbury?'

  'No, of course I wouldn't,' said Mrs Worrit. 'Go all that

  way--what for? I'd go to Hungerford Bridge, of course.'

  'You mean--?'

  'Well, it's near Charing Cross. You know where it is. Over

  the Thames.'

  'Yes,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'Yes, I do know where it is

  quite well. Thank you, Mrs Worrit.'

  It had been, he felt, rather like tossing a penny heads or

  tails. An advertisement in a morning paper in London meant

  Hungerford Railway Bridge in London. Presumably therefore

  that is what the advertiser meant, although about this particular

  advertiser Sir Stafford Nye was not at all sure. Her

  ideas, from the brief experience he had had of her, were

  original ideas. They were not the normal responses to be

  expected. But still, what else could one do. Besides, there

  were probably other Hungerfords, and possibly they would

  also have bridges, in various parts of England. But today,

  well, today he would see.

  It was a cold windy evening with occasional bursts of thin

  misty rain. Sir Stafford Nye turned up the collar of his

  mackintosh and plodded on. It was not the first time he had

  gone across Hungerford Bridge, but it had never seemed

  to him a walk to take for pleasure. Beneath him was the

  river and crossing the bridge were large quantities of hurrying

  figures like himself. Their mackintoshes pulled round

  them, their hats pulled down and on the part of one and all

  of them an earnest desire to get home and out of the wind

  and rain as soon as possible. It would be, thought Sir Stafford Nye, very difficult to recognize anybody in this scurrying

  crowd. 7.20. Not a good moment to choose for a rendezvous

  of any kind. Perhaps it was Hungerford Bridge in Berkshire.

  Anyway, it seemed very odd.

  He plodded on. He kept an even pace, not overtaking

  those ahead of him, pushing past those coming the opposite

  way. He went fast enough not to be overtaken by the others

  behind him, though it would be possible for them to do so

  if they wanted to. A joke, perhaps, thought Stafford Nye.

  Not quite his kind of joke, but someone else's.

  And yet--not her brand of humour either, he would

  have thought. Hurrying figures passed him again, pushing

  him slightly aside. A woman in a mackintosh was coming

  along, walking heavily. She collided with him, slipped, dropped

  to her knees. He assisted her up.

  All right?'

  'Yes, thanks.'

  She hurried on, but as she passed him, her wet hand, by

  which he had held her as he pulled her to her feet, slipped

  something into the palm of his hand, closing the fingers

  over it. Then she was gone, vanishing behind him, mingling

  with the crowd. Stafford Nye went on. He couldn't overtake

  her. She did not wish to be overtaken, either. He hurried on

  and his hand held something firmly. And so, at long last it

  seemed, he came to the end of the bridge on the Surrey side.

  A few minutes later he had turned into a small cafe and

  sat there behind a table, ordering coffee. Then he looked

  at what was in his hand. It was a very thin oilskin envelope.

  Inside it was a cheap quality white envelope. That too he

  opened. What was inside surprised him. It was a ticket.

  A ticket for the Festival Hall for the following evening.

  Chapter 5

  WAGNERIAN MOTIF

  Sir Stafford Nye adjusted himself more comfortably in his

  seat and listened to the persistent hammering of the Nibelungen,

  with which the programme began.

  Though he enjoyed Wagnerian opera, Siegfried was by

  Oo means his favourite of the operas composing the Ring. Rheingold and Gotterdammerung were his two preferences. the music of the young Siegfried, listening to the songs

  the birds, had always for some strange reason irritated

  45

  him instead of filling him with melodic satisfaction. It might

  have been because he went to a performance in Munich in

  his young days which had displayed a magnificent tenor of

  unfortunately over-magnificent proportions, and he had been

  too young to divorce the joy of music from the visual joy of

  seeing a young Siegfried that looked even passably young. The

  fact of an outsized tenor rolling about on the ground in an

  access of boyishness had revolted him. He was also not

  particularly fond of birds and forest murmurs. No, give him

  the Rhine Maidens every time, although in Munich even
the

  Rhine Maidens in those days had been of fairly solid proportions.

  But that mattered less. Carried away by the melodic

  flow of water and the joyous impersonal song, he had not

  allowed visual appreciation to matter.

  From time to time he looked about him casually. He had

  taken his seat fairly early. It was a full house, as it usually

  was. The intermission came. Sir Stafford rose and looked

  about him. The seat beside his had remained empty. Someone

  who was supposed to have arrived had not arrived.

  Was that the answer, or was it merely a case of being excluded

  because someone had arrived late, which practice still

  held on the occasions when Wagnerian music was listened to.

  He went out, strolled about, drank a cup of coffee, smoked

  a cigarette, and returned when the summons came. This

  time, as he drew near, he saw that the seat next to his was

  filled. Immediately his excitement returned. He regained his

  seat and sat down. Yes, it was the woman of the Frankfurt Air

  Lounge. She did not look at him, she was looking straight

  ahead. Her face in profile was as clean-cut and pure as he

  remembered it. Her head turned slightly, and her eyes passed

  over him but without recognition. So intent was that nonrecognition

  that it was as good as a word spoken. This was a

  meeting that was not to be acknowledged. Not now, at any

  event. The lights began to dim. The woman beside him turned.

  'Excuse me, could I look at your programme? I have

  dropped mine, I'm afraid, coming to my seat.'

  'Of course,' he said.

  He handed over the programme and she took it from him.

  She opened it, studied the items. The lights went lower.

  The second half of the programme began. It started with the

  overture to Lohengrin. At the end of it she handed back

  the programme to him with a few words of thanks.

  'Thank you so much. It was very kind of you.'

  The next item was the Siegfried forest murmur music.

  He consulted the programme she had returned to him. It

  46

  was then that he noticed something faintly pencilled at

  the foot of a page. He did not attempt to read it now. Indeed,

  the light would have not been sufficient. He merely

  closed the programme and held it. He had not, he was

  quite sure, written anything there himself. Not, that is, in

  his own programme. She had, he thought, had her own

  programme ready, folded perhaps in her handbag and had

  already written some message ready to pass to him. Altogether,

  it seemed to him, there was still that atmosphere of secrecy,

  of danger. The meeting on Hungerford Bridge and the envelope

  with the ticket forced into his hand. And now the silent

  woman who sat beside him. /He glanced at her once or twice

  with the quick, careless glance that one gives to a stranger

  sitting next to one. She lolled back in her seat; her highnecked

  dress was of dull black crepe, an antique torque of gold

  encircled her neck. Her dark hair was cropped closely and

  shaped to her head. She did not glance at him or return any

  look. He wondered. Was there someone in the seats of the

  Festival Hall watching her--or watching him? Noting whether

  they looked or spoke to each other? Presumably there must he,

  or there must be at least the possibility of such a thing.

  She had answered his appeal in the newspaper advertisement.

  Let that be enough for him. His curiosity was unimpaired,

  but he did at least know now that Daphne Theodofanous

  --alias Mary Ann--was here in London. There were possibilities

  in the future of his learning more of what Was afoot. But the plan of campaign must be left to her. He must follow

  her lead. As be had obeyed her in the airport, so he would

  obey her now and--let him admit it--life had become suddenly

  more interesting. This was better than the boring

  conferences of his political life. Had a car really tried to

  run him down the other night? He thought it had. Two

  attempts--not only one. It was easy enough to imagine that

  one was the target of assault, people drove so recklessly

  nowadays that you could easily fancy malice aforethought

  when it was not so. He folded his programme, did not look at

  it again. The music came to its end. The woman next to him

  spoke. She did not turn her head or appear to speak to him,

  but she spoke aloud, with a little sigh between the words as

  though she was communing with herself or possibly to her

  neighbour on the other side.

  The young Siegfried,' she said, and sighed again.

  The programme ended with the March from Die Meister^nger. After enthusiastic applause, people began to leave

  their seats. He waited to see if she would give him any lead,