by Stephen King
Evans was clearly shocked. “That’s impossible. It must have been suicide.”
Hector Ross cleared his throat and looked uneasily at his friend. “Should you go that far, old laddie?” he muttered. “After all—”
Fane was unperturbed and interrupted him in a calm decisive tone. “Whatever the precise method of inflicting the fatal wound, I would think that you would agree that it looked pretty instantaneous. The front parts of the head, below the eyes and nose, are almost blown away. Nasty. Looks like a gunshot wound to the mouth.”
Evans had recovered the power of speech. Now, as he thought about it, he realized the very point that had been puzzling him. It was his turn to be sarcastic.
“If a gun was fired in there, even one of low caliber with a body to cushion the impact of the bullet, it would have had the force to pierce the side of the aircraft, causing decompression. Do you know what a bullet can do if it pierces an aircraft fuselage at thirty-six thousand feet?”
“I did not say for certain that it was a gun.” Fane maintained his gentle smile. “I said that it looked like a gunshot.”
“Even if it were a gunshot that killed him, why could it not have been a suicide?” the chief steward interrupted. “He was in a locked toilet, for Chrissake! It was locked on the inside.”
Fane eyed him indulgently. “I made a point about the instantaneous nature of the wound. I have never known a corpse to be able to get up and hide a weapon after a successful suicide bid. The man is sprawled in there dead, with a nasty mortal wound that was pretty instantaneous in causing death … and no sign of any weapon. Curious, isn’t it?”
Evans stared at him in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous …” There was no conviction in his voice. “You can’t be serious? The weapon must be hidden behind the door or somewhere.”
Fane did not bother to reply.
“But,” Evans plunged on desperately, knowing that Fane had articulated the very thing that had been worrying him: the missing weapon. “Are you saying that Gray was killed and then placed in the toilet?”
Fane shook his head firmly. “More complicated than that, I’m afraid. Judging from the blood splayed out from the wound, staining the walls of the cubicle, he was already in the toilet when he was killed and with the door locked from the inside, according to your chief steward there.”
Jeff Ryder stirred uncomfortably. “The door was locked from the inside,” he confirmed defensively.
“Then how—?” began Evans.
“That is something we must figure out. Captain, I have no wish to usurp any authority, but if I might make a suggestion? …”
Evans did not answer. He was still contemplating the impossibility of what Fane had suggested.
“Captain? …”
“Yes? Sorry, what did you say?”
“If I might make a suggestion? While Hector does a preliminary examination to see if we can discover the cause of death, will you allow me to question Gray’s colleague, and then we might discover the why as well as the how?”
Evans lips compressed thoughtfully. “I don’t feel that I have the authority. I’ll have to speak to the chairman of the company.”
“As soon as possible, Captain. We’ll wait here,” Fane replied calmly. “While we are waiting, Doctor Ross and I will get the body out of the toilet.”
HARDLY any time passed before Moss Evans returned. By then Ross and Fane had been able to remove the body of Kinloch Gray from the toilet and lay it in the area between the bulkhead and front row of the premier-class seats.
Evans cleared his throat awkwardly. “Doctor Fane. My chairman has given you full permission to act as you see fit in this matter … until the aircraft lands, that is. Then, of course, you must hand over matters to the local police authority.” He shrugged and added, as if some explanation were necessary: “It seems that my chairman has heard of your reputation as a … a criminologist? He is happy to leave the matter in the hands of Doctor Ross and yourself.”
Fane inclined his head gravely. “Will you be diverting the aircraft?” he asked.
“My chairman has ordered us to continue to our point of destination, Doctor. As the man is dead, it is pointless to divert in search of any medical assistance.”
“Good. Then we have over three hours to sort this out. Can your steward provide me with a corner where I can speak with Gray’s colleague? She tells me that he is his personal secretary. I want a word without causing alarm to other passengers.”
“See to it, Jeff,” Captain Evans ordered the chief steward. He glanced at Fane. “Don’t they say that murder is usually committed by someone known to the victim? Doesn’t that make this secretary the prime suspect? Or will every passenger have to be checked out to see if they have some connection with Gray?”
Fane smiled broadly. “I often find that you cannot make general rules in these matters.”
Evans shrugged. “If it helps, I could put out an address asking all passengers to return to their seats and put on their seat belts. I could say that we are expecting turbulence. It would save any curious souls from trying to enter this area.”
“That would be most helpful, Captain,” Hector Ross assured him, looking up from his position by the corpse.
Evans hesitated a moment more. “I am going back to the flight deck. Keep me informed of any developments.”
Within a few minutes of Evans’s leaving, there came the sound of raised voices. Fane looked up to see the stewardess, Sally Beech, trying her best to prevent a young man from moving forward toward them.
The young man was very determined. “I tell you that I work for him.” His voice was raised in protest. “I have a right to be here.”
“You are in tourist class, sir. You have no right to be here in premier class.”
“If something has happened to Mr. Gray, then I demand …”
Fane moved quickly forward. The young man was tall, well spoken, and, Fane observed, his handsome looks were aided by a tan that came from a lamp rather than the sun. He was immaculately dressed. He sported a gold signet ring on his slim tapering fingers. Fane had a habit of noticing hands. He felt much could be told about a person from their hands and how they kept their fingernails. This young man obviously paid a great deal of attention to maintaining well-manicured nails.
“Is this Mr. Gray’s secretary?” he asked Sally.
The stewardess shook her head. “No, Doctor. This is a passenger from tourist class. He claims to have worked for Mr. Gray.”
“And your name is?” queried Fane swiftly, his sharp eyes on the young man’s handsome features.
“Oscar Elgee. I was Mr. Gray’s manservant.” The young man spoke with a modulated voice that clearly betrayed his prep school background. “Check with Frank Tilley, in premier class. He is Mr. Gray’s personal secretary. He will tell you who I am.”
Fane smiled encouragingly at Sally Beech. “Would you do that for me, Miss Beech, and also tell Mr. Tilley that I would like to see him here when convenient?” When she hurried away, Fane turned back to the new arrival. “Now, Mr. Elgee, how did you hear that there had been an … an accident?”
“I heard one of the stewardesses mentioning it to another back in the tourist class,” Elgee said. “If Mr. Gray has been hurt—”
“Mr. Gray is dead.”
Oscar Elgee stared at him for a moment. “A heart attack?”
“Not exactly. Since you are here, you might formally identify your late employer. We need an identification for Doctor Ross’s record.”
He stood aside and allowed the young man to move forward to where the body had been laid out ready for Ross’s examination. Ross moved to allow the young man to examine the face. Elgee halted over the body and gazed down for a moment.
“Terra es, terram ibis,” he muttered. Then his face broke in anguish. “How could this have happened? Why is there blood on his face? What sort of accident happened here?”
“That’s exactly what we are attempting to find out,” Ross told him. “I
take it that you formally identify this man as Henry Kinloch Gray?”
The young man nodded briefly, turning away. Fane halted him beyond the curtained area.
“How long did you work for him, Mr. Elgee?”
“Two years.”
“What exactly was your job with him?”
“I was his manservant. Everything. Chauffeur, butler, cook, valet, handyman. His factotum.”
“And he took you on his trips abroad?”
“Of course.”
“But I see he was a stickler for the social order, eh?” smiled Fane.
The young man flushed. “I don’t understand.”
“You are traveling tourist class.”
“It would not be seemly for a manservant to travel first class.”
“Quite so. Yet, judging from your reactions to his death, you felt a deep attachment to your employer?”
The young man’s chin raised defiantly, and a color came to his cheeks. “Mr. Gray was an exemplary employer. A tough businessman, true. But he was a fair man. We never had a cross word. He was a good man to work for. A great man.”
“I see. And you looked after him? Took care of his domestic needs. If I recall the newspaper stories, Harry Gray was always described as an eligible bachelor.”
Fane saw a subtle change of expression on the young man’s face. “If he had been married, then he would hardly have needed my services, would he? I did everything for him. Even repairing his stereo system or his refrigerator. No, he was not married.”
“Just so.” Fane smiled, glancing again at Elgee’s hands. “Repairing a stereo system requires a delicate touch. Unusual for a handyman to be able to do that sort of thing.”
“My hobby is model making. Working models.” There was a boastful note in his voice.
“I see. Tell me, as you would be in the best position to know, did your employer have any enemies?”
The young man actually winced. “A businessman like Harry Gray is surrounded by enemies.” He looked up and saw Sally Beech ushering a bespectacled man into the compartment. “Some enemies work with him and pretended to be his confidants,” he added with a sharp note. He paused and frowned as the thought seemed to occur to him. “Are you saying that his death was … was suspicious?”
Fane noticed, with approval, that Sally had motioned her new charge to sit down and did not come forward to interrupt him. He turned to the young man.
“That we will have to find out. Now, Mr. Elgee, perhaps you would return to your seat? We will keep you informed of the situation.”
The young man turned and went out, hardly bothering to acknowledge the new arrival, who, in turn, seemed to drop his eyes to avoid contact with the personable young man. There was obviously no love lost between the manservant and secretary.
Leaving Hector Ross to continue his examination with the aid of the aircraft’s emergency medical kit, Fane went up to where the newcomer had been seated.
Sally Beech, waiting with her charge, gave him a nervous smile. “This is Mr. Francis Tilley. He was traveling with Mr. Gray.”
Frank Tilley was a thin and very unattractive man in his mid-thirties. His skin was pale, and his jaw showed a permanent blue shadow, which no amount of shaving would erase. He wore thick, horn-rimmed spectacles that seemed totally unsuited to his features. His hair was thin and receding, and there was a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Fane motioned the stewardess to stand near the door to prevent any other person entering the premier-class compartment, and he turned to Tilley.
“He’s dead, eh?” Tilley’s voice was almost a falsetto. He giggled nervously. “Well, I suppose it had to happen sometime, even to the so-called great and the good.”
Fane frowned at the tone in the man’s voice. “Are you saying that Mr. Gray was ill?” he asked.
Tilley raised a hand and let it fall as if he were about to make a point and changed his mind. Fane automatically registered the shaky hand, the thick trembling fingers, stained with nicotine, and the raggedly cut nails.
“He was prone to asthma, that’s all. Purely a stress condition.”
“Then, why? …”
Tilley looked slightly embarrassed. “I suppose that I was being flippant.”
“You do not seem unduly upset by the death of your colleague?”
Tilley sniffed disparagingly. “Colleague? He was my boss. He never let anyone who worked for him forget that he was the boss, that he was the arbiter of their fate in the company. Whether the man was a doorman or his senior vice-president, Harry Kinloch Gray was a ‘hands on’ chairman, and his word was law. If he took a dislike to you, then you were out immediately, no matter how long you had worked with the company. He was the archetypical Victorian, self-made businessman. Autocratic, mean, and spiteful. He should have had no place in the modern business world.”
Fane sat back and listened to the bitterness in the man’s voice. “Was he the sort of man who had several enemies then?”
Tilley actually smiled at the humor. “He was the sort of man who did not have any friends.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“‘I’ve spent ten years in the company. I was his personal secretary for the last five of those years.”
“Rather a long time to spend with someone you don’t like? You must have been doing something right for him not to take a dislike to you and sack you, if, as you say, that was his usual method of dealing with employees.”
Tilley shifted uneasily at Fane’s sarcasm. “What has this to do with Mr. Gray’s death?” he suddenly countered.
“Just seeking some background.”
“What happened?” Tilley went on. “I presume that he had some sort of heart attack?”
“Did he have a heart condition then?”
“Not so far as I know. He was overweight and ate like a pig. With all the stress he carried about with him, it wouldn’t surprise me to know that that was the cause.”
“Was this journey a particularly stressful one?”
“No more than usual. We were on our way to a meeting of the executives of the American subsidiaries.”
“And so far as you noticed, Mr. Gray was behaving in his usual manner?”
Tilley actually giggled. It was an unpleasant noise. “He was his usual belligerent, bullying, and arrogant self. He had half a dozen people to sack and he wanted to do it in a public ritual to give them the maximum embarrassment. It gave him a buzz. And then …” Tilley hesitated and a thoughtful look came into his eyes. “He was going through some documents from his case. One of them seemed to fascinate him, and after a moment or two he started to have one of his attacks—”
“Attacks? I thought you said that he had no health problems?”
“What I actually said was that he was prone to asthma. He did have these stress-related asthma attacks.”
“So you did. So he began to have an asthma attack? Did he take anything for it?”
“He carried one of those inhalers around with him. He was vain and thought that none of us knew about it. The great chairman did not like to confess to a physical weakness. So when he had his attacks, he would disappear to treat himself with the inhaler. It was so obvious. Ironic that he had a favorite quotation from Ecclesiastes, ‘Vanitas vanitatum, omnis vanitas’!”
“So are you saying that he went to the toilet to take his inhaler?”
“That is what I am saying. After a considerable time had passed, I did get concerned.”
“Concerned?” Fane smiled thinly. “From what you are telling me, concern about your boss’s well-being was not exactly a priority with you.”
Tilley lips thinned in a sneer. “Personal feelings do not enter into it. I was not like Elgee, who puts his all into the job. I was being paid to do a job, and I did it with integrity and with professionalism. I did not have to like Harry Gray. It was no concern of mine what Harry Gray did or did not do outside of the job he paid me to do. It did not concern me who his lover was nor who his mo
rtal enemies were.”
“Very well. So he went to the toilet and did not come back?”
“As I said, after a while, I called the stewardess and she went to check on him. That was no more nor less the concern of my position as his secretary.”
“Wait there a moment, Mr. Tilley.”
Fane moved to where Sally Beech was standing, still pale and slightly nervous, and said quietly: “Do you think you could go to Mr. Gray’s seat and find his attaché case? I’d like you to bring it here.”
She returned in a short while with a small brown leather case.
Fane took it to show to Frank Tilley. “Do you identify this as Gray’s case?”
The man nodded reluctantly. “I don’t think you should do that,” he protested as Fane snapped open the clasps.
“Why not?”
“Confidential company property.”
“I think an investigation into a possible homicide will override that objection.”
Frank Tilley was surprised. “Homicide? … But that means … murder. No one said anything about murder.”
Fane was too busy shifting through the papers to respond. He pulled out a sheet and showed it to Tilley. “Was this what he was looking at just before he began to have breathing difficulties?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. It was a piece of paper like it—that’s all I can say.”
The sheet was a tear sheet from a computer printout. It had two short sentences on it:
You will die before this aircraft lands. Memento, “homo,” quia pulvis es et in pulverem revertis.
Fane sat back with a casual smile. He held out the paper to the secretary. “You are a Latin scholar, Mr. Tilley. How would you translate the phrase given here?”
Tilley frowned. “What makes you say that I am a Latin scholar?”
“A few moments ago you trotted out a Latin phrase. I presumed that you knew its meaning.”
“My Latin is almost nonexistent. Mr. Gray was fond of Latin tags and phrases, so I tried to keep up by memorizing some of those he used frequently.”
“I see. So you don’t know what this one means?”
Tilley looked at the printed note. He shook his head. “Memento means ‘remember,’ doesn’t it?”
