Holcroft looked up, wondering where the stewardess was with his drink. She was at the dimly lit counter that served as the bar in the 747’s lounge. The two men from the table had accompanied her; they were joined by a third. A fourth man sat quietly in a rear seat, reading a newspaper. The two men with the stewardess had been drinking heavily, while the third, in his search for camaraderie, pretended to be less sober than he was. The stewardess saw Noel looking at her and arched her eyebrows in mock desperation. She had poured his scotch, but one of the drunks had spilled it; she was wiping it up with a cloth. The drunks’ companion suddenly lurched back against a chair, his balance lost. The stewardess dashed around the counter to help the fallen passenger; his friend laughed, steadying himself on an adjacent chair. The third man reached for a drink on the bar. The fourth man looked up in disgust, crackling his paper, the sound conveying his disapproval. Noel returned to the window not caring to be a part of the minor confusion.
Several minutes later the stewardess approached his table. «I’m sorry, Mr. Holcroft. Boys will be boys, more so on the Atlantic run, I think. That was scotch on the rocks, wasn’t it?»
«Yes. Thanks.» Noel took the glass from the attractive girl and saw the look in her eyes. It seemed to say, Thank you, nice person, for not coming on like those crashing bores. Under different circumstances he might have pursued a conversation, but now he had other things to think about. His mind was listing the things he would do on Monday. Closing his office was not difficult in terms of personnel; he had a small staff: a secretary and two draftsmen he could easily place with friends—probably at higher salaries. But why in heaven’s name would Holcroft, Incorporated, New York, close up shop just when its designs were being considered for projects that could triple its staff and quadruple its gross income? The explanation had to be both reasonable and above scrutiny.
Suddenly, without warning, a passenger on the other side of the cabin sprang from his seat, a hoarse, wild cry of pain coming from his throat. He arched his back spastically, as if gasping for air, clutched first his stomach, then his chest. He crashed into the wooden divider that held magazines and airline schedules and twisted maniacally, his eyes wide, the veins in his neck purple and distended. He lurched forward and sprawled to the deck of the cabin.
It was the third man, who had joined the two drunks at the bar with the stewardess.
The next moments were chaotic. The stewardess rushed to the fallen man, observed him closely, and followed procedure. She instructed the three other passengers in the cabin to remain in their seats, placed a cushion beneath the man’s head, and returned to the counter and the intercom on the wall. In seconds a male flight attendant rushed up the circular staircase; the British Airways captain emerged from the flight deck. They conferred with the stewardess over the unconscious body. The male attendant walked rapidly to the staircase, descended, and returned within a few moments with a clipboard. It was obviously the plane’s manifest.
The captain stood and addressed the others in the lounge. «Will you all please return to your seats below. There’s a doctor on board. He’s being summoned. Thank you very much.»
As Holcroft sidestepped his way down the staircase, a stewardess carrying a blanket climbed quickly past him. Then he heard the captain issue an order over the intercom. «Radio Kennedy for emergency equipment. Medical. Male passenger, name of Thornton. Heart seizure, I believe.»
The doctor knelt by the prone figure stretched out on the rear seat of the lounge and asked for a flashlight. The first officer hurried to the flight deck and returned with one. The doctor rolled back the eyelids of the man named Thornton, then turned and motioned for the captain to join him; he had something to say. The captain bent over; the doctor spoke quietly.
«He’s dead. It’s difficult to say without equipment, without tissue and blood analysis, but I don’t think this man had a heart attack. I think he was poisoned. Strychnine would be my guess.»
The customs inspector’s office was suddenly quiet. Behind the inspector’s desk sat a homicide detective from New York’s Port Authority police, a British Airways clipboard in front of him. The inspector stood rigidly embarrassed to one side. In two chairs against the wall sat the captain of the 747 and the stewardess assigned to its first-class lounge. By the door was a uniformed police officer. The detective stared at the customs inspector in disbelief.
«Are you telling me that two people got off that plane, walked through sealed-off corridors into the sealed-off, guarded customs area, and vanished?»
«I can’t explain it,» said the inspector, shaking his head despondently. «It’s never happened before.»
The detective turned to the stewardess. «You’re convinced they were drunk, miss?»
«Not now, perhaps,» replied the girl. «I’ve got to have second thoughts. They drank a great deal; I’m certain of it; they couldn’t have faked that. I served them. They appeared quite sloshed. Harmless, but sloshed.»
«Could they have poured their drinks out somewhere? Without drinking them, I mean.»
«Where?» asked the stewardess.
«I don’t know. Hollow ashtrays, the seat cushions. What’s on the floor?»
«Carpeting,» answered the pilot.
The detective addressed the police officer by the door. «Get forensic on your radio. Have them check the carpet, the seat cushions, ashtrays. Left side of the roped-off area facing front. Dampness is enough. Let me know.»
«Yes, sir.» The officer left quickly, closing the door behind him.
«Of course,» ventured the captain, «alcoholic tolerances vary.»
«Not in the amounts the young lady described,» the detective said.
«For God’s sake, why is it important?» said the captain. «Obviously they’re the men you want. They’ve vanished, as you put it. That took some planning, I daresay.»
«Everything’s important,» explained the detective. «Methods can be matched with previous crimes. We’re looking for anything. Crazy people. Rich, crazy people who jet around the world looking for thrills. Signs of psychosis, getting kicks while on a high—alcohol or narcotics, it doesn’t matter. As far as we can determine, the two men in question didn’t even know this Thornton; your stewardess here said they introduced themselves. Why did they kill him? And, accepting the fact that they did, why so brutally? It was strychnine, Captain, and take my word for it, it’s a rough way to go.»
The telephone rang. The customs inspector answered it; listened briefly, and handed it to the Port Authority detective. «It’s the State Department. For you.»
«State? This is Lieutenant Miles, NYPA police. Have you got the information I requested?»
«We’ve got it, but you won’t like it…»
«Wait a minute,» Miles broke in. The door had opened and the uniformed officer had reappeared. «What have you got?» Miles asked the officer.
«The seat cushions and the carpet on the left side of the lounge are soaked.»
«Then they were cold sober,» said the detective, in a monotone. He nodded and returned to the telephone. «Go ahead, State. What won’t I like?»
«Those passports in question were declared void more than four years ago. They belonged to two men from Flint, Michigan. Neighbors, actually; worked for the same company in Detroit. In June of 1973 they both went on a business trip to Europe and never came back.»
«Why were the passports voided?»