John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Or been self-administered,” put in the pilot.

“There is no sign of a hypodermic needle in his pockets,” stated the Security Officer.

“There might be a disposable hypo in the garbage,” contributed the young doctor, eagerly.

“Not in the garbage of Flight 212,” replied the Security Officer. “We checked. We can double check, though, we kept the garbage stored, there was good time for that.”

“Nice work, Joe,” approved the man from Homicide. “What’s this about no hand baggage?”

“No hand baggage,” stated the Security Officer with assurance he showed in every utterance.

“Did he bring any on board?” inquired the man from Homicide.

This police officer was rather small, plump and pink; he looked less like a New York policeman than anyone present. He was dressed in a well-cut suit and had only one mannerism: raising his right eyebrow from time to time, either speculatively or because he had a twitch. His dark hair was smoothed over his cranium so that streaks of white pate showed through, and the parting was incongruously close to his right ear. Everything about him suggested a man of great personal carefulness; even his hands, the nails of which were manicured although not a particularly good shape.

“He had one small bag,” answered the captain.

“Don’t they search hand baggage in Tucson?” asked Homicide.

“They search it these days,” answered the pilot, “but they don’t make out a schedule, Sergeant. If a man’s clean of weapons or smuggled goods, he’s clean. All these passengers were clean. There was one guy with something in his case which ticked like a bomb but it was his alarm clock, he never trusts hotel clerks to wake him. One guy and a woman had guns, and these were taken away so they had to pick them up at the baggage claim.”

“They picked them up,” the Security Officer remarked. “From me. They were both in order.”

There was a lull in the questions and answers before the pilot asked:

“Did he have baggage checks?”

“Two,” agreed the Security Officer.

“So where are his bags?”

“Someone collected them for him.”

“Without the claim checks,” remarked Homicide. “You know how it is,” said Security wearily. “You pick on one in a dozen to see their check and the one on the baggage they are taking out are the same. We don’t have any trouble.”

“This,” remarked Homicide, heavily, “is trouble. The passenger seems to have been robbed on the aircraft and his baggage taken away from the baggage claim without a claim check. If the guy wants to sue the airline I guess he’s got a million dollar case. Joe, what about the passengers on either side of this guy? A passenger on his right could have given him a shot. Or one of the stewardesses. Or —”

“Or anyone passing along the gangway and leaning over for a magazine or, as I told you, it could have been self-administered. We’re trying to trace the man who sat on his right but it’s not easy — people changed seats a lot, the aircraft wasn’t full. The question is, do we ask for details about the guy from Tucson or do we wait until Mr. Thomas G. Loman comes round?”

Now, all eyes were on the man from Homicide, who leaned back in his chair and looked at the young doctor. “How long will he be under, Doc?”

“There’s no way of being sure, it depends on the strength of the shot and the body’s reaction to it. Some systems run it out fast, others hold it for a long time. He’s been under for more than four hours, now. He might begin to come round at any time.”

“Why don’t you go and see?” suggested Homicide, in his gentlest voice.

2

Rush!

THE YOUNG MAN with the long face and the spade of a chin was on his back in a room which had three beds, although he was the only occupant. The young doctor went in ahead of the nurse on duty, who said:

“I came in ten minutes ago, doctor, and he hadn’t moved.”

The doctor stood looking down, and after a few moments, said: “He’ll move soon.” There were changes in the breathing, in the firmness of the lips and eyes; a kind of relaxation. The doctor touched one of the large, pale eyelids and the young man flinched. The doctor turned round, almost cannoning into the Homicide sergeant, who had come silently on his heels: “Not a case for Homicide,” the doctor remarked.

“How soon will he be able to talk?”

“May be half an hour. Morphine patients vary.”

“Doc,” asked Homicide. “You’re sure he’s not an addict?”

“I’m sure.”

The sergeant nodded, but it was impossible to say whether it was with satisfaction or not. He asked: “Will you let me know when he can talk?” and went out on the doctor’s nod of assurance. But he did not immediately go back to the others. He went to the exit doors, which opened electronically, and out to his car, parked across the driveway from the taxis. No one else was in it. He slid into the seat and lifted the radio-telephone; soon he was talking to his lieutenant, who had detailed him to this inquiry. He reported lucidly in his gentle voice, and the lieutenant replied:

“So what next?”

“So next we look for a man who jabbed the needle in this guy’s arm, a man who could be anywhere in the Metropolitan area of New York, which means one of thirteen million people. And the man we want could have flown out of Kennedy in any one of the three hundred and seven flights which left in the past three hours. If we had a body, we might look. If we have a big heist, we could look. What do you want me to do, Manny?”

“You’ve got judgment,” the lieutenant said. “Why don’t you use it.”

“That’s what I’ll do,” the sergeant said.

“Luigi,” said the lieutenant in a sharper voice : “Are you telling me you’ve got ideas?”

“Feelings,” Sergeant Luigi Tetano retorted. “You mean a hunch.”

“I mean I would like to know more about this Thomas G. Loman and what he’s had stolen from him.” When he received no answer he went on: “We’ve been so blinded by hi-jacking we’ve forgotten the other things that happen. How many passengers from Kennedy complain that their luggage is stolen before they get to the baggage claim?”

“Too many,” the lieutenant replied.

“And La Guardia?”

“Too many.”

“And sometimes the passengers who lose their bags are called to the telephone on phoney messages and sometimes they go into the rest rooms and sometimes they make a telephone call and sometimes they’re met by their families and the reunion takes a lot of time. So when they reach the baggage claim, no baggage.”

“Right,” the lieutenant confirmed.

“It’s wrong,” said Luigi Tetano. “This time they dope the guy so they can take his hand baggage as well.”

“Luigi,” the lieutenant observed, “it doesn’t have to be the same gang. Okay, there is a gang operating and okay, we haven’t found it, but this could be different. It is different in one way, because of the fact the guy was doped. So it could be a different job altogether, different people — oh, come on you know what I mean.”

“Sure,” said Luigi. “It could also be the same mob going a step further.”

“So it could be.”

“Do I get to follow my nose?” asked Luigi.

“Sure.”

“Wherever it takes me?”

“Sure,” the lieutenant answered.

“That’s fine,” breathed Luigi. “That’s very good, Manny. I’ll call you again.”

He replaced the receiver and switched off, then sat back with his eyes half-closed. This made him look a little younger: baby-faced. Overhead a four-engined aircraft roared, others seemed to be landing and taking off every minute. Taxis were arriving, picking up passengers, going off into the complex of roads which served the mammoth airport. Dusk was falling, and lights were beginning to show in the sky and on the ground. He opened his eyes wide and looked at his watch : it was seven-fifteen. He got out of the car and went back to the room where the others were sitting, and as he opened the door the Security Officer was saying:

“Should I go look for him?”

“I want to go home,” complained the pilot. “I’ve got a date.”

They looked round as he entered — including the young doctor, who was sitting against a table, hands at the side. Sergeant Luigi Tetano ignored the others and looked at him.

“He come round, Doc?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come and see him.” Luigi looked round at the others and went on in the same flat voice: “If anyone wants home, okay. But maybe I’ll have to call him back. And maybe we’ll need to see all members of the crew of that flight. In half an hour I should know. Can your date wait for half an hour?” He looked at the pilot.

“My wife is a patient woman,” answered the pilot.

Luigi and the young doctor went across the crowded terminal building to the hospital, and heard the nurse in the private room, talking; protesting. When the two men entered, the long-faced young passenger was on his feet, and he proved to be very tall and lean. He was standing on one leg, pulling his trousers on, pyjamas were loose on the floor. The nurse was saying :

“You’re crazy to behave like this. You ought to rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young man drawled. “I always was kind of crazy.” But he dropped on to the side of the bed, obviously with weariness, and there was a worried expression on his face : “I sure could drink some coffee.”

“If you will stop acting like a big boy —”

“Could you use some coffee?” the doctor asked Luigi. “Sure could.”

“Honey, why don’t you go and get us some coffee from the restaurant,” suggested the young doctor. “They could send it over with a boy.” He opened the door for her and she went out, while the tall young man sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a brown and yellow checked shirt, open at the neck, and well-tailored, sand-coloured slacks. His legs and arms were more muscular than one might have expected, and he had surprisingly broad and powerful-looking shoulders. He gave a slow, lazy smile, showing teeth both big and white.

“Thanks,” he said. “Will one of you tell me what happened?”

“You were drugged with morphia,” Luigi told him. “You were unconscious with morphine poisoning.” The doctor was more precise.

“Your hand baggage and your checked baggage was stolen,” the Homicide man stated, “but no one took your money or your travellers’ cheques.”

The young man named Thomas G. Loman put a hand to his forehead; that might have been to hide his expression of bewilderment. And no wonder, thought the Homicide man, the fellow had plenty to be bewildered about. Apart from the movement of his arm and hand, he kept very still. He seemed to be like that for a long time, before he asked in a muffled voice :

“Do you have the time?”

“Twenty of eight,” answered Luigi. “Still nighttime!”

“I have to be on a flight to London, England, at ten-thirty.”

“You have to check in at nine-thirty,” said Luigi. “You have plenty of time.”

“You need to rest,” the doctor said.

“I can rest on the flight, I guess.”

“What about your baggage?” Luigi asked.

“So I’ve no baggage.” At last Thomas G. Loman lowered his hand — and on the same instant the door opened and the nurse came in with a tray. “I’ve lost baggage before.”

“You mean you’ve had some stolen before?” Luigi demanded.

The young man looked at him levelly, and slowly shook his head. The nurse put the tray down on a bedside table and began to pour coffee. She had some cookies on a plate, also.