Читать книгу Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 18

The man who came into the room did not look as though his name was, or could ever have been, Robinson. It might have been Demetrius, or Isaacstein, or Perenna—though not one or the other in particular. He was not definitely Jewish, nor definitely Greek nor Portuguese nor Spanish, nor South American. What did seem highly unlikely was that he was an Englishman called Robinson. He was fat and well dressed, with a yellow face, melancholy dark eyes, a broad forehead, and a generous mouth that displayed rather over-large very white teeth. His hands were well shaped and beautifully kept. His voice was English with no trace of accent.

He and Colonel Pikeaway greeted each other rather in the manner of two reigning monarchs. Politenesses were exchanged.

Then, as Mr Robinson accepted a cigar, Colonel Pikeaway said:

‘It is very good of you to offer to help us.’

Mr Robinson lit his cigar, savoured it appreciatively, and finally spoke.

‘My dear fellow. I just thought—I hear things, you know. I know a lot of people, and they tell me things. I don’t know why.’

Colonel Pikeaway did not comment on the reason why.

He said:

‘I gather you’ve heard that Prince Ali Yusuf’s plane has been found?’

‘Wednesday of last week,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘Young Rawlinson was the pilot. A tricky flight. But the crash wasn’t due to an error on Rawlinson’s part. The plane had been tampered with—by a certain Achmed—senior mechanic. Completely trustworthy—or so Rawlinson thought. But he wasn’t. He’s got a very lucrative job with the new régime now.’

‘So it was sabotage! We didn’t know that for sure. It’s a sad story.’

‘Yes. That poor young man—Ali Yusuf, I mean—was ill equipped to cope with corruption and treachery. His public school education was unwise—or at least that is my view. But we do not concern ourselves with him now, do we? He is yesterday’s news. Nothing is so dead as a dead king. We are concerned, you in your way, I in mine, with what dead kings leave behind them.’

‘Which is?’

Mr Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

‘A substantial bank balance in Geneva, a modest balance in London, considerable assets in his own country now taken over by the glorious new régime (and a little bad feeling as to how the spoils have been divided, or so I hear!), and finally a small personal item.’

‘Small?’

‘These things are relative. Anyway, small in bulk. Handy to carry upon the person.’

‘They weren’t on Ali Yusuf’s person, as far as we know.’

‘No. Because he had handed them over to young Rawlinson.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Pikeaway sharply.

‘Well, one is never sure,’ said Mr Robinson apologetically. ‘In a palace there is so much gossip. It cannot all be true. But there was a very strong rumour to that effect.’

‘They weren’t on young Rawlinson’s person, either—’

‘In that case,’ said Mr Robinson, ‘it seems as though they must have been got out of the country by some other means.’

‘What other means? Have you any idea?’

‘Rawlinson went to a café in the town after he had received the jewels. He was not seen to speak to anyone or approach anyone whilst he was there. Then he went to the Ritz Savoy Hotel where his sister was staying. He went up to her room and was there for about 20 minutes. She herself was out. He then left the hotel and went to the Merchants Bank in Victory Square where he cashed a cheque. When he came out of the bank a disturbance was beginning. Students rioting about something. It was some time before the square was cleared. Rawlinson then went straight to the airstrip where, in company with Sergeant Achmed, he went over the plane.

‘Ali Yusuf drove out to see the new road construction, stopped his car at the airstrip, joined Rawlinson and expressed a desire to take a short flight and see the dam and the new highway construction from the air. They took off and did not return.’

‘And your deductions from that?’

‘My dear fellow, the same as yours. Why did Bob Rawlinson spend twenty minutes in his sister’s room when she was out and he had been told that she was not likely to return until evening? He left her a note that would have taken him at most three minutes to scribble. What did he do for the rest of the time?’

‘You are suggesting that he concealed the jewels in some appropriate place amongst his sister’s belongings?’

‘It seems indicated, does it not? Mrs Sutcliffe was evacuated that same day with other British subjects. She was flown to Aden with her daughter. She arrives at Tilbury, I believe, tomorrow.’

Pikeaway nodded.

‘Look after her,’ said Mr Robinson.

‘We’re going to look after her,’ said Pikeaway. ‘That’s all arranged.’

‘If she has the jewels, she will be in danger.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I so much dislike violence.’

‘You think there is likely to be violence?’

‘There are people interested. Various undesirable people—if you understand me.’

‘I understand you,’ said Pikeaway grimly.

‘And they will, of course, double cross each other.’

Mr Robinson shook his head. ‘So confusing.’

Colonel Pikeaway asked delicately: ‘Have you yourself any—er—special interest in the matter?’

‘I represent a certain group of interests,’ said Mr Robinson. His voice was faintly reproachful. ‘Some of the stones in question were supplied by my syndicate to his late highness—at a very fair and reasonable price. The group of people I represent who were interested in the recovery of the stones, would, I may venture to say, have had the approval of the late owner. I shouldn’t like to say more. These matters are so delicate.’

‘But you are definitely on the side of the angels,’ Colonel Pikeaway smiled.

‘Ah, angels! Angels—yes.’ He paused. ‘Do you happen to know who occupied the rooms in the hotel on either side of the room occupied by Mrs Sutcliffe and her daughter?’

Colonel Pikeaway looked vague.

‘Let me see now—I believe I do. On the left hand side was Señora Angelica de Toredo—a Spanish—er—dancer appearing at the local cabaret. Perhaps not strictly Spanish and perhaps not a very good dancer. But popular with the clientèle. On the other side was one of a group of school-teachers, I understand—’

Mr Robinson beamed approvingly.

‘You are always the same. I come to tell you things, but nearly always you know them already.’

‘No no.’ Colonel Pikeaway made a polite disclaimer.

‘Between us,’ said Mr Robinson, ‘we know a good deal.’

Their eyes met.

‘I hope,’ Mr Robinson said rising, ‘that we know enough—’