The First Secretary who dealt with Percy was earnest, sympathetic, unconcerned with time, and quite unruffled that Sybil, a British citizen, had met her death while under Polish jurisdiction, in Burmese waters, with the case now to be cleared in conformity with Malaysian law. It seemed there were well tried procedures to meet these complicated circumstances, and the procedures had to be observed exhaustively, but the matter seemed to be concluded at the point where Percy gravely signed a form stating that should Sybil’s remains ever come to light, they should be reverently and promptly returned to Britain. His pen hesitated over the choice of whether his wife’s remains should in that event be despatched by air or by sea. In the end, he opted for air as showing greater keenness on his part. He was thereafter free to go home next day.
“Would you like me to take you to the airport in the morning?” asked the First Secretary as they were about to part. “I’ll be glad to get you diplomatic cover through Customs and so on. After what you’ve been through, you deserve to be spared all that.”
“No, thanks just the same,” Percy answered, anxious to get beyond the reach of serious officialdom. Customs would be no problem.
“Very well. As part of a cruise group in transit, you shouldn’t really have any trouble,” the diplomat told him.
What had come after Sybil’s murder had drained Percy much more than the act itself. Now he just wanted to be left alone, with nothing to worry about — and the thick end of £300,000 waiting for him to enjoy.
He was sorry not to see Rita again that night, but the sisters had told him they would be out for the evening. It was after ten o’clock when he got to the hotel. Before going to bed, he took coffee with the ever solicitous Miss Mold. This was hardly a substitute for Rita’s amorous attentions, but it still would not do for him to be seen too much in the company of nubile, younger females. Rita had advised as much before she left him the night before. “Well, you can’t be in mourning forever, can you, love? It’s not natural,” she had said, snuggling close to him. “But you know how people are. You don’t want this lot thinking you’re cutting loose too early. Different when we get home,” she had ended, the words heavy with promise as she traced a finger over his lips.
He had kept his distance from the sisters on the train, and would continue to do so for the rest of the journey home. Little did happy-go-lucky Rita know, he mused, that it was suspicion of murder he had to avoid, not just the idle gossip of the overconventional. But she had the right idea.
And so Percy was surprised when Rita telephoned him early next morning, pressing him to come to the room she was sharing with her sister. It was after breakfast, and nearly time for the bus that was taking their party to the airport.
“Sweetie, our bags are going to be overweight,” she complained when he joined her. “It’s Kirsty’s fault. She’s always buying heavy presents.” There was no sign of Kirsty — only Rita, managing to look pert, sexy, and dependent all at the same time. She wrapped her arms around Percy’s neck and kissed him warmly. “Will you be an angel and take some of our stuff?” she pleaded in a little-girl-lost voice.
“Of course, anything for you. Give me whatever you want to get rid of,” he answered expansively. He had remarked to her on the ship how little luggage he had, even allowing for what he had kept of Sybil’s belongings.
“Just that bag — then we shan’t be over the top.” She pointed to a small but expensive-looking canvas holdall, then glanced at the time. “We’d better get moving.”
“It’s locked,” said Percy, surprised that the bag weighed quite as much as it did. “Shouldn’t I have the key in case—?”
“Kirsty’s got it. She’s gone down already. She’ll give it to you later. Don’t worry, you won’t need it. Oh, better put your name on the label.” She pushed a pen into his hand and he scribbled on the shipping company’s label she had tied to the bag handle. It was a similar label to those on his own bags. “Hurry, lover.” She kissed him again and pointed him toward the door.
He took the bag back to his room. Shortly afterward the porter came and carried it down with the rest of his things.
Since the girls were seated at the front of the bus, Percy chose a place at the back, beside the safe Miss Mold. One of the elderly male passengers across the aisle leaned over to say, “They’re very hot on that here.”
“What?”
“Drug peddling.” The man pointed to the signs in several languages fixed at intervals along the luggage rack. In English, the message read: WARNING. Drug trafficking punishable by death. Do not become involved — even innocently.
“How could anyone be innocently involved in carrying drugs?” Percy asked the man.
“Nephew of a friend of mine was. Right here at the airport.” He nodded authoritatively. “He was a student with very little luggage or experience. Only seventeen at the time. Someone claiming to be overweight asked him to take one of his bags. The Customs people opened it. It was a spot check.”
Percy went cold. “What happened?”
“He was in jail for months. In the end they believed his story and let him go. It was a close thing, though.”
“Such a very nice hotel, wasn’t it?” Miss Mold put in from the other side.
Percy answered with a brief affirmative and fell silent for the rest of the journey. Was he being duped in the same way as the student? It would explain why Rita had been so especially nice to him. Despite his natural conceit, he hadn’t truly convinced himself it had been solely his magnetism that had compelled her into his bed. Now there was a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that she had simply been setting him up.
“We said we wouldn’t be seen together,” said Rita, without looking at him. He had caught up with her in the moving throng at the airport.
“What’s in the bag? Is it drugs? Heroin?”
“Of course not. Now get lost, will you, darling?” She increased her pace.
“Open the bag, then. When we get to the ticket desk.”
Porters were bringing in the baggage from the bus on trucks. The passengers had been told to claim their own at the check-in. There were warnings all over about smuggling drugs — even sterner than those on the bus.
“Look at the warnings,” Percy insisted. “I’m not taking that bag through, Rita. Not without seeing what’s in it. Where’s Kirsty? She’s got the key, you said.”
Resigned to acknowledging his presence at last, Rita pulled him aside toward a magazine stand. “Kirsty’s busy, love. I’m sorry you’re behaving like this. It’s only a little thing you’re doing for me. Quite safe. I’d have thought it was the least you could manage after the other night. And the rest.” She eyed him accusingly. “They won’t be stopping you. Not after your bereavement. It’s a natural, don’t you see?”
“It is heroin. Oh, my God.” He looked about him as if for help. “Well, I’m not doing it.”
She had her handbag open now, resting it on the stacked magazines. “I’m afraid you are, love. Did I show you the snaps?” Her tone was relaxed. “This one’s so good of you and Sybil.”
The print she slipped into his hand showed Sybil halfway over the ship’s rail, with himself still holding her ankles. Both their faces were in full profile. He thrust the print quickly into his pocket, staring about wildly, terrified that someone else might have seen it.