Cat Among the Pigeons by Agatha Christie

sorry … What were you saying?”
    â€œMy name is Derek O’Connor. Perhaps I might come up to your suite, Mrs. Sutcliffe. It’s about your brother.”
    â€œBob? Is there—news of him?”
    â€œI’m afraid so—yes.”
    â€œOh … Oh, I see … Yes, come up. It’s on the third floor, 310.”
    She sat down on the bed. She already knew what the news must be.
    Presently there was a knock on the door and she opened it to admit a young man who shook hands in a suitably subdued manner.
    â€œAre you from the Foreign Office?”
    â€œMy name’s Derek O’Connor. My chief sent me round as there didn’t seem to be anybody else who could break it to you.”
    â€œPlease tell me,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “He’s been killed. Is that it?”
    â€œYes, that’s it, Mrs. Sutcliffe. He was flying Prince Ali Yusuf out from Ramat and they crashed in the mountains.”
    â€œWhy haven’t I heard—why didn’t someone wireless it to the boat?”
    â€œThere was no definite news until a few days ago. It was known that the plane was missing, that was all. But under the circumstances there might still have been hope. But now the wreck of the plane has been found … I am sure you will be glad to know that death was instantaneous.”
    â€œThe Prince was killed as well?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m not at all surprised,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. Her voice shook a little but she was in full command of herself. “I knew Bob would die young. He was always reckless, you know—always flying new planes, trying new stunts. I’ve hardly seen anything of him for the last four years. Oh well, one can’t change people, can one?”
    â€œNo,” said her visitor, “I’m afraid not.”
    â€œHenry always said he’d smash himself up sooner or later,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. She seemed to derive a kind of melancholy satisfaction from the accuracy of her husband’s prophecy. A tear rolled down her cheek and she looked for her handkerchief. “It’s been a shock,” she said.
    â€œI know—I’m awfully sorry.”
    â€œBob couldn’t run away, of course,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “Imean, he’d taken on the job of being the Prince’s pilot. I wouldn’t have wanted him to throw in his hand. And he was a good flier too. I’m sure if he ran into a mountain it wasn’t his fault.”
    â€œNo,” said O’Connor, “it certainly wasn’t his fault. The only hope of getting the Prince out was to fly in no matter what conditions. It was a dangerous flight to undertake and it went wrong.”
    Mrs. Sutcliffe nodded.
    â€œI quite understand,” she said. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”
    â€œThere’s something more,” said O’Connor, “something I’ve got to ask you. Did your brother entrust anything to you to take back to England?”
    â€œEntrust something to me?” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “What do you mean?”
    â€œDid he give you any—package—any small parcel to bring back and deliver to anyone in England?”
    She shook her head wonderingly. “No. Why should you think he did?”
    â€œThere was a rather important package which we think your brother may have given to someone to bring home. He called on you at your hotel that day—the day of the Revolution, I mean.”
    â€œI know. He left a note. But there was nothing in that—just some silly thing about playing tennis or golf the next day. I suppose when he wrote that note, he couldn’t have known that he’d have to fly the Prince out that very afternoon.”
    â€œThat was all it said?”
    â€œThe note? Yes.”
    â€œHave you kept it, Mrs. Sutcliffe?”
    â€œKept the note he left? No, of course I haven’t. It was quite trivial. I tore it up and threw it away. Why should I