Cat Among the Pigeons by Agatha Christie Page A

keep it?”
    â€œNo reason,” said O’Connor. “I just wondered.”
    â€œWondered what?” said Mrs. Sutcliffe crossly.
    â€œWhether there might have been some—other message concealed in it. After all—” he smiled, “—There is such a thing as invisible ink, you know.”
    â€œInvisible ink!” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, with a great deal of distaste, “do you mean the sort of thing they use in spy stories?”
    â€œWell, I’m afraid I do mean just that,” said O’Connor, rather apologetically.
    â€œHow idiotic,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “I’m sure Bob would never use anything like invisible ink. Why should he? He was a dear matter-of-fact sensible person.” A tear dripped down her cheek again. “Oh dear, where is my bag? I must have a handkerchief. Perhaps I left it in the other room.”
    â€œI’ll get it for you,” said O’Connor.
    He went through the communicating door and stopped as a young man in overalls who was bending over a suitcase straightened up to face him, looking rather startled.
    â€œElectrician,” said the young man hurriedly. “Something wrong with the lights here.”
    O’Connor flicked a switch.
    â€œThey seem all right to me,” he said pleasantly.
    â€œMust have given me the wrong room number,” said the electrician.
    He gathered up his tool bag and slipped out quickly through the door to the corridor.
    O’Connor frowned, picked up Mrs. Sutcliffe’s bag from the dressing table and took it back to her.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said, and picked up the telephone receiver. “Room 310 here. Have you just sent up an electrician to see to the light in this suite? Yes … Yes, I’ll hang on.”
    He waited.
    â€œNo? No, I thought you hadn’t. No, there’s nothing wrong.”
    He replaced the receiver and turned to Mrs. Sutcliffe.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with any of the lights here,” he said. “And the office didn’t send up an electrician.”
    â€œThen what was that man doing? Was he a thief?”
    â€œHe may have been.”
    Mrs. Sutcliffe looked hurriedly in her bag. “He hasn’t taken anything out of my bag. The money is all right.”
    â€œAre you sure, Mrs. Sutcliffe, absolutely sure that your brother didn’t give you anything to take home, to pack among your belongings?”
    â€œI’m absolutely sure,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe.
    â€œOr your daughter—you have a daughter, haven’t you?”
    â€œYes. She’s downstairs having tea.”
    â€œCould your brother have given anything to her?”
    â€œNo, I’m sure he couldn’t.”
    â€œThere’s another possibility,” said O’Connor. “He might have hidden something in your baggage among your belongings that day when he was waiting for you in your room.”
    â€œBut why should Bob do such a thing? It sounds absolutely absurd.”
    â€œIt’s not quite so absurd as it sounds. It seems possible that Prince Ali Yusuf gave your brother something to keep for him andthat your brother thought it would be safer among your possessions than if he kept it himself.”
    â€œSounds very unlikely to me,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe.
    â€œI wonder now, would you mind if we searched?”
    â€œSearched through my luggage, do you mean? Unpack?” Mrs. Sutcliffe’s voice rose with a wail on that word.
    â€œI know,” said O’Connor. “It’s a terrible thing to ask you. But it might be very important. I could help you, you know,” he said persuasively. “I often used to pack for my mother. She said I was quite a good packer.”
    He exerted all the charm which was one of his assets to Colonel Pikeaway.
    â€œOh well,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, yielding, “I suppose—If you say so—if, I mean, it’s really important—”
    â€œIt might be