Read Johnson Johnson 04 - Dolly and the Doctor Bird for Free Online Page A

meal, it would have worked, I think, before four-thirty. There remains the staff of the Monarch Lounge and Sir Bartholomew’s fellow travelers. The fact that no one else turned ill means, I think, that the poison was put specifically into something Sir Bartholomew ingested, and was not dropped into the open bottles, or introduced into the tea or the sugar. It argues, I think, action by someone sitting beside him. His drink is the likeliest thing. And he served himself, I was told, to that.”
    “Who told you?” asked Johnson.
    “The stewardess. But it was corroborated by Trotter.”
    “Brady and Trotter. The two men who sat nearest to Edgecombe and therefore were able to help when he collapsed. In fact, Brady had already met him by chance in New York. Trotter, I gather, had no idea who he was, but merely assisted out of good will… And both men were on the plane the next morning.”
    “Yes. Well, they both missed the last plane as I did, through helping,” I said.
    “And the second attack? You were with Bart all the time except when he went to the lavatory?”
    “Apart from the water and aspirin, he had nothing to eat which I cannot vouch for,” I said. “Again, anything he had before I met him that morning would have shown its effects before then. On the other hand, no one was to know that he would leave his seat in the plane. If anything happened to him in the lavatory, it was sheer opportunism, I fancy.”
    “The steward I can find out about. What about the other young man who helped him? Could you describe him?”
    “He was Turkish,” I said. “At least he carried a Turkish passport through Immigration Controls. Aged about twenty-four, medium height, dark complexion, of extremely sinewy build. His face was Mongoloid with high cheekbones and long hair. He was clean and well groomed, but unconventionally dressed in a Mogul silk tunic suit with a mandarin collar. He spoke hardly at all, but his English had a slight American accent.”
    “A good piece of observation,” Johnson said. “I wish there were more like you. Do you know where he was going?”
    “No. But he was met at the airport by a green Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. He had a great deal of luggage.” I recalled something. “There was a press photographer waiting for him. He certainly looked like a celebrity.”
    “He was,” said Johnson, “if your description is accurate, and I am sure that it is. Does the name Krishtof Bey mean anything to you? Or do you not frequent the world of the dance?”
    He did not, I suppose, refer to ballroom dancing, but to the equally tedious business of jumping about in white tights. “He is a ballet dancer, I take it?” I said. “I know nothing of the subject, I am afraid.”
    “No,” said Johnson thoughtfully. “I can’t sic you onto Krishtof Bey, I’m afraid. But if one of the others reappeared in your life, what do you think your reaction would be?”
    I employed my intelligence. “The only person likely to be dangerous to me is the would-be murderer, should he suspect that I have diagnosed Sir Bartholomew’s illness as poisoning. I must therefore reassure him that I have not, upon which I trust he will lose all interest in me.”
    “Could you do that?” said Johnson. “Remember, we don’t know who it is. And if they do try to pump you, they’ll go about it in an oblique and unexpected way.” He paused, and said, “Well, at least they should make sure you are well out of the way before the next attempt on poor Bart is made.”
    Espionage has always seemed to me a childish game, and this aspect of it the most tiresome. “You don’t intend,” I said, “to report this and give him adequate police protection? Surely these things can be done quite discreetly? After all, a man’s life is in question.”
    For a while, irritatingly, Johnson did not speak. Then he said, “He took that risk when he joined us. No. Until I know more about it, I can’t call in the police.”
    “I would remind you,”