Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 92, No. 3. Whole No. 547, September 1988

Something to Declare by David Williams

© 1988 by David Williams.

There was really no end to Percy’s calculated unkindnesses. They made Sybil very sad and dejected, and this prompted her to eat more, so that she became even fatter than before. But if she’d been disillusioned about the reason for her marriage, and left in no doubt about why it survived at all, her love for her husband still miraculously endured. If she was miserable in herself, in charity she was also deeply sorry for Percy, whose values she now realized had always been horribly distorted...

Percy Crickle had been married to Sybil for seventeen years before he determined to do away with her. The decision was triggered by her attitude over the winnings. It was the sheer ingratitude that stung Percy, coming on top of the massive disappointment she had caused him.

From the very beginning, Percy’s mother had insisted he was marrying beneath him — his late father had been an underpaid schoolmaster. Sybil’s father was a retail grocer whom Mrs. Crickle (Senior) invariably and pointedly referred to as a tradesman. She also described overweight Sybil as a pudding, and as graceless and untutored. She could not understand what a good-looking boy like Percy saw in the girl — or woman, rather, since Sybil was already pushing thirty-four at the time of the wedding.

But Percy had been taking the long view. He was then nearly thirty himself, and still living at home. Nor had he quite settled on a career, discounting several false starts as a professional trainee. His mother had put those down to experience — which was inaccurate or, at best, paradoxical. Meaningful work experience was to elude Percy throughout his adult life. He partially made up for the lack with a just sustaining sort of cunning. He figured that marriage to Sybil would be bearable, and better than that when she came into her inheritance.

For her part, God-fearing and trusting Sybil was genuinely in love with Percy. This was a sentiment quite separate from the incautious and transitory pleasure she felt about getting a husband well after the point where she considered marriage a serious prospect.

As for the inheritance, Sybil was a late and only child, with parents who were hard-working, appearing prosperous — and quite old. It had seemed to Percy to be only a matter of time before the fruits of their labors fell to their offspring. When that day arrived, he dreamed he would retire from his work — type unspecified — to devote himself to personal improvement of a vaguely academic nature.

In the years following the marriage, it was Sybil who brought in the larger part of their income. She had gone on working in her father’s shop, which was in a not very affluent part of Liverpool. Percy meantime elected to become a salesman, though with small success. But career setbacks never seriously perturbed him — after all, he was only marking time. There were no children of the marriage.

After sixteen years, Sybil’s father died suddenly. Then it was revealed that the grocery business had been on the brink of bankruptcy for some time. Sybil’s mother sold the shop, exchanging the modest sum it fetched for a life annuity. So it was doubly unfortunate that she also died soon after: the annuity died with her. That was the end of Sybil’s expectancy.

Since it was the prospect of the retail fortune that had kept Percy going, its failure to materialize upset him severely. The year that followed was the most depressing in his life. It burned in him, too, that Sybil continued to earn considerably more than he did. She had become chief checkout assistant in a supermarket.

But it was the sense of injustice that hurt Percy most — and he made no bones about that. He no longer bothered to conceal from Sybil that he had married her for her father’s money, now that it was clear her father had had no money.

It was no good Sybil reminding Percy that her father’s engagement present to her had been the house they still lived in. Percy had now taken to denouncing that very act of benevolence as a mere strategem, alleging bizarrely that if her scheming father had not provided a roof for her, Sybil would probably by now be living in a hostel for aging spinsters.

There was really no end to Percy’s calculated unkindnesses. They made Sybil very sad and dejected, and this prompted her to eat more, so that she became even fatter than before. But if she’d been disillusioned about the reason for her marriage, and left in no doubt about why it survived at all (the house being in her name, Percy had nowhere else to live), Sybil’s love for her husband still miraculously endured. If she was miserable in herself, in charity she was also deeply sorry for Percy, whose values she now realized had always been horribly distorted. She prayed over that.

Sybil had never let on that she risked a modest stake on the football pools each week. So it came as nothing less than a miracle to Percy when she quietly announced one day that she had won a first dividend — a fraction over £300,000. The sum far exceeded what Percy had expected Sybil might have inherited from her father. He was overjoyed, magnanimously allowing that her past failure to meet his financial goals could now be overlooked. He also made arrangements to quit his latest job as a local government clerk — too early, as it proved.

If Percy’s attitude to Sybil had altered, so had hers toward him. Now that she was in the ascendant position, she determined to stay there, while striving to put some goodness, unselfishness, and a right balance into his nature. To begin with, instead of depositing her winnings in their joint bank account, she opened a new account with it in her sole name at a quite different bank. She refused also to consider moving to a larger house, to relinquish her job, or to fund any drastic change in their style of living. She did give Percy a small weekly allowance — but only so long as he stayed in work. The regular donations she started making to deserving charities, she explained, were uplifting thank offerings on behalf of both of them.

Far from being uplifted, Percy came to feel even more cheated than before, though this time he hesitated to say as much. And no amount of gentle persuasion on his part would alter Sybil’s attitudes. He even started to accompany her to church, something he had never done before and which he only did now to show how his values had changed.

Certainly this did impress Sybil, and increased her trust in him, but she continued to insist that the new money would be needed to protect them in their old age. She remained oblivious to Percy’s plea that there was enough to cover middle-age as well, starting immediately. Sybil had her own reasons for cautioning him that someday one of them would be left to survive alone — possibly to a very great age. There she had made a mistake, for it was thinking about that very thing that put homicide into Percy’s mind.

Sybil’s other mistake was her one significant concession. She determined to indulge a lifelong aspiration by taking a cruise. After a great deal of searching through brochures, she settled on a two-week, late-spring voyage in the Bay of Bengal — it was cheaper than most others, and she had always wanted to see India and Burma. Percy was welcome to go with her if he wished, although since he distrusted foreigners and loathed foreign countries she offered as an alternative to pay for him to spend the same period at a three-star hotel in Torquay, a resort he had always favored.

Percy chose the cruise with an avidity he had difficulty in disguising, but disguise it he did to avoid giving rise to suspicion. Although he detested “abroad,” at the first suggestion of the trip the possibility of arranging an accidental death at sea positively leapt into the forefront of his mind. Torquay could wait.

They flew from London to Sri Lanka to join the cruise ship in Colombo. It was Polish-owned, middle-sized, and middle-aged. Its four-week total itinerary took in ports around the Bay of Bengal, then Malaysia, Singapore, Borneo, and Java before it returned via the western coast of Sumatra. Passengers could engage for half the cruise, as Percy and Sybil were doing, joining or leaving the ship in Sri Lanka or Malaysia.

The two were given an outside cabin on the second deck near the center, close to the stairs to the upper deck, where the restaurant and bar were located. Above the upper deck was the boat deck, for open-air promenading, with a swimming pool aft. Although their cabin had a porthole, Percy early determined with reluctance that it was too small to squeeze fat Sybil through, kicking or otherwise.

In the restaurant, they were obliged permanently to share a table for four. The limited number of smaller tables was reserved for passengers taking the whole cruise. Their two female table companions were also the occupants of one of the cabins next door to their own: this was one of the earliest disclosures during the polite exchanges at the first meal.

The women, Kirsty Redley, a widow, and her unmarried younger sister, Rita Stork, were a vivacious pair of slim and attractive, if somewhat brassy, blondes. They both looked to be under thirty and were altogether a contrast to the other passengers, who in the main were much older and decidedly staider. Indeed, people wondered what two such youthful, glamorous spirits were doing on such a predictably unexciting cruise. If they were there in the hope of making new men friends, the girls must have been disappointed — the few disengaged males aboard were very old indeed.

In consequence, the more perceptive wives kept watchful eyes on their husbands when Mrs. Redley and Miss Stork were close. This applied especially in the case of Rita Stork, a competent and seemingly ever-present amateur photographer, whose obsession with taking candid shots was not always appreciated by her subjects. She snapped the Crickles more often than others, perhaps because Sybil seemed to enjoy the experience.

Tolerant Sybil did not regard the girls as predators. As for Percy, while accepting that his late mother would unquestionably have described Kirsty and Rita as common, he was delighted at being thrown with them so regularly, even if their frank conversation and sometimes their behavior struck him as daring. If he had not had a more burning issue on his mind, he would certainly have responded to what he took to be Rita’s occasional explorative advances under the table.

As it was, though, Percy was applying himself wholly to creating the perfect opportunity for pushing Sybil overboard — an exercise that was proving more difficult than he had expected. The deed could certainly not be done in daylight, nor from a place where her fall was likely to be seen or her cries heard. It also needed to be at a time when Sybil’s absence wouldn’t cause immediate alarm. Above all, the circumstances had to be such that no blame or suspicion could be leveled at Percy.

Their time aboard was over half completed before Percy was satisfied that he had a usable plan. Even then, he was to depend on the right weather conditions, and fearful that they might never occur.

Encouraged by her husband, every night after dinner Sybil took a turn around the boat deck in his company. Since the nights were often quite cool, most of the few passengers who liked to walk at this time did so on the closed main deck, which also saved them from having to climb another flight of steps. After their exercise, Percy would escort Sybil to their cabin, then he would ring for a pot of tea to be sent along to her before he returned to the main-deck lounge to play bridge with a group of regulars. Sybil didn’t care for card games, and in any case she liked to go to bed early with a book.

The duty steward usually brought the tea promptly. If over-modest Sybil was still undressing when he knocked, she would call to him to leave the tray outside. Percy knew this because on one night that it happened he was in the bathroom, and on a subsequent night when it happened he had purposely locked himself in there, to check if she would do so again as well as to make an important preparation.

It was in the Adaman Sea that Percy pushed Sybil over. The ship was just out of Rangoon on the three-day run to Port Kelang in Malaysia, where the Crickles were due to disembark. As they finished dinner, a bout of heavy rain had just eased off. The night was uninviting — not cold, but dank and overcast. Altogether, the conditions were perfect for Percy’s plan.

Sybil took some persuading to come to the open deck, which was otherwise predictably empty, but she did so to please Percy, even though she had been feeling unwell. When Percy paused to look over the side, just behind the davit of the aftermost lifeboat, Sybil paused with him. There was no one else in view. The lifeboat prevented the couple from being seen by the lookout on the bridge deck, just as the same object shaded them somewhat from the general illumination. Percy had planned their position carefully.

“See the flying fish?” he questioned eagerly.

As Sybil leaned across the rail, squinting with enthusiasm, he stepped behind her, grasped both her ankles, and heaved her into eternity.

The splash she made hardly registered in the rush of water along the ship’s side. Her cry was lost in the churning made by the port screw close to where she went in. Any further sign of her was lost in the immediate tumult of the ship’s wake, and then in the murk and darkness. She died quickly — of shock, not drowning. The metabolic imbalance that caused her obesity had long put her heart and life at risk. She had been taking treatment without telling Percy, while doing her best to teach him how to fend for himself without her.

After what had been at once the most frightening as well as the most despicable act of his whole worthless life, Percy finished his promenade alone. For the time being, the balance of his mind was sustained by what he urged himself to regard as the justice of his cause. It happened he met no one as he went down to the cabin at around the usual time, but an encounter would still not have troubled him.

Sybil had complained of feeling off-color at lunch and dinner. She had mentioned it to several people. The cause was the cold-cure capsule that Percy had surreptitiously dissolved in her early-morning tea after he heard the weather forecast. Cold cures upset her. If anyone had asked, her indisposition would explain why she had returned to their cabin ahead of Percy.

He rang for her tea as usual.

When the steward knocked, Percy played the tape he had made in the bathroom of Sybil’s shrill: “Oh, leave it outside, please! Thank you!”

But before the man could do as instructed, Percy opened the door. “Okay, I’ll take it,” he said, placing the tray just inside the cabin and calling in the direction of the bathroom, “Sleep well, darling — I won’t be late!” Then he stepped into the corridor and closed the cabin door. “My wife isn’t feeling well,” he remarked to the steward as they moved together in the direction of the stairs. “Needs sleep, that’s all. Keep an ear open in case she phones, though, would you? If she should need me, I’ll be in the main lounge, playing bridge.”

“Very good, sir,” the Pole replied, gratefully pocketing the overlarge tip, which had been intended to mark events clearly in his mind.

Two hours later, Percy looked up from his cards to glance at the time. “Oh, lord, I promised to look in on my wife before now.”

“I’ll go,” said his partner, the normally reticent Miss Mold, understood to be a retired nurse. She was dummy for the hand. “I need to freshen up, anyway. Give me your key.”

He had been relying on her to volunteer. He had mentioned earlier that Sybil hadn’t been feeling up to scratch.

Miss Mold returned shortly to report that Sybil wasn’t in the cabin, that her bed hadn’t been used, and that the contents of a sleeping-pill bottle had been spilled onto the counterpane.

Percy affected puzzlement, not alarm. “That’s strange,” he said. “Perhaps she found it too hot in the cabin. Or felt better, and went for a walk. D’you think I should go and look for her?”

“Who’s lost? Not Sybil?” It was Rita Stork’s voice. She had come up behind Miss Mold. “I’m not sure, but I think I saw her going up to the boat deck about an hour ago. She was ever so groggy at dinner.”

Percy found Rita’s mistaken observation almost too good to be true. Now, with a deeply concerned expression, he asked to be excused from the game to look for his wife. Rita and Miss Mold came with him. After they had searched both promenade decks, the cinema and games rooms on the third deck, and checked the cabin frequently, it was Rita who suggested they should tell the pursuer.

In another hour, the Captain reluctantly decided to turn the ship about. By then the crew and most of the passengers had been engaged in a meticulous search for Sybil, who had failed to respond to repeated summonses over the broadcasting system. A now-distracted Percy was plied with the professional ministrations of Miss Mold and the warmly feminine ones of Rita Stork.

Sybil’s body was never found, although the sea search went on well into the following afternoon, with other ships in the vicinity assisting. Everyone agreed with the Captain’s verdict — that Sybil, sick, had gone for a walk on the open deck and, fuddled by phenobarbitone, had fallen overboard. It seemed to be the only explanation.

People were deeply sympathetic to Percy — especially Rita, her sister Kirsty, and quiet Miss Mold. He stayed in his cabin for almost the remainder of the voyage, appearing only once for a meal and affecting then to be completely broken.

Late on their last night at sea, Rita came to see him from next door — to make sure that he was all right, she explained. It was nearly midnight, and after most people had retired. He was in bed already, reading a girlie magazine, which he quickly hid at Rita’s knock. For her benefit, he also adopted his bereft expression, while not being able to resist stealing lascivious glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She was wearing a frilly negligee loosely fastened over a low-cut, diaphanous nightie.

After making a show of tidying the cabin, Rita poured a whiskey and took it to Percy. “Drink it. It’ll do you good. Help you sleep.” Her fingers stayed on his as he took the glass. “Now is there anything else you need? Anything at all?” She sat on the bed and crossed her legs, allowing the negligee to fall open completely.

“You could — you could kiss me goodnight,” he half stammered, hoping it sounded like an innocent request for further harmless consolation.

“Oh, you poor man. And I’d like that, Percy love,” she answered. “I’d like that very much. So let’s do it properly, shall we?” She stood up, letting the negligee fall from her, then she opened the bedclothes and slipped in beside him.

The following day was to be an unnerving one for Percy.

Because of the delay in searching for Sybil, the ship arrived at Port Kelang well behind schedule and too late for departing passengers to reach Kuala Lumpur in time to catch their flight to London. Since the ship had to leave almost immediately, the passengers were sent by train to the Malaysian capital, to spend the night in a hotel there at the shipping company’s expense.

There clearly being no purpose in Percy keeping Sybil’s clothes, before leaving the ship he gave most of them to a stewardess who was more or less Sybil’s size. As far as he remembered later, it was he who had suggested Rita and Kirsty should each choose a keepsake from Sybil’s other things, in gratitude for the comfort they had given him — publicly and otherwise. Rita had chosen the bright-red cashmere wrap Sybil had bought in Madras and had afterward worn frequently. Kirsty had selected a chunky and distinctive necklace.

After the short train journey, Percy reported as instructed to the British High Commissioner’s Office. He was there for some hours, giving a detailed account of the tragedy. In addition, he had to go over the Captain’s and the Deck Officer’s reports, which arrived from the Polish Embassy after some delay and then had to be translated, along with a deposition from the steward who was the last person Sybil was known to have spoken to before her death. In the English version, at least, the steward’s statement implied that he had seen Sybil as well as heard her. Percy was glad to confirm that this had been the case, confident that the man was not likely to be available again to correct him.

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.

“Here’s another one I took just before that.” Rita continued remorselessly. “It shows you bent down, catching hold of her legs. Don’t worry, they weren’t processed on the ship. I had them done overnight in Kuala Lumpur. The people who did them wouldn’t have understood what was going on even if they bothered to try. They’re dark exposures. I wasn’t using flash, just special film. The detail’s all there, though. The police wouldn’t hesitate with these.”

“You’re not going to—”

“I am. Right now, if you’re backing out of the bag. Play ball, though, and you can have the prints and the negatives after we’re through Customs in London. God’s honor.”

“But they hang you here for smuggling drugs,” he whispered desperately.

“Not always, love. Only if they catch you, which they won’t. On the other hand, they’d definitely hang you for murder.”

Percy drew in an agonized breath. “But you only get prison in England for — for either.”

“But you’re out here, darling. So you don’t really have a choice, do you?” She watched the look of mute acceptance growing. “So off we go, then. And keep away from me till we’re through. Oh, and if they do ask questions, don’t try involving me or Kirsty, will you? If you do, we’ll tell on you about Sybil straight off, understand?” She closed her bag and walked away firmly.

He stood there trying to collect his thoughts and dully watching her disappear into the crowd heading for the check-in. When he moved in the same direction, he tried to pull himself together, wishing Sybil was with him, needing to ask her what he should do.

“Your things are over there, Mr. Crickle.” Miss Mold never used Christian names. “All right, are you?” she added with concern. She was in front of him at the check-in desk.

“All right, yes.” He must be looking as guilty as he felt. He wiped his forehead, feeling the sweat streaming all over his body.

They were his bags all right, lying on the floor with some others still waiting to be claimed. Now the airline girl was holding her hand out for his ticket. He was just about to lift the bags onto the scales when the armed, uniformed Customs official came over and stood behind them.

“With the cruise group, are you?”

“Yes. We’re in transit,” Percy said.

“These three yours?” Now the dark-skinned officer was leaning down, reading the labels.

Percy hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself. “Yes — they’re mine.”

“British?” Without waiting for an answer, the man selected a large printed card from a pack of them under his arm. The big printed words were in English, constituting a list of dutiable or prohibited items. “You know the regulations?”

The list appeared as a blur before Percy’s eyes. He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Do you have anything to declare?” The small Malaysian looked bored, not suspicious.

“No, nothing.”

“Could you open this one, please?” He was pointing to the holdall.

Percy’s knees nearly gave out under him. “Actually, that one’s not mine.”

“You said it was yours.”

“I made a mistake. I’m — I’m mixed up at the moment. I lost my wife, you see. She fell overboard. From the ship. Just a few days ago.” He was blurting out words desperately, knowing he was entitled to sympathy: the First Secretary had said so.

The Customs officer was totally unmoved by the news of the tragedy. “This bag, please. Open it.”

Percy shook his head. “I don’t have a key. I mean, that proves it’s not mine, doesn’t it?”

His expression unchanged, the man produced a big bunch of keys from his pocket.

“Mr. Crickle has just gone through a very terrible experience,” Miss Mold offered from behind in the imperious tone of a senior ward sister protecting a defenseless patient.

“You want to unzip your bag?” the official interrupted. He had already opened the lock.

“It’s not mine.” But slowly Percy undid the zip, his hand brushing the label inscribed with his name in his own handwriting.

Inside the bag, a transparent envelope containing a photographic enlargement lay on top of a bright-red cashmere wrap. The print that showed through the envelope was a colored closeup of Percy and Sybil, posed smiling in deck chairs. In the photograph she was wearing the wrap, and also the chunky necklace that was half showing beside it in the bag.

The official looked at the print, then at Percy, then at the wrap and the necklace, and finally again at the label. Pushing aside the other items, his hands burrowed deeper into the confines of the bag.

At that point, it all became too much for Percy. He started sobbing uncontrollably.

“Fancy going all the way and hanging him,” said Kirsty.

It was six months since Percy’s arrest at the Kuala Lumpur airport. She and the others were relaxing over drinks in a Los Angeles hotel room. They had reached California by different routes and already disposed of the drugs they had been carrying. The evening paper carried the report of Percy’s execution following the failure of a last-minute appeal.

“He deserved it,” said Rita.

“Have a heart — it wasn’t his own powder, it was ours.”

“I mean for doing in Sybil. And for stupidity. He’s properly spoiled the cruise ship into Malaysia ploy. We can’t do a pickup again that way in KL for years.”

Kirsty sniffed. “But it still wasn’t Sybil he was done for. That was different. I’d have shopped him straight off for that, on the boat. It was your idea to use him instead — to carry an extra load. I was never sure. Neither was Gertrude. Were you, Gert?”

“Not of him, no. Only that he should have been looked after at the airport. By someone from the High Commission. Anyone bereaved like that should have been given VIP treatment, diplomatic immunity, escorted through Customs—”

“Anyway, you did your best for him.”

“Trying to protect our interests, that’s all. It was a shame we lost the extra package. But he did take the heat off the rest of us. Even so, it shouldn’t have been that way. He should have been escorted. I don’t know what the British foreign service is coming to, really I don’t.” Pausing to sniff, Miss Gertrude Mold then went back to her knitting.