Passenger to Frankfurt. Агата Кристи

the high-bridged nose, the tilt of eyebrows, the slightly sideways smile of the lips. Pamela had been tall, five foot eight, he himself five foot ten. He looked at the woman who had tendered him the mirror.

      ‘There is a facial likeness between us, that’s what you mean, isn’t it? But my dear girl, it wouldn’t deceive anyone who knew me or knew you.’

      ‘Of course it wouldn’t. Don’t you understand? It doesn’t need to. I am travelling wearing slacks. You have been travelling with the hood of your cloak drawn up round your face. All I have to do is to cut off my hair, wrap it up in a twist of newspaper, throw it in one of the litter-baskets here. Then I put on your burnous, I have your boarding card, ticket, and passport. Unless there is someone who knows you well on this plane, and I presume there is not or they would have spoken to you already, then I can safely travel as you. Showing your passport when it’s necessary, keeping the burnous and cloak drawn up so that my nose and eyes and mouth are about all that are seen. I can walk out safely when the plane reaches its destination because no one will know I have travelled by it. Walk out safely and disappear into the crowds of the city of London.’

      ‘And what do I do?’ asked Sir Stafford, with a slight smile.

      ‘I can make a suggestion if you have the nerve to face it.’

      ‘Suggest,’ he said. ‘I always like to hear suggestions.’

      ‘You get up from here, you go away and buy a magazine or a newspaper, or a gift at the gift counter. You leave your cloak hanging here on the seat. When you come back with whatever it is, you sit down somewhere else—say at the end of that bench opposite here. There will be a glass in front of you, this glass still. In it there will be something that will send you to sleep. Sleep in a quiet corner.’

      ‘What happens next?’

      ‘You will have been presumably the victim of a robbery,’ she said. ‘Somebody will have added a few knock-out drops to your drink, and will have stolen your wallet from you. Something of that kind. You declare your identity, say that your passport and things are stolen. You can easily establish your identity.’

      ‘You know who I am? My name, I mean?’

      ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen your passport yet. I’ve no idea who you are.’

      ‘And yet you say I can establish my identity easily.’

      ‘I am a good judge of people. I know who is important or who isn’t. You are an important person.’

      ‘And why should I do all this?’

      ‘Perhaps to save the life of a fellow human being.’

      ‘Isn’t that rather a highly coloured story?’

      ‘Oh yes. Quite easily not believed. Do you believe it?’

      He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You know what you’re talking like? A beautiful spy in a thriller.’

      ‘Yes, perhaps. But I am not beautiful.’

      ‘And you’re not a spy?’

      ‘I might be so described, perhaps. I have certain information. Information I want to preserve. You will have to take my word for it, it is information that would be valuable to your country.’

      ‘Don’t you think you’re being rather absurd?’

      ‘Yes I do. If this was written down it would look absurd. But so many absurd things are true, aren’t they?’

      He looked at her again. She was very like Pamela. Her voice, although foreign in intonation, was like Pamela’s. What she proposed was ridiculous, absurd, quite impossible, and probably dangerous. Dangerous to him. Unfortunately, though, that was what attracted him. To have the nerve to suggest such a thing to him! What would come of it all? It would be interesting, certainly, to find out.

      ‘What do I get out of it?’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

      She looked at him consideringly. ‘Diversion,’ she said. ‘Something out of the everyday happenings? An antidote to boredom, perhaps. We’ve not got very long. It’s up to you.’

      ‘And what happens to your passport? Do I have to buy myself a wig, if they sell such a thing, at the counter? Do I have to impersonate a female?’

      ‘No. There’s no question of exchanging places. You have been robbed and drugged but you remain yourself. Make up your mind. There isn’t long. Time is passing very quickly. I have to do my own transformation.’

      ‘You win,’ he said. ‘One mustn’t refuse the unusual, if it is offered to one.’

      ‘I hoped you might feel that way, but it was a toss-up.’

      From his pocket Stafford Nye took out his passport. He slipped it into the outer pocket of the cloak he had been wearing. He rose to his feet, yawned, looked round him, looked at his watch, and strolled over to the counter where various goods were displayed for sale. He did not even look back. He bought a paperback book and fingered some small woolly animals, a suitable gift for some child. Finally he chose a panda. He looked round the lounge, came back to where he had been sitting. The cloak was gone and so had the girl. A half glass of beer was on the table still. Here, he thought, is where I take the risk. He picked up the glass, moved away a little, and drank it. Not quickly. Quite slowly. It tasted much the same as it had tasted before.

      ‘Now I wonder,’ said Sir Stafford. ‘Now I wonder.’

      He walked across the lounge to a far corner. There was a somewhat noisy family sitting there, laughing and talking together. He sat down near them, yawned, let his head fall back on the edge of the cushion. A flight was announced leaving for Teheran. A large number of passengers got up and went to queue by the requisite numbered gate. The lounge still remained half full. He opened his paperback book. He yawned again. He was really sleepy now, yes, he was very sleepy … He must just think out where it was best for him to go off to sleep. Somewhere he could remain …

      Trans-European Airways announced the departure of their plane, Flight 309 for London.

      Quite a good sprinkling of passengers rose to their feet to obey the summons. By this time though, more passengers had entered the transit lounge waiting for other planes. Announcements followed as to fog at Geneva and other disabilities of travel. A slim man of middle height wearing a dark blue cloak with its red lining showing and with a hood drawn up over a close-cropped head, not noticeably more untidy than many of the heads of young men nowadays, walked across the floor to take his place in the queue for the plane. Showing a boarding ticket, he passed out through gate No. 9.

      More announcements followed. Swissair flying to Zürich. BEA to Athens and Cyprus—and then a different type of announcement.

      ‘Will Miss Daphne Theodofanous, passenger to Geneva, kindly come to the flight desk. Plane to Geneva is delayed owing to fog. Passengers will travel by way of Athens. The aeroplane is now ready to leave.’

      Other announcements followed dealing with passengers to Japan, to Egypt, to South Africa, air lines spanning the world. Mr Sidney Cook, passenger to South Africa, was urged to come to the flight desk where there was a message for him. Daphne Theodofanous was called for again.

      ‘This is the last call before the departure of Flight 309.’

      In a corner of the lounge a little girl was looking up at a man in a dark suit who was fast asleep, his head resting against the cushion of the red settee. In his hand he held a small woolly panda.

      The little girl’s hand stretched out towards the panda. Her mother said:

      ‘Now, Joan, don’t touch that. The poor gentleman’s asleep.’

      ‘Where is he going?’

      ‘Perhaps he’s going to Australia too,’ said her mother, ‘like we are.’

      ‘Has he got a little girl like me?’

      ‘I think he must