Rii-ip.
Soon he was hypnotized as a pile of thin strips – maybe the thinnest ever! – began to flutter down onto the table. But even then the cold voice of his father would not entirely leave him: Or you know what will happen.
CHAPTER 5
A Book of Matches. The Adventure of
the Salami Sandwich. Another Example
of the Deductive Method. The Arizona
Yew Plays the Violin. The Only Sound in
Town.
1
The frozen silence following Dinah’s warning was finally broken by Robert Jenkins. ‘We have some problems,’ he said in a dry lecture-hall voice. ‘If Dinah hears something – and following the remarkable demonstration she’s just given us, I’m inclined to think she does – it would be helpful if we knew what it is.
We don’t. That’s one problem. The plane’s lack of fuel is another problem.’
‘There’s a 727 Out there,’ Nick said, ‘all cozied up to a jetway. Can you fly one of those, Brian?’
‘Yes,’ Brian said.
Nick spread his hands in Bob’s direction and shrugged, as if to say There you are: one knot untied already.
‘Assuming we do take off again, where should we go?’ Bob Jenkins went on. ‘A third problem.’
‘Away,’ Dinah said immediately. ‘Away from that sound. We have to get away from that sound, and what’s making it.’
‘How long do you think we have?’ Bob asked her gently. ‘How long before it gets here, Dinah? Do you have any idea at all?’
‘No,’ she said from the safe circle of Laurel’s arms. ‘I think it’s still far. I think there’s still time. But . . .’
‘Then I suggest we do exactly as Mr Warwick has suggested,’ Bob said. ‘Let’s step over to the restaurant, have a bite to eat, and discuss what happens next. Food does have a beneficial effect on what Monsieur Poirot liked to call the little gray cells.’
‘We shouldn’t wait,’ Dinah said fretfully.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Bob said. ‘No more than that. And even at your age, Dinah, you should know that useful thinking must always precede useful action.’
Albert suddenly realized that the mystery writer had his own reasons for wanting to go to the restaurant. Mr Jenkins’s little gray cells were all in apple-pie working order – or at least he believed they were – and following his eerily sharp assessment of their situation on board the plane, Albert was willing at least to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wants to show us something, or prove something to us, he thought.
‘Surely we have fifteen minutes?’ he coaxed.
‘Well . . .’Dinah said unwillingly. ‘I guess so.’
‘Fine,’ Bob said briskly. ‘It’s decided.’ And he struck off across the room toward the restaurant, as if taking it for granted that the others would follow him.
Brian and Nick looked at each other.
‘We better go along,’ Albert said quietly. ‘I think he knows stuff.’
‘What kind of stuff?’ Brian asked.
‘I don’t know, exactly, but I think it might be stuff worth finding out.’
Albert followed Bob; Bethany followed Albert; the others fell in behind them, Laurel leading Dinah by the hand. The little girl was very pale.
2
The Cloud Nine Restaurant was really a cafeteria with a cold-case full of drinks and sandwiches at the rear and a stainless steel counter running beside a long, compartmentalized steam-table. All the compartments were empty, all sparkling clean. There wasn’t a speck of grease on the grill. Glasses – those tough cafeteria glasses with the ripply sides – were stacked in neat pyramids on rear shelves, along with a wide selection of even tougher cafeteria crockery.
Robert Jenkins was standing by the cash register. As Albert and Bethany came in, he said: ‘May I have another cigarette, Bethany?’
‘Gee, you’re a real mooch,’ she said, but her tone was good-natured. She produced her box of Marlboros and shook one out. He took it, then touched her hand as she also produced her book of matches.
‘I’ll just use one of these, shall I?’ There was a bowl filled with paper matches advertising LaSalle Business School by the cash register. FOR OUR MATCHLESS FRIENDS, a little sign beside the bowl read. Bob took a book of these matches, opened it, and pulled one of the matches free.
‘Sure,’ Bethany said, ‘but why?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ he said. He glanced at the others. They were standing around in a semicircle, watching – all except Rudy Warwick, who had drifted to the rear of the serving area and was closely inspecting the contents of the cold-case.
Bob struck the match. It left a little smear of white stuff on the striker but didn’t light. He struck it again with the same result. On the third try, the paper match bent. Most of the flammable head was gone, anyway.
‘My, my,’ he said in an utterly unsurprised tone. ‘I suppose they must be wet. Let’s try a book from the bottom, shall we? They should be dry.’
He dug to the bottom of the bowl, spilling a number of matchbooks off the top and onto the counter as he did so. They all looked perfectly dry to Albert. Behind him, Nick and Brian exchanged another glance.
Bob fished out another book of matches, pulled one, and tried to strike it. It didn’t light.
‘Son of a bee,’ he said. ‘We seem to have discovered yet another problem. May I borrow your book of matches, Bethany?’
She handed it over without a word.
‘Wait a minute,’ Nick said slowly. ‘What do you know, matey?’
‘Only that this situation has even wider implications than we at first thought,’ Bob said. His eyes were calm enough, but the face from which they looked was haggard. ‘And I have an idea that we all may have made one big mistake. Understandable enough under the circumstances … but until we’ve rectified our thinking on this subject, I don’t believe we can make any progress. An error of perspective, I’d call it.’
Warwick was wandering back toward them. He had selected a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of beer. His acquisitions seemed to have cheered him considerably. ‘What’s happening, folks?’
‘I’ll be damned if I know,’ Brian said, ‘but I don’t like it much.’
Bob Jenkins pulled one of the matches from Bethany’s book and struck it. It lit on the first strike. ‘Ah,’ he said, and applied the flame to the tip of his cigarette. The smoke smelled incredibly pungent, incredibly sweet to Brian, and a moment’s reflection suggested a reason why: it was the only thing, save for the faint tang of Nick Hopewell’s shaving lotion and Laurel’s perfume, that he could smell. Now that he thought about it, Brian realized that he could also smell his travelling companions’ sweat.
Bob still held the lit match in his hand. Now he bent back the top of the book he’d taken from the bowl, exposing all the matches, and touched the lit match to the heads of the others. For a long moment nothing happened. The writer slipped the flame back and forth along the heads of the matches, but they didn’t light.
The others watched, fascinated.
At last there was a sickly phsssss sound, and a few of the matches erupted into dull, momentary life. They did not really burn at all; there was a weak glow and they went out. A few tendrils of smoke drifted up …
smoke which seemed to have no odor at all.
Bob looked around at them and smiled grimly. ‘Even that,’ he said, ‘is more than I expected.’
‘All right,’ Brian said. ‘Tell us about it. I know -‘
At that moment, Rudy Warwick uttered a cry of disgust. Dinah gave a little shriek and pressed closer to Laurel. Albert felt his heart take a high skip in his chest.
Rudy had unwrapped his sandwich – it looked to Brian like salami and cheese -and had taken a large bite.
Now he spat it out onto the floor with a grimace of disgust.
‘It’s spoiled!’ Rudy cried. ‘Oh, goddam! I hate that!’
‘Spoiled?’ Bob Jenkins said swiftly. His eyes gleamed like blue electrical sparks. ‘Oh, I doubt that.
Processed meats are so loaded with preservatives these days that it takes eight hours or more in the hot sun to send them over. And we know by the clocks that the power in that cold-case went out less than five hours ago.’
‘Maybe not,’ Albert spoke up. ‘You were the one who said it felt later than our wristwatches say.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think … Was the case still cold, Mr Warwick? When you opened it, was the case still cold?’
‘Not cold, exactly, but cool,’ Rudy said. ‘That sandwich is all fucked up, though. Pardon me, ladies. Here.’
He held it out. ‘If you don’t think it’s spoiled, you try it.’
Bob stared at the sandwich, appeared to screw up his courage, and then did just that, taking a small bite from the untouched half. Albert saw an expression of disgust pass over his face, but he did not get rid of the food immediately. He chewed once … twice … then turned and spat into his hand. He stuffed the half-chewed bite of sandwich into the trash-bin below the condiments shelf, and dropped the rest of the sandwich in after it.