Carter Dickson (John Dickson Carr) - Behind the Crimson Blind

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The nine-thirty plane from Lisbon, due to arrive at Tangier two hours later, was on time; it swept in lower, broader circles above the airport. Most of the passengers, pressing their faces to the small windows of the small aircraft, were mystified or annoyed.

It was the first day in April. Below them they had expected to see Tangier, that lotus-city where you might do as you please, drowsing under a hot hard sunlight reflected from white houses, and the blue indentation of the Mediterranean where Cape Spartel marks the northernmost point in Africa. But, deplorable to relate, the weather was as bitterly cold as it might have been in London or New York. The plane bumped through tattered wreaths of mist through which such passengers caught glimpses only of dull green ground.

"Oh , dear!" inwardly groaned Miss Maureen Holmes.

It was only by accident that the slender, dark-haired American girl wore a fur coat. For some reason Maureen Holmes could not bring herself to leave it behind in New York. But dolefully she thought she spent as much on clothes and light summer, almost tropical clothes as the cost of the whole trip.

Suddenly, and apparently out of the air, Maureen was addressed by a bass voice whose owner seemed to think he was speaking in a hushed whisper.

"S-s-t!" hissed the voice. "Oi!"

The backs of these seats in the plane were very high. Also, electrically illumined signs in two languages above the door to the pilot's cabin announced that you must keep your seat belt fastened. Yet the very large, stout, barre l - shaped gentleman, occupying the seat in front of Maureen, had overcome these difficulties.

In some fashion he had turned round and kneeled to face Maureen. Over the seat peered a face which was large, round, and square-jawed, with a polished bald head and a pair of shell-rimmed spectacles pulled down on a broad nose. Though he meant only earnestness, he directed at Maureen a look of such horrible malignancy that the girl would have shied back if she had not recognized him.

"Now listen, my wench," he began, in what he imagined to be his most polished social manner. "I've got to explain a few things. Just between ourselves... sh-h, now! ... my name is... '

Maureen knew wh at it was. Her green eyes, with the long black lashes, and broad mouth rather heavily made up against a pale complexion, held a certain anxiety as well as a secret admiration. Ever since the TWA airliner had left New York for Lisbon, she had half-hoped the old reprobate might speak to her.

"But you're the old man," she said simply. "You're Sir Henry Merrivale."

"Well... now," muttered H.M., not altogether displeased. "Sh-h!" he added, with a look so horrible that it would have paralyzed a Commando.

Against the blast of that personality, which seemed only a disembodied head glaring over the back of the seat, Maureen bristled a little. At home, at her work, she was cool and business-like and efficient, without losing any of her strong femininity. But now that she was abroad, her defenses were lowered, her true nature emerged; and she blurted out the words involuntarily.

"You're awful!" she said.

"What d'ye mean, I'm awful?" yelled H.M.

His powerful voice, against throttled motors as the plane circled down more softly through mist, caused shivering passengers to sit up and look. The Portuguese steward walked forward and indicated to H.M., more or less in English, that he was supposed to fasten his seat belt. H.M. handed the steward a ten-pound note and told him to sling his hook, which he did.

Maureen Holmes, already sorry for what she had said, tried to explain.

"I mean-according to the newspapers. When you first got to New York, you started a riot in the subway. Some people still say, in that Manning case, you... you..."

"Hocussed the evidence, hey?"

"If "hocussed' is the right word, yes. The police were after you in Washington, in Baltimore, in Philadelphia, in I don't know how many places! Including that little town near Charleston, where you persuaded the chief of police to arrest the mayor."

"Oh, my wench!" said H.M.

His big arm dismissed these small matters as mere peccadilloes. Sir Henry Merrivale, in fact, was puzzled as to why anyone should bother about them.

"When you got back to New York for the last time," persisted Maureen, "there was another riot and a murder in the Metropolitan Museum. Of course," Maureen glanced up from under her eyelashes, "the case was cracked by a Detective Lieutenant of the Homicide Squad...."

"Uh-uh," grunted H.M., rolling up heavily innocent eyes. "Sure. Absolutely."

"But the Police Commissioner gave you a big banquet, and everything seemed wonderful. Everybody thought you were going back to England; not to Tangier. You sneaked out. You..."

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