Sleeping Tiger by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online

removed.
    Selina’s suitcase never appeared. It was a blue one with a white stripe and easy to identify, and after an eternity of waiting she realised that there was no more luggage to come, the other passengers had, one by one, filtered away, and Selina was alone.
    The Customs officer, who had, up to now, successfully managed to ignore her, hitched hands on his hips and raised his black eyebrows at her.
    â€œMy suitcase…” Selina said. “It’s…”
    â€œNo hablo Inglese.”
    â€œMy suitcase … Do you speak English?”
    A second man moved forward. “He says ‘No.’”
    â€œCan you speak English?”
    He shrugged elaborately, suggesting that maybe, under desperate circumstances, he might possibly manage a word or two.
    â€œMy case. My luggage.” She broke desperately into French. “Mon bagage.”
    â€œNot here?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere you come from?” He rolled all his r’s with a great flourish. “Wherre you come frrom?”
    â€œBarcelona. And London.”
    â€œOh!” He made it sound as though she had imparted grave news. He turned to his colleague and they began to speak, a liquid rattle of Spanish that might have been a private conversation. Selina wondered desperately if they were exchanging family news. Then the English-speaking man shrugged again, and turned back to Selina. “I will find out,” he said.
    He disappeared. Selina waited. The first man began to pick his teeth. Somewhere a child wailed. The loudspeaker, to add to the misery, burst into the sort of music normally associated with bullfights. After ten minutes or more the helpful man came back, with one of the stewards from the aircraft.
    The steward said, smiling as though he were imparting a charming favour, “Your suitcase is lost.”
    â€œLost!” It was a despairing wail.
    â€œYour case is, we think, in Madrid.”
    â€œMadrid! What’s it doing in Madrid?”
    â€œUnfortunately, at Barcelona, it has been put on the wrong truck … we think. At Barcelona there is also a plane going to Madrid. We think that your luggage is in Madrid.”
    â€œBut it was labelled to San Antonio. It was labelled in London.”
    At the word “London” the Customs man made his hopeless sound again. Selina felt she could hit him.
    â€œI am sorry,” said the steward. “I will have a message sent through to Madrid, to return the case to San Antonio.”
    â€œHow long will that take?”
    â€œI did not say it was in Madrid,” said the steward, determined not to commit himself. “We must find out.”
    â€œWell, how long will it take to find out?”
    â€œI do not know. Maybe three, four hours.”
    Three or four hours! If she was not angry, then she would cry. “I can’t wait here three or four hours.”
    â€œThen perrhaps you can come back. Tomorrow, maybe, to see if the suitcase is here. From Madrid.”
    â€œBut can’t I call you? Ring you? On the telephone?”
    This was apparently a joke. Through smiles, she was told, “Señorita, there are few telephones.”
    â€œThen I have to come back here to-morrow, to see if you have found my case?”
    â€œOr the next day,” said the steward, with the air of a man full of bright ideas.
    Selina made a final appeal. “But everything I have is in my case.”
    â€œI am sorry.”
    He continued to stand smiling at her. She felt at that moment as though she were drowning. She looked from one face to another, and slowly realised that nobody was going to help her. Nobody could help her. She was alone and she had to help herself. She said at last in a voice that shook only a little, “Is it possible for me to find a taxi?”
    â€œBut of course. Outside. There are many taxis.”
    There were, in fact, four. Beginning to be oppressed by the warmth of the porridge-coloured