A Case for the UN

At three o'clock in the morning they were over the mid-Atlantic.

It was then that the little man in the rear, Bartholomew Evans, got quietly to his feet. No one paid any attention to him; others had arisen from time to time and gone back to the lavatory.

Evans stepped forward silently until he stood in the aisle between Renie Blanc and Giuseppe Falconari, who were now sound asleep, their heads buried in pillows.

Very calmly and deliberately, Evans drew a pistol from his pocket, and shot each of them through the head.

Immediately there was chaos. Startled passengers awoke, jumped up, cried out. Mavis ran to the cockpit, forgetting her shoes, and almost collided with Kemper as he opened the door and hurried to the scene.

The murderer made no attempt to move. He stood there with the smoking pistol still in his hand. Not a sound came from either of his victims; there was not even much Mood. Both had been killed instantly.

The pilot took command at once.

"Please resume your seats," Kemper ordered, hoping his voice was steady. He had heard plenty of stories of sensational events on other planes, but this was his first and, he hoped, his last experience of this kind. "See to this lady," he added to Mavis; an elderly woman sitting nearby was in hysterics. Mavis, her legs trembling, attended to the woman and got her quieted down. There was little noise otherwise; most of the passengers were too shocked to speak.

A heavy-set man stood up and started toward the murderer. Kemper stopped him with a gesture. The responsibility and the danger were his.

"Give me the gun," he demanded of Evans.

The coolest person on board was the murderer.

"Certainly, Captain," Evans replied politely, placing the gun in Kemper's outstretched hand. "And you needn't tie me up. I'm not going to pull any doors open and jump out, or do anything foolish."

Unexpectedly somebody laughed. Someone else reached blindly for a paper bag and was sick in it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your seats," the pilot said, his voice steady now. "I know how distressing this must be for you, but there is nothing we can do until we arrive at Shannon. Mavis, I think everybody could use a drink. But first get some blankets to cover these two people. And if you, madam, and you, sir, who were sitting next to them would find places elsewhere."

The suggestion was unnecessary; the victims' neighbors were already hunched in seats farther away.

"Now," Kemper turned to the still unmoving Evans, "I shall have you placed under guard until I can hand you over to the Eke authorities when we land. Our copilot will have wired ahead, and the police will have been notified. They'll be waiting for you. Now, if two of you gentlemen will volunteer to keep an eye on him."

The burly man and another stepped forward.

Bartholomew Evans smiled.

"You know, Captain," he said conversationally, "I happen to be a lawyer, and I know a few things that you don't. For instance, though an aircraft in flight has the legal status of a ship at sea, its pilot does not have the power of arrest and detention that a ship's captain has. You have no right whatever to hold or guard me."

"And the authorities you say will be waiting to arrest me can do nothing whatever. Ireland has no authority over me. I waited deliberately to do my deed until we were over the mid-Atlantic. My whole action depended on the fact that no nation in the world has authority in this matter. I've made very sure of the law. There is nowhere I can be held, nowhere I can be tried. There is no such thing as a code of international criminal air law, nor is there any Air Police Force."