by Eric Ambler
“You are very positive, Dr. Maclaren.” Inspector Jordaens smiled tolerantly. “I have had a lifetime of experience with witnesses, and I have frequently observed that when they are most positive it is then that they are deceiving themselves.” He held up a hand to arrest an interruption. “Wait a moment! I am not referring solely to you. I have first in mind the telephonist at the air terminal who took the message. You were informed that it came in at twenty-two hours thirty-three, but let us suppose that there was a mistake in the recording, that it actually came in at two hours thirty-three. Remember, it was the day telephonist from whom the information came. He may have misread the record.”
“You could check that up with the man who was on night duty.”
“Assuredly. I am merely putting to you the hypothesis of error. When I come to your evidence, I must raise another question. You say you were with Kusitch from the time you left the hotel until you returned?”
“Yes.”
“You dined and drank wine, you went to a cafe and drank coffee and cognac. You were in this cafe at twenty-two hours thirty-three?”
“Positively.”
“And do you still say positively that Kusitch was never out of your sight?”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I mean, Dr. Maclaren, that when we are called on to give evidence, the commonplace acts, the routine calls, like the postman in the story by your Chesterton, escape our notice. The most familiar things are the most easily forgotten. Do you agree?”
“But this is not merely an academic question, Inspector.”
“It is not.” Jordaens’ dry voice crackled like brown paper. “I put it to you, Dr. Maclaren, that at some time or other during the evening you or Kusitch might possibly have gone to the lavabos alone.”
It was true. Andrew was shaken as his strong point collapsed. He might argue that there was nothing to prove that Kusitch had telephoned the cancellation message; he had to admit now that the little man might have done so.
“If you like,” the Inspector said dryly, “we will go to the cafe and examine the proximity of the telephone to the toilet.”
Andrew frowned. “I don’t know where the place is. I never even noticed the name. I left everything to Kusitch.”
“That is unfortunate, Dr. Maclaren.”
By implication it was more deplorably unfortunate that an idiotic foreigner should trouble the police with his nonsensical fears. Andrew saw that no words would convince the Inspector that Kusitch might have been kidnapped or murdered. So far he had hesitated about mentioning the Green Line Coach Guide, and now he believed that it would be unwise to do so. His own immediate reaction to that discovery had been to diagnose Kusitch as a pathological case, and the Inspector would seize on that point immediately, since it supported so strongly his own argument. Already, Andrew feared, he was himself being considered from a pathological standpoint.
“No, Dr. Maclaren,” Jordaens said, “I believe you are putting too strong an interpretation upon these little incidents of the night. Your anxiety for this chance acquaintance is highly creditable, but I am afraid I do not share it with you. You are a scientific man. You will acknowledge readily that we have to temper imagination with caution.”
This was a little too much. Andrew flushed. “How do you temper the fact that I’ve been shadowed all round Brussels this morning?”
For the first time Inspector Jordaens smiled, a wry, sardonic sort of smile.
“You are positive, Dr. Maclaren?”
The word “positive” had become a term of derision. Andrew’s annoyance increased. “You can assure yourself of that,” he snapped. “I’ve already told you he followed me here. No doubt he’s waiting for me outside your front door.”
“Yes? In a green hat, I think you said.” The Inspector’s smile became almost infectious, but Andrew was immune to it. “Have no fear,” Jordaens went on. “We shall see that no harm comes to you. When you leave here, a detective will be behind you. I suggest that you go straight to the air terminal. Here.” He indicated the route on a street plan. “My man will report to you when you reach the terminal building. If you are followed, he will continue to guard you till your bus leaves for the airport.”
“What are you going to do about Kusitch? Nothing?”
“On the contrary, Doctor, everything. He may be in danger as you sincerely believe. In any case, we are not disposed to neglect these refugees from the Communist countries until we are sure of their good faith. In this sense we are indebted to you for your promptness in reporting the disappearance.”
Andrew’s sigh was of heartfelt relief; he had a better opinion of the Inspector, but he tucked the Coach Guide lower in his pocket. He asked: “What am I to do with Kusitch’s razor and the other things I took from the bathroom? They’re in my bag at the terminal building.”
“Hand them to the detective. We shall take care of them.” The Inspector rose from his chair. “We have your description of Kusitch. If we can find him, he shall be found.”
“I’ve given you my London address. I would like to know what happens.”
The Inspector’s smile became amiable. “I will write to you myself. Adieu, Dr. Maclaren. Thank you for coming in. Perhaps your Yugoslav friend will be at the terminal, waiting for the next plane to London.”
But he wasn’t. Andrew waited just inside the main hall, and, in less than a minute, the promised detective addressed him. Monsieur would be happy to know that he had not been followed from headquarters by any stranger.
It was no news to him. He had looked for the green soft hat and failed to see it The hat had been scared off by the fact that he had gone to the police. But Inspector Jordaens would not look at it in that way. Inspector Jordaens would produce one of his sardonic smiles, or perhaps merely grunt.
Andrew retrieved his bag from the luggage office and handed over Kusitch’s property. The detective gave him an itemised receipt: one shaving brush, one safety razor in case with three blades, et cetera. On leaving, he expressed confidence that Monsieur would have no further trouble from men in green hats, and this time the police prophecy was justified. Andrew did not go far from the terminal building for his lunch. He returned from the restaurant just in time to check in and board his bus with the other passengers; but he did not relax until the plane was in the air.
Then he lay back in his seat and closed his eyes. He dozed, he shifted, he felt something pressing into his side. He reached down, pulled the offending booklet from his pocket and settled down to sleep.
When he opened his eyes, the Green Line Coach Guide was resting precariously on his lap. He sat up. The Guide fell to the floor, and a small rectangle of paper spilled from it and sailed into the gangway. He leaned over to pick it up and found that it was a newspaper clipping. Still half asleep, he glanced at it and saw that it was in English, the review of some art show or other at one of the London galleries.
That was all right. That was in the character of Kusitch. The ex-dealer was interested in the current exhibitions. He would take advantage of his mission to England to see what was going on. No doubt he had clipped this piece from some weekly journal as a reminder. The Blandish Gallery… twelve new works…
He came fully awake, realising the implication of his find. This clipping had been placed between the pages of the Guide, and, back in the bedroom at the Risler-Moircy, he had failed to discover it. There might be other things concealed in that booklet of Green Line timetables.
He recovered the Guide from the floor and began to go through it page by page. He found nothing until he came to the Guildford-London-Hertford route. Here, a line was drawn in ink under the coach times given for Oxford Circus and a question mark had been placed in the margin against the Turkey Street stopping point. Or possibly it applied to the next point, Waltham Cross. It was difficult to decide. Above the timetable, also in ink, were the letters and figures SS 729. Below, an address was scrawled in pencil. It looked like Walden or Wallen House, Cheriton Shawe, Hertford
.
He plodded on to the end of the booklet, eager for further finds, but there was nothing else. He turned back. The Cheriton Shawe address might be a place to stay at, or the residence of someone Kusitch had been instructed to see. The suggestion that Kusitch had planned to use the Green Line bus made the possession of the Guide intelligible enough, but it certainly did nothing to explain why he had taken the trouble to hide so innocent a publication under the carpet. Perhaps the key to everything was in that SS 729, but the cryptogram could not be read merely by looking at it.
Andrew went back to the press clipping. This time he read it attentively, but the second sentence pulled him up, and he stared at the piece of paper as if he could not trust his eyes. He stared at it for quite a time, thinking hard. Then he went back to the beginning and read it right through. The Blandish Gallery, that Delphian temple of the avant garde, is presenting twelve new works which it somewhat recklessly describes as sculptures. We have had, in the past, some acquaintance with Ruth Meriden, but we were not quite prepared for the development displayed in these latest facettes of her art. Abjuring her rigid acceptance of Naum Gabo as the one source of pure light, she is discovering something within herself. We say “something” advisedly. She has not yet cast off the chains of eclecticism, but the discerning must admit that this new empiric phase is interesting, combining as it does the brio of a Brancusi, the mievrerie of a Mestrovic with the cool mathematique of the aforementioned Russian master. Miss Meriden is young. She has still much to learn. But in some of these twelve works she displays an aptitude in the handling of her recessions, and we also find an encouraging restlessness, a reaching down towards a firmer enfoncement. We like most of all the piece defined as Etude Opus 5. There is here a striving towards an existentialist concept that Sartre himself might applaud. The introductory note in the catalogue describes it as Mozartean. We do not concur. The melodic line is more in the tradition of Scarlatti.
Andrew felt confused. He could not at once decide whether the girl with the red hair was a sculptor or a composer, but, when he weighed the evidence, the balance turned against music. Gabo, Brancusi and Mestrovic were ponderable witnesses, or so it seemed, that Ruth Meriden was a sculptor of sorts. Ruth Meriden…
He meditated. It was strange how the girl kept bobbing up. Strange, or not strange…?
He had an idea then that made him jump. Ruth Meriden had joined the Brussels plane at Athens. So had Kusitch. Ruth Meriden had stayed the night in Brussels at the Risler-Moircy. Kusitch had held out till he and Andrew had been given a suite at the same hotel. And now, from the booklet that Kusitch had hidden, came this newspaper clipping about Ruth Meriden. So?
There was no answer.
Andrew opened the Green Line Guide again and gazed at the cryptogram above the London-Bishops Stortford timetable.
SS 729.
When he looked out of the window a few minutes later, the plane was over England.
Five
After the first twenty-four hours London seemed curiously empty. Andrew was still doing the things he had long dreamed of doing; seeing the places that, in Thessaly, had sometimes appeared as remote as Everest or Xanadu. To cross Piccadilly Circus had become an enormous ambition; let him but see Charing Cross Station again and stout Cortez could have the Pacific. But, of course, the reality was less satisfactory. The joys of homecoming were somehow superficial. He felt restless and vaguely uneasy. Never before had he had with quite such intensity the feeling that there was something missing.
If this was to be the mood of the maturer Maclaren, he could regret the loss of the more youthful exuberance that had sent him to his European experiences without a thought for his own interests. Of course, he was alone in the world; but then, he always had been. Now it was like coming back to search among scattered ruins for a lost past and discovering that after all there was nothing to be retrieved.
There had been no relatives on hand to greet him. His mother had died while he was still a student at Edinburgh. His father had accepted an important medical post in the Pacific during the war and had stayed on out there to continue research in tropical diseases. He had some uncles and aunts and innumerable cousins, but, even if he had been interested in them, none was in London.
He had good friends who were delighted to see him again and eager to help him. He had arranged to stay with one of them until he found accommodation, but the expected meeting had been postponed. Roger Lang had rushed off to America, leaving a hurried note and the keys of his flat in Holland Park, but this disappointment had nothing to do with his mood. He had other friends and they welcomed him warmly enough. Some of them frankly envied him; and really he had to admit that he was not out of luck. Home again, a comfortable flat to live in, a month of freedom, and then work that he wanted to do, with the promise of a specialist’s career in the future.
There had been a note awaiting him, asking him to call up Dr. Jeffrey at the Kingsland Road Eye Hospital as soon as he arrived.
The old man said: “Hello, son! Got in a day late, didn’t you? What put this bee in your bonnet about glaucoma?”
“It was thrown at me, sir. Quite a few cases in some parts of Greece.”
“Carotene deficiency. Xerophthalmis breaking out all over the place. They will have their damn silly wars.”
Andrew smiled. “It’s wonderful to think I’ll be working with you, sir.”
“Save that for a few months. Wait till you find out what it’s like to be a registrar at this madhouse.”
“I’m grateful to you for the job.”
“You wouldn’t have got it if I hadn’t thought I could use you. Don’t run away with the notion that you’ve been favoured because of your father. What you wrote about intraocular pressure happened to interest me. Look in on me next week sometime. We’ll discuss procedure. You’ll have every opportunity to work out your ideas. Meanwhile, enjoy your holiday.”
After three days of it the month ahead of him began to look like eternity. He thought of asking old Jeffrey if he couldn’t start work earlier, but he suspected it would be impossible. The hospital had been emphatic about the date of the vacancy. Another man was moving on. Andrew would have to wait till the discarded shoes were ready for him.
Nothing to do on a sunny morning but shop for socks and a couple of preposterously expensive shirts. The prices of clothes depressed him. Or something did. He wished he hadn’t come home. He wished he had stayed in Larissa another week or so. If he had put off the trip till a more reasonable date, he wouldn’t have encountered Pyotr Grigorievitch Kusitch or be wandering along Bond Street on this bright day plagued by anxiety about the little man. Anxiety? Or simply the tantalising probability that he would never know for certain whether the little man had been the central figure in a melodrama or just plain mad?
He turned left into Oxford Street, descended the stairway of the first underground station, bought a ticket, and stepped onto the escalator. He did it all reluctantly, under some inward protest. His mood went down, down, down with the moving stairway. Then he touched bottom, and his mind suddenly cleared. He walked round and stepped onto the ascending escalator. He thrust his ticket into the hand of the collector and hurried on, afraid that the man might challenge him. He hadn’t used a train, yet he had a feeling of guilt, as if he had broken a contract with the London Transport Executive. He hurried away from the scene of the crime towards the telephone booths. He took up the directory A-D, and flicked over the leaves. Bla… Blan… Blandish! His moving finger halted. He made a mental note of an address and walked out into the sunlight again.
For the first time since his homecoming, he felt like a man with a purpose. He swung round one corner, strode on, turned another corner, and slowed a little, noting the numbers. The odds were on one side, the evens on another. He crossed the road. A few more paces and he was there.
The Blandish Gallery had an elegant front. It had a beautiful door of burnished bronze and one small Dufy in a large window. A hand-lettered placard in a bronz
e frame announced an exhibition of water colours by Christophe Chambord.
Andrew Maclaren had the sensation of something inside him dropping with the gravitational abandon of a plummet. It was something extraphysical, something completely unscientific and quite beyond material diagnosis. You could approach it only through the figurative. It was as the falling stick of a spent rocket. It was the dead meteor hope.
The exhibition of sculptures by Ruth Meriden was over. The press notice preserved by Kusitch might have been clipped a month ago or a year ago; it was all the same now. Andrew went back gloomily to the tube station and bought another ticket.
When he let himself into the flat, he saw the Green Line Coach Guide lying on Roger Lang’s desk. He picked it up and threw it into Roger Lang’s wastebasket.
That was that!
He almost spoke it aloud to put the finality of it beyond question. He was finished with Kusitch; Ruth Meriden was expunged from his mind. He poured himself a drink to celebrate the liberation. After a second drink he crossed to the wastebasket and recovered the Coach Guide. He opened it at the marked page and stared at the cryptogram, but all he found in it was a resolute determination to be meaningless. He was sure it was something simple, possibly absurdly simple. The trouble was he had no knowledge of such things. They were a special study. They required an unusual aptitude, a sort of…
And then inspiration came.
Charley Botten!
He blinked. He looked up another telephone number and then realised that he could do nothing about it till after office hours. He paced Roger Lang’s carpet till darkness came. At the first feasible moment he dialled the number, and miraculously the receiver at the other end was lifted.
“Charley?” he demanded. “This is Andrew Maclaren; remember? I’ve just got back from Athens.”
Mr. Botten said: “How are things in Greece?” He didn’t sound as if he cared.