The Doomsday Carrier

by Victor Canning

  Unexpectedly her attitude irritated him. “I’m glad you can look on the light side of it.”

  “Well, it’s there, isn’t it? I’m only too aware of the other side—and my part in it. What are the authorities going to do about it?”

  “Nothing—for the moment. I’ve just been speaking to my office. Charlie’s just a normal chimpanzee on the loose. If Whitehall tried to sit on the newspapers right away then Fleet Street would more than prick its ears up. There are one or two editors these days who don’t answer the rein easily. Anyway, by all the odds, he should be picked up in the next few days.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “I fervently hope so,” he said curtly.

  Bending over her plate, going on with her meal, Jean half-smiled to herself. Underneath all the control there was a man of some emotion. What was it that moved him? Professional pride? Or a kind of arrogance which held no place for failure. She was beginning to catch the movement of ghosts somewhere in his background. He didn’t like her particularly and, more pertinent, she felt he didn’t like this job. She hadn’t helped him with the first, and there wasn’t much she could do about the second until Charlie was found and she could pick up her bunch of bananas. It could even be that he really felt that Charlie could go the limit, stay free for more than twenty-one days and that he was genuinely concerned for the consequences. But she felt that it was nearer the truth that he was more concerned with the thought of a personal failure. Yet beyond that she was beginning to sense something else in him, something as yet too vague for definition. Maybe his hard facade covered some interior shabbiness or disappointment which he hated and which, for her, if true, made him more human.

  She looked up and said, “If you want to smoke with your coffee, please do. It won’t worry me. I might even join you later. And . . . well, I change my ‘certainly’ to your ‘fervently’.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled. “I could kill that photographer for not immediately calling the police. We’d have had Charlie in the bag within the hour.”

  “If he’d known the truth of what was involved he would have called the police. But we don’t live in that kind of world. Truth is a security risk. It’s also—when you have to keep it to yourself for the rest of your life—an emotional risk. If or when I get married my husband would never know that I’ve had a part in planning mass and horrible murder. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? And my shame is that it’s only recently come to me. So, if at times I’m a bit edgy or distant, you’ll know that that’s the reason. I’m learning to live with a woman who used to be a distinguished micro-biologist who—through her own fault—was seduced into planning murder.” She smiled ruefully, reached for the coffee pot and went on, “I think if you’ll offer me one I’ll have a cigarette and talk about something else.”

  As he lit her cigarette, he was thinking that there were many ways of being seduced into murder apart from the remote impersonal kind she meant where the faces of the victims were blanks and the names often meaningless. Little by little you were drawn into the shadowy byways until the day came when you looked down and saw for the first time the face of a dead man, your first kill. Slowly after that, like an anodyne, came professional pride in your skills. You lived at the peak for years, proud, arrogant, deadly efficient . . . and then one day Grandison changed it all, signalling the end by sending you on a job anyone could do . . . a pleasant little jolly in the good old summertime chasing Charlie—a break from the usual run of business; a permanent break.

  * * * *

  Westacott Bottom was the name of Duncan Sparrow’s cottage and small farm holding. It lay some miles north-west of Andover in a hollow at the bottom of the high ground which rose to the wooded slopes of the ancient forest of Chute. The nearest village, a handful of houses, a general store, a public house and a small chapel, was two miles away. The holding was approached by a narrow, private lane a quarter of a mile long, a lane badly maintained, its pot-holes filling with water in the winter. The cottage was a simple two-down and three-up building, roofed with reed thatch which was green and worn in places and needed renewal. Behind the cottage was a big yard hedged by a small enclosed barn, a run of hen houses and an open cart shed. Beyond the yard Duncan owned ten acres of poor land, some of it down to pasture where he kept a few pigs and the rest given over to market gardening. Out of this he made a living of sorts and just managed to keep up his mortgage payments. He liked living there because he liked living alone and being his own master. From time to time he had a woman living with him, but none stayed long. He was content with the way he lived and not at all concerned about his future. Shortage of cash held no great worry for him, but he was always glad to make a little money on the side and did not mind sailing close to the wind in doing it.

  An hour after picking up Charlie he drove into the yard, opened one of the double doors of the barn and then put the van inside. Leaving Charlie shut in the van, he busied himself in setting up quarters for him, whistling to himself as he cleared an old stall and spread hay over the floor. He filled a bucket with water from the yard tap and put it by the stall and then fetched an armful of vegetables and a dozen eggs and put them in a shallow box alongside the bucket. The barn was soundly built, without windows and the roof was hung with large, heavy slates all in fair condition. As he worked, he congratulated himself that at the moment he had no female company. Women’s tongues were the devil.

  Closing the barn door, he picked up a handful of young peas and went to the back of the van. He unlocked it and Charlie, wet still, his coat messy with bits of straw and hens’ feathers, came at once to him and reached out for the peas. Duncan turned and went to the stall and Charlie jumped down from the van and followed him, reaching out to get the peas. Duncan dropped them into the box in the stall and Charlie at once went to the vegetables and eggs and squatted on the ground.

  While Charlie was eating Duncan opened the barn door and drove the van out into the yard. It was the one period when Charlie could have escaped from him. Well, Duncan thought—if you don’t take risks you don’t make profits, only a pittance. When he went back and closed the door Charlie was still sitting in the straw eating. When Duncan appeared he looked up, lifted his head and gave him a teeth-baring grin and a few contented grunts.

  Duncan went back to the cottage, made himself some coffee and, as it was in the nature of a special morning, he opened a new bottle to lace it strongly with brandy. Flopping into the dilapidated cane armchair in the kitchen, he settled down to consider the possible money angles, well aware that opportunities like this were rare and therefore their cash potentials needed unhurried consideration. By the time he had emptied the coffee pot and taken a fair amount of the brandy he had decided his line of action. He would keep quiet about Charlie until the next day and then try first—like a good citizen—the police. If that didn’t work he would try the press. No hurry—the longer Charlie was at large, surely, the more valuable one way and another he became?

  That evening at eight o’clock the sergeant on duty at what had become known as the Charliephone had a call.

  A man’s voice, educated and affable, said, “This the number for the escaped chimpanzee?”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “Good. Well, of course, I might be making a Charlie of myself—sorry, I didn’t mean to be funny. No offence meant. But I just thought—”

  “Do you mind, sir,” interrupted the Sergeant, who had already had his quota of jokesters’ calls, “if, before you report whatever it is you have to report, you give me your name and address?”

  “Not at all, constable. Ulpert’s the name. Joseph Ulpert—you want me to spell that, constable?”

  “No, thank you, sir. Joseph Ulpert. And the address?”

  “Bourne End Cottage, Thruxton. That’s just off—”

  “Yes, sir. We know where it is. Now about Charlie, please?”

  “Ah, yes. Well you see, it’s like this. I work in London and go up by train from Andover every day—’cept
weekends, of course. I get the early train which means I leave here about half-past five. Damned early I know, but I’m a bachelor and don’t sleep well, and I like to know I’m going to get a seat, and—what’s more—I’m in my office—export electronics equipment—and get some work done in peace—”

  “Could we come to Charlie, sir?”

  “Sure, that’s what I’m coming to. I just thought you people liked all the details. I mean, I might be some damned joker ringing up just for a lark. The world’s full of them as I expect you know in a job like yours.”

  “Do we not, sir.” There was warmth in the sergeant’s voice now. “All right, sir. You just go ahead and tell it in your own way.”

  “Well, I was driving in this morning. Hell of a morning, too. Belting with rain. Just the other side of Weyhill there’s a bit of a pull-in at the side of the road. As I went by I saw a small, rather battered old green van parked there. Ford, I think. I’ve seen it before plenty of mornings. Well, there was this young fellow standing out in the rain at the back and he had the van doors open and just to one side of him as I passed I saw this chimpanzee. It looked just as though the chimp job was going to get in the van. Pretty odd thing to see, eh? I thought I was dreaming at first, but I know I wasn’t. When I got back tonight I thought I’d just phone up and check with you. Do the good citizen act just in case the bloke hadn’t turned Charlie boy over to you or reported him. That’s what anyone would do, isn’t it?”

  With some feeling the sergeant said, “It’s what a good citizen would do, someone like yourself, sir. But this fellow didn’t. You say you’ve seen this van before and the man?”

  “Plenty of times. He’s usually sitting in the van having his breakfast or something. Also —”

  “Excuse me interrupting, sir. Are you at home all this evening?”

  “Nowhere else. Just going to do myself steak and chips.”

  “In that case, sir, we’d like to send someone out to talk to you right away.”

  “Yes, that’s all right. By the way the chap’s name is Wrench. A. Wrench. He’s a baker and confectioner. It’s written on the side of the van.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. We’ll have someone out to you right away.”

  Half an hour later another call from a pay-box came on the Charliephone, and a man’s voice enquired, “About this Charlie the chimp. It’s a very valuable animal, is it?”

  “That’s right, sir. Could I have your name and address please?”

  “Sure, if you want to. It’s Lucas . . . Alfred Lucas, Number Seven, Avonbrook Villas, Amesbury. But I haven’t got anything to tell you. I was just wondering if there was a reward being offered to anyone who found this animal?”

  “No, sir—there isn’t any reward being offered.”

  “Pity . . . just thought if there was I’d take a couple of days off from my job and have a look around. I’ve worked in Africa, you know. Big game reserve. Still. . . if there’s nothing on offer I’ll just forget it. Thank you.”

  The sergeant logged the message and then checked the street directory for Amesbury. He found that there was no listing for any Avonbrook Villas. Cranks and optimists with an eye to the main chance. Walk down any street, he thought, and what did you see? Mostly solid, sensible citizens going about their business, as steady and solid as plum puddings . . . or so you would think. Anyway, what was all this fuss about the chimpanzee? Whatever it was nobody in the force around here knew because the truth would have leaked by now. Higher up they might know, but if they did they weren’t saying anything.

  Before going to bed that night Duncan Sparrow, alias Alfred Lucas, went across the yard to the barn to see that Charlie was all right. He took with him a couple of oranges. He unlocked the main doors, slipped inside and turned the light on.

  Charlie was curled up in the straw of his stall with one arm across his face. He made no move as Duncan leaned over the low stall door and tossed the oranges across to him.

  “Just in case you get peckish in the night, old boy.”

  Charlie lay where he was until the lights went out and he heard the door close and the lock turn. Then, in the darkness, he began to drum with one fist against the side of the stall. Lying in the straw here was in many ways like being back in his sleeping quarters at Fadledean. He drummed for some while and then reached out with a foot and groped in the straw until he found one of the oranges.

  In his cottage Duncan had made up his mind. Since there was no reward for Charlie—after all it was only right to try and do the decent thing by the chimpanzee’s owner in the first place—he was left with the press. If the papers were still running the Charlie story in the morning he would ring one of them. Some fresh photographs of Charlie and an exclusive story about him should be worth something . . . maybe far more than any reward.

  Just before midnight Rimster got a call from the operations centre telling him about the sighting of Charlie by Joseph Ulpert. The man had been interviewed and was quite genuine and certain about seeing Charlie and the man with the green van. There was no record in the Andover-Amesbury areas of any baker called A. Wrench but enquiries were proceeding farther afield. It was quite possible that the van was a secondhand one bought at some car mart, whose previous owner had been A. Wrench. Anyway, he would be called immediately there was any news.

  Going up to his room he stopped and knocked on the door of Jean’s bedroom. She opened the door to him wearing a dressing gown over her nightdress. Over her shoulder he saw the rumpled bed, a book lying face down on it.

  He said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had some news about Charlie.”

  “He’s been caught?”

  “Not quite that.”

  “Oh, I see . . .” She hesitated for a moment or two and then stepped back and said, “Come in and tell me.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat on the side of the bed and he stood by the door. Her hair was loose and in the single light of the bedside lamp she looked softer and relaxed. As he explained things to her part of his mind considered her as a woman, as a woman he could like and would like to have. There was always that side of the mind working and, anyway, this was a boring kind of assignment. Perhaps, too, it might not be very difficult. Dear George had betrayed her . . . she might think that she was due for a turn. Without arrogance, an imaginative exercise, he saw them making love together and he knew, since she was an intelligent woman and no stranger to love-making, that the steadiness of her eyes on him and the calmness of her face probably masked something like his own thoughts. They had driven miles together, eaten their alfresco lunches together and never once that he could remember had he ever touched her. Maybe that was all it needed. She was easier with him now. . . but what would be the point? A few hours’ pleasure and make believe, but behind all that nothing would change.

  He said, “So you see, if things started moving unexpectedly I might have to call you out in the night. The truck for Charlie is at the operations centre and they won’t make a move until we arrive with your bunch of bananas.”

  When he had gone Jean got back into bed and lit a cigarette. She was smoking more now than she had ever done in her life. Please, she thought, let Charlie be picked up soon so that she could put Fadledean and George behind her, and get on with some other kind of life . . . so that she could be free, too, of the company of Rimster and of the cold discomfort his looks and his manner sometimes set up in her; a hard self-contained man, sure of himself and with God-only-knew what memories of his professional life securely stored and sterilized within him. Whatever was done and would go on being done at Fadledean had, at least, some scientific brief and reasonableness behind it. But this man, some sense told her, was a machine programmed to conscienceless actions, any emotion and apparent warmth part of the smooth functions of his profession. What was it Armstrong had said? One of Grandison’s grey men. Come on, Charlie, hurry up and be caught. She wanted to be away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AT FIRST LIGHT Duncan took Charlie fr
esh food and water and then drove off to Andover to pick up his newspapers for delivery. While he was waiting for them to be loaded he looked at two or three of the dailies and saw that all of them were still running the Charlie story, though it had been pushed well into the paper and not much space used on it. There was an interview with a small boy called Andrew Garvey who claimed that the chimpanzee had come and sat with him while he was fishing, and another with the lorry driver who had unwittingly given Charlie a lift. One of the dailies still wanted to know why the name of the owner of the animal had not been made public or any details of the road accident which had freed Charlie. Duncan guessed that without fresh news the story would soon be dropped. Well, that was where he came in.

  On the outskirts of Andover he stopped by a public call-box and telephoned the Press Association in Fleet Street which had fed the original story to the newspapers. Where he had expected some suspicion about his good faith and a lot of havering and argument about a price he was met by immediate attention and a very nice sum was quoted to him with the promise of a bonus if the story went well. A photographer and a pressman would be at his cottage before midday. In the meantime all he had to do was to keep his mouth shut and look after Charlie.

  He drove on and made his rounds, whistling to himself softly and debating whether he should spend the money on luxuries or some minor improvements to the smallholding and cottage. In the end he decided to postpone any immediate decision. As he came back along the Andover road he passed the lay-by where he usually stopped for breakfast. Instead of drawing in he went by it because he had decided to have breakfast at home where he could keep an eye on Charlie.

  It was a lovely morning. Summer was back. The larks were singing high in the sky and the grass and trees looked fresh and trim after the heavy rain. God’s in his heaven, all’s well with the world, he thought. Maybe he would get old Grindle in from the village to keep an eye on the place and he would take off for a week or two . . . Brighton, Bournemouth, somewhere by the briny, where the fresh breezes lifted the skirts of the girls in their summer dresses and money in your pocket paid the entrance charge to a little comer of paradise . . .