The Doomsday Carrier

by Victor Canning

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Nor would I. But Grandison would. That’s why he’s where he is and does what he does. He has a gift for sensing the arbitrary stir of the Fates. You know. . . the rare moment when they get bored and decide to stir things up a little.”

  “Do you believe in Fate . . . I mean a direct, positive interference in human affairs?”

  “Yes, I do. I have to. Otherwise how could I have been and be what I am.” He grinned. “But, of course, they don’t muck around with everyone. They just pick someone now and then to experiment with. Like your Fadledean crowd picked Charlie. Could have been any other of dozens of chimpanzees. But they fingered him as the one, the prototype of the plague carrier.” Suddenly, his voice full of quiet force, he added, “What if Charlie stays out over the limit and this country has an outbreak of plague? People dying . . . children, babes, going down like flies?”

  Angrily Jean said, “What are you trying to do? Why talk like that?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, casual again, he said, “I’m not sure —unless it’s to point out that we . . . you and I, Armstrong and Boyson, all the Fadledean gang and the similar gangs in other countries are brothers and sisters under the skin. Murderers, actual or potential—the sin’s the same. Only the weapons vary, sword, gun or bacillus.”

  Jean stood up and without a word walked from the dining room. Watching her go he felt no shame or comfort, no release or pity. He had spoken, without thought, unable to control himself. And he knew that in doing so he was justifying Grandison’s sending him here, confirming in himself what others who had worked with him for years had known long before him. He was past it, over the hill, his poise and control seized now by the shakes without warning like the hands of a heavy drinker. Well, he had to accept it. This was his last job. All he had to worry about now were the terms and the mode of his retirement. That Jean Blackwell was probably up in her room having a good cry left him untouched. The terms and mode of her retirement would be generous and progressively more placid. Her letter to George, which he had censored, made that clear.

  * * * *

  Mellowed with a good dinner and now a little flushed over coffee and then port, Horace Simbath was in an expansive mood, a state which always made him a little pompous. Additionally, he was well pleased with himself and the way things were going and—he was sure—would go. Lady Cynthia had accepted his plan for Charlie. She had been so pleased with it that, impulsively, she had put her long arms around him, giving him a brisk hug and a quick peck of a kiss on his brow.

  They sat now in the late evening dusk in a small arbour at the end of the terrace which overlooked lawn and lake. The smoke from Lady Cynthia’s cigar—she only smoked cheroots during the day—drifted in a slow, listless trail in the almost still, warm air. A silver tray of liqueurs rested on a small cane table between them. Dusty winged moths moved clumsily over the flowers of the tangle of clematis growth which covered the arbour and a hatch of golden-eyed lace-winged flies danced in a cloud above the rough lawn grasses, harried now and then by the forays of bats. The moon shadows were beginning to darken and a faint mist was rising from the surface of the lake.

  Horace said smoothly, “The essence of good publicity—particularly in a case like Charlie’s where he has already attracted a great deal—is suddenly to cut off all hard news. That is to say, to create, my dear Cynthia, a vacuum in which speculation, rumour and suspense will breed. This we can do easily by holding him here without anyone knowing about it. No more sightings for days on end. Where’s Charlie? What’s happened to Charlie? The press won’t be able to resist the challenge of solving that mystery. That’s stage one.” He reached for the Drambuie and poured himself another glass. Already he was feeling his way towards the pleasing liberties and prerogatives of his new status.

  “And how long should that go on, Horace?”

  “Well, I would say right up to the point where the press show signs of dropping the story. From my experience I would say that might be six or seven days.”

  “And then, we do as you suggest?”

  “Quite. We revive the press and public interest with a bang. I’ve been thinking more about that. I think we should take a photograph of Charlie—against a suitably anonymous background—holding a newspaper so that its date shows clearly. Charlie is alive and well, in good hands, reading a copy of The Times. You, of course, will have to write the statement of your intentions so far as Charlie is concerned, but anonymously naturally.”

  “Indeed I will. And I know exactly what to say.”

  “Of that I am sure, my dear Cynthia.” Though, Horace thought to himself, he would do a little discreet sub-editing because, good-hearted and well-intentioned as she was, dear Cynthia was inclined to ramble when it came to composition. “We’ll send the photograph and statement anonymously to a press agency. What a scoop for them! And then—hey presto—the publicity will all start up again with renewed force. Animal lovers and every humanitarian organization and society in the land adjured to stand up and demand freedom from Fadledean for Charlie. And they will . . .”

  Oh, they would, Horace knew, because all such organizations, despite their worthiness and complete sincerity, welcomed any publicity which pulled in new members and donations. The Save Charlie Fund. There, too, was sure to be some noble lord or high churchman who would eagerly offer himself as President, with luck even some minor royalty. In the gloom he smiled to himself at the rich future which loomed before him. He, Horace Simbath, would be known to have masterminded the whole campaign. A national figure. And then, a little later, the announcement of the forthcoming marriage of Lady Cynthia Chickley and Mr Horace Simbath. Lady Cynthia’s voice called him back from his contemplation of paradise.

  “And for the final move, Horace, my love? Have you thought further about that?”

  “Indeed, yes. Two days later, say, another photograph and the announcement that, on such and such a date, all interested parties, organizations and the general public are invited to a great rally in, say, Hyde Park—or perhaps better still, because of its zoological connections, Regent’s Park—where Charlie will be produced. Thousands of people, demanding Charlie’s freedom, cheering him and you. The police, the government authorities, will be powerless and bow before the storm.” Excited, seeing herself in the role, standing on a platform holding Charlie’s hand, Lady Cynthia found herself near to tears.

  “It’s wonderful, Horace! Wonderful! Brilliant! I knew that I could rely on you. What a treasure of a man you are.” She reached out and held his hand in the gloaming.

  Indeed, indeed, thought Horace, a treasure of a man, and a man with the doors of a treasure house already slowly swinging open before him. He sipped his Drambuie and then said very seriously, “But Cynthia, my dear—” not yet did he feel it the moment to say, my love, “—this whole thing will fail unless Charlie is kept strictly incommunicado. No more walking him around the garden. He must stay in the billiard room until the great day comes. After all—if we are to work for his freedom it is no cruelty to keep him confined until that moment comes.”

  “You’re quite right, Horace,” said Lady Cynthia meekly. “Now tell me—how long do you think all this will take?”

  “Well . . .” Horace paused, not to consider the time factors, but to relish the meekness she had just displayed. She was coming to hand nicely. In a crisis she had turned to him and he was not going to fail her. Gratitude and admiration were the outriders of love, of the chariot of matrimony. His tailor would be paid and all the others. No more schemes to milk the gullible public. Do not miss this unique opportunity—how often had he used that phrase in scores of advertisements? Well, here was his unique opportunity coming up and he was certainly not going to miss it. He said, “I should say about five days to the first press release, perhaps two more before the second with the announcement of the great rally, and then the rally itself—we must give people time to get organized—in another three. Let’s see—where would that take us?”

>   “Up to . . .” Lady Cynthia began to tick off the days silently on her fingers . . . “up to Sunday, the nth of July. Is Sunday a good day for a rally?”

  “The best, my dear. People are free. We shall get the maximum attendance. Couldn’t be better.”

  * * * *

  The eleventh of July would be the day, since his vomiting attacks had run true to course, that Charlie would be fully infective.

  Charlie at that moment was sleeping in his packing-case quarters buried deep in clean straw, nursing to himself an old tennis racket with broken strings which he had found. He was snoring a little and, now and then in his sleep, he scratched himself to ease the biting attacks of the fleas he had picked up on his travels. A barn owl, perched on top of the glass roof under which had long ago been stretched a safety layer of stout wire netting to hold any glass breakage, looked down through the webbing of mesh at Charlie, holding in its beak a long-tailed field mouse which it had taken in the rhododendron shrubberies. After a moment or two the bird spread wide, silent wings and drifted through the summer air high across the lawn, over the walled garden and came to rest on the tall, turreted tower of the seldom-used private chapel of the Chickley family. Slowly it began to tear at the body of the mouse and finally swallowed it. The red glow of a cigar end caught the bird’s eyes. Swivelling its head it watched Horace Simbath and Lady Cynthia move out of the arbour and walk slowly along the terrace. Horace had his arm through Lady Cynthia’s and the sound of their voices drifted across the night.

  * * * *

  For two days press, radio and television had played the Charlie story hard. Charlie was well established as a national figure and a very popular one . . . far more popular than he would have been had he merely escaped from a zoo or a wild life park because everyone realized that he was an embarrassment to the Government, and that there was more to Charlie than met the eye. No one believed that the first communique saying he had escaped on the way to Fadledean had been a departmental mistake.

  On the morning of his twelfth day of freedom when there had been no sighting or news of him the press, radio and television proceeded to demonstrate that even no news was good news. Where was Charlie? What had happened to Charlie? Perhaps he had been quietly captured and was already back at Fadledean. Perhaps some hasty gamekeeper had shot him in some covert and his body lay there waiting for vermin and birds to pick it clean. By this time, too, the correspondence columns of the papers were drawing their full weight of indignant letters from individuals, societies and institutions—indignation evoked not always by humane feelings and a righteous readiness to champion the cause of conservation, preservation or abhorrence of the improper use of any animal for scientific purposes but with a sharp eye on publicity, personal, or for their particular organizations. Even at the best of times Man’s noblest emotions were not entirely purified by the sharp fires of humane protest.

  When Grandison came down to Redthorn House that morning he was in a dour, far from loquacious mood. Taking Rimster and Jean Blackwell with him he went to the operations centre. By the Colonel in charge he was given a detailed description of all the search moves which had been made so far, and copies of all the statements made by people who had actually seen or met Charlie. He made no comment on them, which Rimster knew—though other people did not—was more to be feared than any suggestions or criticisms. He examined the special van which had been provided by Fadledean, the protective clothing and masks, and the two rifles which were specially adapted for firing nembutal darts to immobilize Charlie when found. Driving away from the operations centre to go to Fadledean to see Armstrong he said to Rimster, “At close quarters a rifle could be clumsy or even useless. I’ll have two long-barrelled pistols sent down this afternoon.”

  At Fadledean he grilled Armstrong with a sharp politeness. He asked him, “Assuming everything is progressing as you planned with Charlie he will become infective on what day?”

  “At the earliest on the nineteenth day, that’s Friday the ninth of July.”

  “At what time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And the latest day?”

  “The twenty-first, that’s Sunday the eleventh.”

  “If he’s not infective by then does it mean he never will be, that the process has gone wrong?”

  “I don’t know, but the odds—”

  “I’m not interested in the odds. You don’t know?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Once he’s a carrier how long does he remain one?”

  “Between thirty to thirty-five days.”

  “And you can make tests which will establish without doubt when he is clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Now suppose he’s lying dead, shot or killed by some accident in a wood right now—would he be a danger at this moment?”

  “No.”

  “So if a rat or a fox had a go at his body they wouldn’t become eventually infective?”

  “No.”

  “Say he dies or is killed any time on the nineteenth, twentieth or twenty-first day and rat, fox or crow got at him or his fleas hop away and find another host—do they become infective?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long would his body be virulent?”

  Armstrong hesitated and then with a little shrug of his broad shoulders, said, “I don’t know, but ultimately—”

  “I’m not interested in the ultimate. You don’t know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  With sudden, surprising mildness Grandison, putting his monocle into place, said, “In your position I can assure you that it would have been something I would have wanted to know before going to the starting post. Anyway, that’s all. Thank you for your co-operation.”

  When Grandison had gone and Armstrong was alone, although it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, he went to his cupboard and poured himself a large whisky. It was the first time he had ever met Grandison and he sincerely hoped that it would be the last.

  Before Grandison left Redthorn House, alone with Rimster he said, “When they find Charlie—no matter where it is—I’ve left orders that you are to go in and do the job. I don’t want any damned stupid waving of bananas or cajoling. You take the pistol and knock him out. Everyone else down here may be behaving like a bunch of bloody amateurs but I want the job finished professionally.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grandison smiled. “In the meantime, enjoy the country air. You’re looking well on it. Better than I’ve seen you for a long time.”

  Not knowing what prompted it, except that it was there suddenly in him and nothing could stop it coming out, Rimster said, “When this job is over, I don’t want to come back. I want to pack it all in. I’m eligible for retirement.”

  Grandison stroked the silk cord of his dangling monocle for a moment or two, then nodded, and said gently, T think that’s wise. Your record is one of the best. Just get this Charlie thing wrapped up and we’ll go into it.”

  Going back into the house Rimster thought, Tour record is one of the best. By God, it was—and putting it down must have made the recording angel’s hand shake from time to time. Seeing Jean sitting on the terrace he went out to her and said, “I’m sorry for slashing out at you as I did last night. It was unforgivable. I hope you can overlook it so that we can have a drink together and then dinner?”

  She looked at him for a moment or two, then smiled and nodded her head, saying, “There’s nothing to forgive. It was the truth.”

  * * * *

  That evening Horace Simbath drove back to London in a state of steady euphoria. He would be returning to Deanfinch Hall in two days’ time to take photographs of Charlie for the press. In his time Mr Simbath had been an amateur of many things, including photography. It would be no problem for him to set up a dark room in his flat where he could develop and print his film. The whole campaign lay clear in his mind and he could see no problems. But more than the Charlie campaign he was concerned with the Lady
Cynthia campaign. At one time his biggest hope had been that he might talk her into making a loan—repayable, of course, at a good rate of interest—for one of his ventures. But before he had reached the point of making any move in this direction the idea had blossomed in his mind of marriage. Marriage, in a sense, was the biggest loan she could possibly make him, and there would be no interest, hypothetical or otherwise, to pay.

  Daydreaming as he drove, he began to go over the various little improvements he would make at Deanfinch when they were married. It would, at first, be a question of going softly softly, and always of choosing the right moment. Dear Cynthia, as he had learnt early on, could—if approached wrongly—be not only arrogant, intolerant, and stubborn, but also bloody bad-tempered. At the moment the biggest problem which exercised his mind was the right moment to pick for making his declaration of love. If he waited until the whole Charlie campaign had been carried out and she had become a public figure he realized that he might easily lose her. Publicity, as he knew only too well, did strange things to the ego. She might be off on lecture tours, in demand at meetings, find herself surrounded by new friends—and well-heeled ones at that—and he could be hard put to claim her attention in the intimate surroundings needed to suit his proposal. No, he decided, the best way was to set all the Charlie publicity going and, once it snowballed, to lay bare his soul and love for her before the mass meeting.

  Leave it beyond that peak and, he knew, he might find himself wallowing in the trough of that very high wave whose crest she would be riding. He began to whistle gently to himself as he drove through the dusk along the motorway . . . seeing himself as master of Deanfinch, its rough acres and well-stocked cellars. Would he ever, he wondered, be able to break her of the habit of smoking cheroots and cigars? Detestable habit, smoking. But still, no marriage was absolutely perfect. A man could learn to forgive and endure for the sake of love. And to think that it had all started when she had sent him a crumby poem about a nightingale . . . Swart bird of sable night something something all delight. Song that fills the heart with love while the something moon hangs high above. Lambent moon, that was it.