At that moment in the billiard room, unlit except for the light from the thin sliver of moon above which shone through the glass roof, Lady Cynthia, sitting on an old milking stool by Charlie’s pen, was saying goodnight to him.
Handing him an onion, which she had discovered was a favourite food, she said, “No more Fadledean for you, Charlie. Horace and I are going to see to that. But you mustn’t mind if we have to keep you shut up in here for a few days.”
Charlie, well fed, tapped the top of his head with the onion and, pouting his great lips, breathed soft pant-hoots at her as he walked around her, upright, swinging his shoulders from side to side. Then he reached out and fingered the long string of china beads she was wearing and gave them a tug.
“You like them? Then you shall have them.” Lady Cynthia unclasped the beads and Charlie walked into his pen, swinging the beads and chattering to himself. He sat down and began to eat his onion. Lady Cynthia lit herself a cheroot and sat watching him and her thoughts drifted away. She saw herself standing, holding Charlie by the hand, with a great crowd, all Charlie lovers, spread before her, a crowd which she would sway, captivate and compel with an impassioned speech. In her time she had championed, but only in a minor way, many causes. But this time it would be a cause which she would lead . . . her cause to which in the full blaze of publicity she could give herself wholeheartedly. When dear Horace came down next she must talk to him about the speech. He had a way with words which, she could confess, she lacked. He would write the speech for her. What an angel man Horace was. Dear Horace . . . a true friend indeed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ON SATURDAY, THE third of July—Charlie’s thirteenth day of freedom—the papers were still keeping his story alive. On that day, too, there were no valid reports of any sighting. But there were plenty of calls on the Charliephone at Salisbury and the men on duty realized at once that the nature of the calls had changed. Flippancy and flights of imagination were few, but abuse and indignation had grown.
“Why don’t you let the little bleeder alone and get on with your proper job? What about hooliganism and all this bloody thieving and it not being safe for a man to take his wife out for a quiet drink without some drunk causing trouble?”
“I would just like to say that I consider all the time and money being spent on this search for an innocent animal is a wicked waste. Thousands of pounds being squandered by the army and the police which could be put to a far better use like, for instance, better housing and more police patrols around where they are really needed.”
“No, I haven’t seen him, and if I had I wouldn’t be telling you. All I want to say is that instead of carrying out experiments on animals why not use Members of Parliament of all parties? They’d never be missed. Try grafting another head on the Prime Minister—though even with two he’d still be half-witted.”
“Why use Charlie for experiments? Our comprehensive school system is turning out hundreds of chimpanzees every year. Use some of them. They’d never be missed even from their own homes.”
And quite a lot of them—anonymous telephone calls being a convenient release for the libido of many—were frankly blasphemous.
Captain Stevens piloting his helicopter that morning was in a light-hearted mood. Charlie had been out thirteen days now, and he had drawn the fourteenth day for his capture in the sweepstake. If he spotted him now it would be a great temptation to say nothing, though it would mean cutting his observer in on some of the money. Whoever the man was who had come down from the Ministry he must have distributed a few rockets. His superior officers were all now barking and bullying around giving a great display of efficiency. Flight plans and ground patrols had all been reorganized, and the search area now covered a circle with a radius of twenty miles centred on Salisbury. All the new plan meant was that men were thinner on the ground and the flight schedules made longer so that you got bored sooner than before and almost forgot what you were looking for as you went off into some daydream . . . Saturday night tonight, and thank God he was going off duty until Monday. Saturday night and Sunday, a sleeping out pass and all the delights of amorous dalliance. Lovely phrase. Wonder where Charlie would be sleeping tonight? He knew where he would.
A few seconds later he passed over Deanfinch Hall. Damn great place, he thought, going to rack and ruin. He watched a pair of swans, wings beating, feet churning the water, take off heavily from the surface of the long lake below. On the far side of the house a small saloon car was moving up the driveway, hidden at times by the overhanging foliage of the trees which lined it. Shabby old car, shabby old house, he thought. The landed aristocracy were hard put to it these days to keep going. Sic transit gloria mundi. Nothing more certain than death and taxes.
Driving the saloon car was Horace Simbath who had left London early that morning. A few minutes later he walked in unannounced and unexpected by Lady Cynthia who was having her mid-morning coffee and cheroot and reading the Daily Telegraph announcements of forthcoming marriages.
Seeing him a frown creased her high forehead momentarily.
“Horace—what are you doing here?”
Horace beamed. “Don’t worry, my dear Cynthia. Nothing’s gone wrong, and nothing will. But when I woke early this morning I had an idea. I realized that if I had to come all the way down here to photograph Charlie and then go all the way back to London to develop and print the film it would take up a lot of time. And timing is important. Now tomorrow’s Sunday—so I can take a photograph first thing of Charlie with a Sunday paper and have the prints off to a press agency the same day.”
“How can you? There’s no postal collection on Sundays.” Her voice was a little sharp. She felt that Horace was taking a little too much for granted in making arrangements which concerned her and her household without consulting her first.
“Oh, I know that, dear Cynthia. I shall motor to Oxford, ring the agency and tell them that the prints are being put on a train. Don’t worry, I’ve already checked that there is a train. That means—with luck—we shall catch the Monday papers. I’ve brought all my dark room stuff. All I need is a little attic to work in.”
“Well, that’s no problem. There are dozens to choose from. And then you’ll go back to London from Oxford, I imagine.”
Horace hesitated for a moment. He had sensed and indeed had expected that she would be a little unsettled by his unexpected arrival, but it was a risk he had decided to take because he saw it as a small test of the bond between them.
Shaking his head gently, he said, “No, my dear Cynthia. And I do beg of you to be patient with me while I explain. I have given this matter great thought because I know how much its success means to you. If I don’t have to go back to London between photographs it means that we can send off four or five over the days instead of just two or three—and that means we build up bigger publicity. Don’t you agree?”
“Well . . .” Lady Cynthia prodded the cold skin which had formed on the top of her coffee with a spoon. “Well. . . yes, yes, I suppose I do.”
“I knew you would. I just knew it. The more we feed the press the better. And besides, my dear, it might happen that circumstances could arise when you really needed me—say, for instance, Charlie got out and was loose around the house? Or you had some new idea you wanted to discuss. We can’t trust the telephone, you know. Not these days. Just one crossed line and somebody overhearing our talk . . . Oh, dear, can you imagine? I really do think that I should be here with you to give you all the help and advice I can. Remember, you conceived this brilliant idea of the mass rally for a great cause. It would break my heart if anything went wrong. I should blame myself bitterly for not having seen that we should be together in order to maintain security and secrecy. My respect and affection for you and my appreciation of the nobility of feeling which prompted this desire in you to save Charlie know no bounds. . .”
He stood, his eyes on her, warm with admiration, and knew that his sudden impulse had been right, that he must have a positive sign of
real hope from her. All his life he had been inclined to rush things and regret it, but with Cynthia the circumstances were different. He didn’t want to get involved in this Charlie business unless it would give him what he wanted. He waited now anxiously for her reaction. It came slowly.
Letting the coffee spoon drop into her cup, Lady Cynthia slowly stubbed out her cheroot in the saucer and rose. She came to him, her long face solemn, framed in the lank fall of her pale hair. Taller than he was by far, she slowly stooped a little, raised her hands and placed them on his cheeks and then kissed him, briefly and dryly on the lips.
She said, smiling happily, “Horace, my dear, darling Horace, you are absolutely right. Absolutely. In this thing we must be together, close together. One heart, one mind and one resolve. You were absolutely right to come. You have a kind and generous heart, but more than that you are a man of initiative and understanding. Bless you, my dear.”
For a moment Horace thought that she was going to kiss him again, but she contented herself with giving him a slight caress on the cheek with one hand and then went back to the table to help herself to another cheroot.
Horace, as he went outside to unpack his dark room paraphernalia, trod on clouds. By God, he had taken a risk, impulsively, daring all, win or lose, and it had paid off. He was as good as permanently installed at Deanfinch Hall. Touch and go it had seemed for a while, but it had come right for him. Faint heart never won fair lady. Nothing venture, nothing win, and a tip of the hat for bouncy old Charlie who, bored with having syringes stuck into him at Fadledean, had wisely scarpered and made it all possible. In return he really would do a good job on the photographs. At last life was going to give him a real reward for all the years of bad luck and failed ventures . . . Horace Simbath, Esquire, Deanfinch Hall, Deanfinch, Wilts.
* * * *
On Monday morning all the papers carried the press agency photographs of Charlie and the story was given new vigour and even wider coverage.
Jean read the story in her paper over breakfast. There were two photographs of Charlie. One showed him squatting on a pile of straw, the background taken up by the side of a packing case. There was a big, happy grin all over his great face and he was holding—though upside down—a copy of a Sunday newspaper with its front page well displayed. The second one had Charlie standing, holding the paper so that it covered the lower part of his body like a pinafore with the back and front page spread wide. He had his head raised, looking towards the camera, and his big lips were drawn back over his teeth, his mouth wide open as though he was roaring with laughter. In the body of the printed story was also a blown-up facsimile of a note which had accompanied the photographs. Printed in ill-formed capitals, it read:
DEAR PEOPLE—THIS IS TO SHOW YOU THAT I AM ALIVE AND HAPPY AND STAYING WITH GOOD FRIENDS WHO FEED ME WELL AND SAY THAT IF I AM GOOD I WONT EVER HAVE TO GO BACK TO THAT HORRIBLE FADLEDEAN PLACE. I WILL WRITE AND SEND SOME MORE PHOTOS SOON. LOVE CHARLIE.
As she finished reading the story Rimster came in and joined her at the table.
She said, “You’ve seen the paper?”
“Yes. And I’ve just had a call from Grandison. The agency had a phone call yesterday afternoon from a man. He told them what he was sending and asked them to have a man collect it at Paddington Station from an Oxford train. The guard had all the stuff and handed it over. He said it was given to him, with a substantial tip, by a well-dressed, plump shortish man with a moustache and a little goatee beard. He couldn’t remember much else about him. Is there any doubt that it is Charlie?”
Jean shook her head. “None.” She pointed to the picture on the front page. “You can see the big nick in Charlie’s left ear clearly. What does it all mean?”
“Well, first of all that someone’s got Charlie. Grandison has people working on that already. There may be prints on the writing paper or on the photographs from developing and printing. They’ll get anything they can from the guard, but my guess is that the beard and moustache were probably false.”
“And whoever’s got him is against giving him up to go back to Fadledean?”
“Sure. This publicity is just the beginning.” He frowned. “But the real problem—and they can’t know it—is that they could hold him too long for their own safety. Today’s the fifth of July—by the ninth he could just possibly be infective. That’s in five days’ time, counting today. What’s your reaction to that?”
“That it mustn’t be allowed to happen. There’s only one way to stop him, isn’t there? The truth.”
Rimster pursed his lips and shook his head. “They won’t do that yet. Not from what Grandison told me. Shove it out over radio and television and in the press that all this time Charlie has been developing into a potential plague carrier . . . that that’s what the Fadledean studies in animal behaviour really were? There’s not a politician or government official who would put a light to that fuse until the very last moment.”
“Then why not name some other disease or fever he may be incubating. There are plenty that wouldn’t scare people as plague would, but it would make them turn Charlie over.”
“Just as bad. If it were something not too serious like that why haven’t the public already been told? There’d be a big back-lash just the same. The animal lovers and all the fringe organizations now would be up in arms against the use of Charlie. I tell you politicians and government officials are scared stiff of any kind of half-truth about him. The Opposition in Parliament would have a field day. People would be quick now to realize that the half-truth was only hiding a real truth, a dangerous truth, and one that could destroy reputations and political careers—and even bring down the Government.”
“I don’t care. It should be faced,” said Jean forcibly. Rimster said quietly, “You wouldn’t escape, you know.”
“Then I would have to live with it. What does your Grandison say?”
“Probably what you’re saying. But even he can’t twist the arm of a Prime Minister—not this one, anyway, who has a genius for making pompous excuses rather than hard, unpleasant decisions.”
“So?”
“So—now it’s a police and C.I.D. job, plus Grandison and our people. Somebody’s got Charlie. Clearly, I’d say, in the South of England. There’ll be more photos and messages—and with them at some time a slip-up or clue which will betray them. I’ll bet you that no truth or half-truth will be issued until the last moment if they don’t find Charlie. I can hear it now, coming from the Prime Minister or some other Minister on television and radio . . . I am speaking to you tonight because, through a combination of circumstances chief of which are the misguided and erroneous good intentions of certain individuals, a situation of grave potential danger to the people of this country has risen. Time is short and swift action is imperative to combat the threat which hangs over us all . . . Oh, it’ll sound good, and it will work only if the people holding Charlie believe it. But whatever happens, heads will roll. You know what I’ve done and been—the name of that game frankly was Murder. The name of this game is Chemical and Biological Warfare—but both games are the same.”
Rimster poured himself some coffee and lit a cigarette. As he did so Jean reached out to his still open case and helped herself. He lit it for her. She said, “How did I ever get into this? A bright girl at school, science and biology. Scholarship to university. Research, wanting to do something good for mankind, fighting disease, and then one day I find myself at Fadledean . . .”
Rimster, with a shrug of his shoulders as he closed his cigarette case, said quietly, “Snap.”
* * * *
Horace Simbath, after a photographic session with Charlie, sat on the sunny terrace with Lady Cynthia having a glass of sherry before lunch. A pile of daily newspapers lay on the wrought-iron garden table. He had done well and dear Cynthia was delighted with him. She had particularly liked his idea of wearing a false moustache and beard and had been almost girlishly excited when he had insisted that she should write the first Charlie letter. Sit
ting across the table from him she was engaged now in writing the second—which would be posted off with the new photographs later in the day—at his dictation. This time, at his suggestion, she was using a different coloured ink and writing on different paper, and accepting the form of his dictation without question. His influence over her was fast blossoming. With every hour that passed a new link was forged between them. Blinking his eyes from the sun glitter on the lake below he spoke slowly, watching her lean, bony fingers moving the pen. No beauty, his dear Cynthia, but who wanted beauty? Not he at his age. Security . . . blissful security today I had raw onions and bananas for breakfast and then a jolly good romp with my friends. They tell me they have great plans for making sure I don’t go back to Fadledean. But until I know them I can’t tell you about them. However, they have promised that in my next letter I shall be able to tell you . . .” Breaking off for a moment to refill his sherry glass, Horace went on to Lady Cynthia, “The heart and strength of all good publicity, my dear Cynthia, is to create suspense, to tickle the fancy with intriguing hints. Curiosity, an itch to know, is the only one that you can’t get rid of by scratching.”
Lady Cynthia looked at him, smiling, her eyes bright with admiration. “Oh, Horace—what a joy that I have you to help me with all this. You’re a man in a million.”
Horace gave a little sigh of thanks and nodded his head in agreement. He said, “This afternoon I shall drive down to Southampton and post the stuff. It’ll miss the morning papers but all the evening papers and radio and television will have it. Then, let me see, in the next lot of photos we must hit the dailies with the message about the great rally. Which means . . .” He leaned back, sipping his sherry and thinking, “. . . that I must take fresh photos tomorrow morning and then I’ll drive up to London with them and deliver them to the agency by hand.”
The Doomsday Carrier Page 19