He almost gasped. ‘What do you mean about my life when I allow it to be controlled?’
‘You’re a rebel,’ she drawled, ‘and rebels are never really contented people. But when you are controlled by your bosses, by your women, by your job and by your enemies then you are at your best.’
‘You’re cheating,’ he laughed. ‘That’s not original. It’s a near quote from . . .’ And then he flushed.
‘From what?’ she persisted.
He lifted his glass. ‘To Deirdre and all her nonsense.’
‘From what, David? I’m serious.’
He froze. The piece had almost made him sick. A double column in a Sunday feature written several years ago when they had done a series about ‘The Anatomy of Courage’ and used some of his Congo/Katanga exploits. A lot of balls, really, and twisted to hell out of focus.
‘Maybe,’ snapped Deirdre, ‘but there must be a bit of the coward in you as well because you weren’t brave enough to tell me.’
‘You knew.’ He hesitated. ‘And, incidentally, why did you remember all that guff about courage?’
‘Because,’ she said slowly, ‘that was about the time my parents began to break up and I felt unwanted. I knew that only guts would see me through and the articles helped.’
‘But you remembered my name.’
‘Sure,’ she nodded. ‘It is very tidy, like everything about you. In fact I called my dog after you.’
‘And where is he now? I’d like to meet a dog with the same name. It could be fun for us both.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Deirdre briefly. ‘A bus in Princes Street.’
They looked at one another in desperation. And then: ‘I’m sorry, David, but it isn’t an omen. I can see in your eyes I’ve upset you.’
He shook his head. ‘You haven’t. Not really. But that damn Celt in me sometimes gets superstitious and I don’t like unexpected talk about death.’
‘You mean you get scared?’
He tried again. ‘What sort of dog was he?’
‘A boxer. A lovable big snuffling thing which loved chocolate and bones.’
‘Spoiled.’
‘Naturally,’ she said briefly. ‘He was my friend and I spoil all my friends. But do you know something?’ she added unexpectedly. ‘I don’t really like this trout. Could I change it for something else?’
He nodded to the waiter. ‘Such as what?’
‘Melon. One large slice. With cinnamon. And castor sugar. You see, David, I’m not really sophisticated. And smoked trout isn’t really all that wonderful, is it?’
‘Maybe you’re excited.’
She tossed her hair back from her eyes. ‘Now, be honest. If this was to have been your last meal on earth what would you have ordered for yourself?’ And then she flushed to the roots of her hair. ‘I’m sorry, David, but don’t go all superstitious. For God’s sake believe me. The words just slipped out.’
‘But why did they slip out?’ he asked gently, ‘and I’m not bothered, anyhow. No matter how good one day may ever be, it’s best to remember that it’s only one more day nearer the hearse.’
‘What an awful thing to say!’ she gasped.
‘Well, it’s true,’ he snapped. ‘Life ends. Each day edges you nearer to death.’
‘And doesn’t that idea frighten you?’
‘Why should it?’ he said brusquely. ‘But better a decent bullet than a year with doctors.’
‘So!’ she drawled, ‘there is a suicidal bit about you. I believe that you are really a bit frightened to live. Maybe that’s why you live the way you do.’
‘Tell me more about what a woman must have to keep me,’ said Grant restlessly. ‘This conversation’s got out of hand.’
She lit a cigarette. ‘I love smoking during dinner. Makes me feel wicked and worldly. And there’s nothing much more to say. She must be experienced and naughty; she must be wise and able at times to be foolish if it pleases you; she must be beautiful, but with an ugly side to her nature in case she makes you too happy; and she must be able to wear good clothes.’
‘And walk properly across a hotel foyer.’
‘And be able to carry things off if her stocking ladders at a reception,’ said Deirdre.
‘Not forgetting that she must also have perfect ash-blonde hair and look wonderful even when it is piling over the pillows in the morning and her eyes are still full of sleep.’
‘And do you think I can do all that?’ asked Deirdre. She was suddenly serious and Grant sensed that she wanted him.
He touched her hand as he leaned across the table and his voice made her eyes glow with excitement. ‘One word only,’ he said. ‘Deirdre. That’s the answer. Deirdre of the white hair and green eyes. Deirdre of the lovely breasts and slim limbs. Deirdre who knows how to love and laugh even with death round the corner.’
A page was crossing towards their table.
‘Dr. Grant and Miss Carpenter?’
‘Correct.’
‘Package, special messenger, sir.’ He held out a form. ‘Sign, please.’
‘Well,’ said Deirdre, ‘do we open it or not?’
He glanced at the clock. Paris had made good time. ‘We open,’ he said briefly, and explained Juin’s electronic bug, the most up-to-date method of shadowing a man known to science. ‘But then home,’ he ended. ‘And home knowing that three monitors will be keeping an eye on us. In fact that we’re going to be safe as anyone else in the city.’
He frowned slightly. The box was on the shallow side. A leather container with hinging lid. Just about the size he used for carrying evening cuff-links and studs.
Deirdre leaned forward curiously. But as he lifted the lid she went pale to the lips.
A toe was lying on cellophane. Wisps of dried blood clung around the skin and the gleam of bone shone through the transparent wrappings. Skin edges had been clean cut and the joint ligaments sectioned by an expert.
There was a small card beside it: To show what happens when a man refuses to talk.
Grant almost ran from the dining-room, but the office staff could give no information. The package had been handed in by special G.P.O. messenger.
‘Did you tell the police?’ asked Deirdre.
He shook his head. There were unwritten rules in this sort of game and from now on it would be a solo duel between SATAN and themselves. ‘But I’ll tell you something,’ he added. ‘I don’t believe that this was taken from your father. The nail is too young. The skin looks different, and from what I saw of the bone I think it belonged to someone in the later teens.’
‘Then where did it come from?’ asked Deirdre desperately. She was still pale and for a moment Grant had thought she would be sick. But her nerve was recovering and the tremor had disappeared from her fingers.
‘From some hospital,’ said Grant. ‘The skin has been cleanly cut. And that would have been impossible with a struggling man. So relax. This is simply Zero’s way of telling us that he knows where we are and that he is going into action shortly.’
The girl shuddered. The toe had seemed normal enough to her and hospitals didn’t cut off bits of people unless there was something wrong.
Grant shrugged his shoulders. Only time would tell. He would have a good look at it later and then send it to Juin for another opinion. Meanwhile they could only wait. Wait for the electronic bug which would at least guarantee that the Department knew where they were.
‘But what sort of a mind would do a thing like that?’ said Deirdre slowly. ‘Is the man mad?’
‘Far from it.’ Grant’s thoughts were again racing ahead, but with one part of his brain he explained how Zero was only the present bossman of an organisation which went back for more than a hundred years; how it operated for the private gain of powerful men who worked outside the law and won scoops by discovering state or scientific secrets which could be turned into hard cash in the opposition markets. ‘Zero isn’t mad,’ he ended. ‘But he is a diamond-hard big-business man who stops at nothing. And,’ he ad
ded softly, ‘whatever front he cares to use is always above suspicion. He could never be pulled down by straightforward means.’
He re-wrapped the package and slipped it into his pocket. And as he lifted his coffee-cup another man walked to their table. As he shook hands with Grant he palmed across a tiny packet no larger than a walnut. ‘No need to open,’ he smiled. ‘The monitors will keep tabs on you as from now.’ With a brief nod to Deirdre he strolled to a nearby table and sat down.
Grant smiled. The Department would never have used a special messenger. He had been crazy to have thought even for a moment that it was possible. ‘Let’s go,’ he said briefly. He swiftly signed his bill and followed close on Deirdre’s heels to the foyer downstairs. The Department car was waiting in the darkness outside.
The girl looked at him as they stood for a moment in the lights. ‘Could it happen here?’ she asked.
Grant’s face was a mask. It could happen anywhere. He gripped her by the elbow. ‘Not likely. But we won’t linger. You first.’ Moving with deceptive speed, he cut across the pavement. There was a bell-hop on either side of them and he guessed that for a few seconds at least they would be safe. And then he forced himself to accept the obvious. Zero didn’t send out warnings for fun. There would be a follow-up once he had conditioned them into doing what he wanted.
The car was travelling like a blue streak westwards but taking the long way round and using back streets and a detour through the park while Grant checked that they were not being followed. And then one more quick dive across the pavement to his flat. The place was almost deserted, but his housekeeper had kept lights on both in the hall and drawing-room, and he sighed with satisfaction as he turned the key in a smoothly moving lock.
Deirdre was still pale, and her lips were cold as she kissed him. ‘God, David, but I’m glad to be here! That thing rattled me badly. For a minute I was scared sick.’
He poured a drink and smiled. ‘That is what it was meant to do.’
‘But what is going to happen next?’ The girl’s voice was edged with fear.
Grant shook his head. ‘No idea. But we want to flush him out. And it looks as if we’re going to manage.’
The phone bell clanged and he lifted the receiver. ‘Yes.’
‘Just a word to say that I’m glad you got home safely.’
Even Deirdre could hear every syllable and Grant knew that Zero had scored again. The girl was trembling and a splash of Ron Bacardi had slopped over her frock. He squeezed her arm, and then: ‘We’ll be waiting for you,’ he said.
There was a throaty chuckle from the other end of the line and a soft click as it suddenly went dead.
‘You see, honey,’ said Grant quietly, ‘it is a war of nerves. Maybe to panic us into doing something silly. Because remember that Zero has no idea how much we know. It might be that he thinks we can tell him plenty. The man wants us alive. But he wants us scared.’
‘Then he’s managing,’ said Deirdre grimly. ‘But what do we do?’
Grant eased her on to his knee and dabbed the stain over her breast. ‘It is like the war,’ he said at last. ‘Waiting was always the worst bit. You’ll be all right once we get into action.’
She clenched her fists. ‘Anything would be better than this.’
‘Then let’s study the toe,’ said Grant. ‘Remember? You had reasons why it might not have been done in hospital.’
He again unwrapped the tissue and opened the box, but this time he lifted out the toe and went over every millimetre with an eye which missed nothing. The thing could have come from almost any adult. There was no sign of disease. But the skin edges had been clean cut, except for a ragged tear along part of one side. And the bone was healthy. At least all that he could see. ‘Maybe you are right,’ he said at last. ‘But I still say it didn’t belong to your father. And remember that Zero has no shortage of contacts. One could get a thing like this from any undertaker.’
He fumbled in his breast pocket and opened a tiny box. ‘Swallow this,’ he said curtly. ‘A mild sleeping pill. And it will help simmer you down.’
She swallowed the capsule. ‘Dad wasn’t so very brave, really, David. He’s like all the rest of us. He would crack if anybody started to cut him up.’
‘Then don’t think about it,’ snapped Grant. ‘Tomorrow will be another day. Finish your drink and then we’ll go to bed.’
‘But not alone,’ she whispered. ‘I want to stay with you.’
He switched off the light and took her to the guest room. ‘Then we’ll kip down here. Together.’
The bed was a 1780 Hepplewhite four-poster with drapings embroidered at the turn of the century. The mixture of sleeping pill with rum was taking effect and the girl was swaying unsteadily on her feet. ‘Help me, David,’ she whispered, and flopped on to the mattress. ‘But be careful with my nylons. They are very fragile.’ She eased up her skirt, but her fingers refused to unclip her suspenders and she looked at him dreamily. ‘I won’t work, David. Do them for me.’
Five minutes later she was deeply asleep and Grant settled down to protect his rear. The upper panel of the lintel above the bedroom door hinged open as he pressed a clip, almost invisible against the paint, and he reached up into the vertical cavity which had been exposed. A roller shutter of narrow bullet-proof steel strips dropped down as he pulled at a handle on either side. The roller curtain padlocked on to a ring on the floor which hinged upwards at a touch. And then he turned to the windows. With Zero anything was possible and once again he thanked the foresight which had made him fit the windows as well with bullet-proof shutters impossible for even the most expert cracksman to open from the outside. And then in a built-in cupboard he switched on a pump which operated a forced ventilation system. The air was filtered through a series of chemicals arranged by Professor Juin and guaranteed to remove any known poison, tear or hypnotic gas likely to lie within the scope of any average opposition.
He lifted the phone. The Admiral was going to remain in London until ‘something broke’. ‘Grant speaking, sir. Just to report that we’ve collected a toe said to belong to Carpenter. Delivered with Zero’s best wishes. Would you care to send someone round to my flat and collect. I’d rather like to know if it could belong to someone else. The pathologists can date it to a few years. Worth looking at, anyhow.’
The old man sounded irritable and Grant could hardly blame him. Radio discussion of PENTER 15 had done little to reassure public opinion and Edinburgh had been put in quarantine. No woman was now allowed to enter the city and some panic measure by the Ministry of Health had gone the whole hog and refused to allow anyone out of it either. Now that the secret was public property, government had nothing to lose and everything to gain by ensuring that no possible victim was allowed to mix with other people until the medical authorities had stated that no harm could come of it. But the doctors had been afraid to take decisions about a drug they knew literally nothing about.
Five or six small burghs had also claimed a slight drop in their own local birth-rates, and although they had been told that these were not statistically significant, it had been enough to generate an almost national epidemic of fear.
London was particularly vulnerable to water contamination and already there had been one mass demonstration in Trafalgar Square.
‘Yes, sir,’ Grant continued, ‘I think he’ll move. The toe is just a gimmick to worry Deirdre. But there is just a chance that he has been torturing Carpenter. And I’d like to know.’
He listened carefully, and then: ‘I’ll have it ready for you in half an hour, sir. And if you get any information about it tonight I’d be grateful if someone would give me a ring.’
He hung up and then relaxed. Nothing more could be done. The Department would collect the package at twenty-three hours precisely. And then bed. Bed beside the lovely sleeping form of Deirdre. The girl was deeply breathing, an arm limp across the bedclothes, and with her long fine hair curling around lips which seemed to part in a half-smile.
&
nbsp; He switched on the television. An American scientist was being interviewed in Washington. PENTER 15 could be either the salvation or the end of mankind. Properly used it would be a blessing. Directed as a long-term cold-war weapon it might easily alter the world balance of power.
It was the same old story.
He turned to BBC 2. A panel of biologists were arguing about the feasibility of producing some neutralising agent, and steam radio was just as bad. PENTER 15 was monopolising the air on almost every channel.
Time had seldom passed so slowly, but at last he heard the noise of a car draw up outside. Eleven o’clock. Given luck he would know more about the toe within the hour. The Department could move fast and it was a simple matter for a trained pathologist to age the bone and say why it had been removed.
Minutes later he re-locked the roller shutter across his doorway and undressed. But he still slept with his Smith and Wesson magnum beside his pillow, and as he curled into bed Deirdre slowly rolled round on her side. Her hand snuggled across his ribs and she half whispered, ‘Good night’.
Chapter Fourteen – ‘You may have a last cigarette.’
Grant wakened to find Deirdre in her house-coat standing by his side. ‘Can I bring you bed tea?’
He reached almost automatically for his Lektronic razor. ‘With lemon and plenty of sugar. But here’s a news flash. Got a phone call around midnight to say that the toe came from a woman about twenty who had been dead for at least three days.’
‘So it was bluff.’
Live, Love, and Cry Page 17