Hartinger's Mouse (Commander Shaw Book 12)

by Philip McCutchan

  I nodded. He asked, “Bitters?” He was taking it for granted I’d have a gin. I said, “Please. But can we make it a quick one, sir? I’ve something to show you.”

  “By all means. You’ve come to work, of course. Where’s this thing you want to show me?”

  I said, “I haven’t it with me. It’s back along the road to Horndean. It’s a body.”

  “Body, eh?” He stared, opening sea-blue eyes wide, but made no further comment. He seemed a decent old stick, and not so old come to that. Late forties.

  “It’s in a car,” I told him. “I’d rather like to get to it before anyone else does. Especially the police.”

  “Well, I’m your man,” he said, beating around no bushes. “Where security’s involved, you can’t be too careful — no need to tell me.” He had already poured the gins, and we knocked them back fast and then went out to the Jag. In the hall Palfry called out to someone, probably his wife, that he was going out. We lost no time and I used the short ride to let him into some selected secrets. When we reached the Rover nothing had been disturbed. There was a little more oozing blood, that was all.

  Palfry climbed out of the Jag after I’d gone across, and looked down at the face of my late tail. He studied that face from all angles and then shook his head.

  “You don’t know him?” I asked.

  “I certainly don’t know him. He could have been one of the passengers on that flight, though. I’ve a feeling I’ve seen the face somewhere, and it’s as likely to have been in the aircraft as anywhere else.” Palfry backed out from the Rover and stood in the road looking thoughtful and rubbing the side of a bulbous nose. “I wouldn’t swear to it, Shaw, but I believe he was aboard the flight. Can’t say more than that. It’s not all that easy to recognize a face in that state, unless it’s one you know well.”

  “Quite.”

  “Well? What do we do now? I’m in your hands, Shaw.”

  I said, “We leave this lot just as it is and go back and have another gin. I rather feel like one.”

  “Who doesn’t? But we can’t just leave — that. What about the police?”

  “I’d much rather they didn’t find me here, sir. I don’t want to come into the shooting. The police ask too many awkward questions and I’d find my job very seriously hampered.”

  “I don’t like this,” Palfry said with a hint of coolness. “Can’t risk running counter to the law, y’know.”

  I said, “Security’s involved, as you know.”

  “Yes, there is that, of course. Damn.” He seemed irresolute, but only for a moment. He squared his shoulders vigorously. “Well, as I said, I’m in your hands. I’ll have to trust you, Shaw. I dare say this’ll get into police hands quickly enough without our making a report. And that being decided, I suggest we get to hell away from here before we’re seen!”

  I smiled gratefully and said, “Thank you, sir.” I was delighted I had a man of quick decision to deal with. We got back in the Jag and drove to the admiral’s house again, but, as in the case of Jane Airdrie, I drew a blank. Palfry didn’t know any of his erstwhile travelling companions and he himself had not come out with the skin symptoms. Like Jane Airdrie, he couldn’t recall which if any of the passengers he had been in physical contact with, and in fact disclaimed any intentional contact — any real proximity to the other passengers had been simply by way of brushing past or when in the embarkation and disembarkation queues.

  I asked him who he had sat next to.

  “A somewhat scruffy little boy,” he said, “one of a family of five Americans ‘doing Europe’.”

  “How scruffy?” I asked.

  “Very. But perfectly healthy. No scabs and no skin off anywhere that I could see. Sorry I can’t help you, Shaw.”

  I had to be content with that. I drove back to London. It was getting latish now. I went back the way I had come, past the turning where the Rover had been shot up. There were police around, and an ambulance. A motor-cycle policeman waved me on impatiently as I slowed for a bit of what he would be taking as plain ordinary rubbernecking. He just didn’t know what he was missing, not that I could have told him much. I hadn’t even been able to get that Renault’s registration number. I drove back fast into London thereafter, feeling I’d wasted a good deal of my time; but next morning things started to jell and I realized I hadn’t wasted that July evening after all.

  3

  I HAD a look at the newspapers when they came through my letter-box. The first thing I noticed was a report to the effect that so far there had been no fresh incidence of the skin-loss symptoms notified by the doctors and that in fact many of the current sufferers were already finding their irritation leaving them; which accorded with my own experience. Oddly, however, there was no sign of any start in the process of new skin growth. But this was not what really interested me that morning. What did interest me was that a body had been found in a Rover, shot up in a side road between Horndean and Rowlands Castle in Hampshire; and that this body had been identified — this part was in the Late News — as that of a man who had failed to turn up at a dinner given in his honour by the Royal College of Physicians, whose Fellows and Members he was to have addressed afterwards. This man was an American who had recently arrived in London from New York, his name was Dr Ewart Hartinger, and he was one of the top medical brass belonging to the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration.

  And that, coupled with the fact he’d been tailing me, and had been knocked off in the process, was very interesting indeed.

  I did a little digging that morning, getting into the background of Dr Hartinger. I got it largely from Fleet Street. Hartinger had been a brilliant man in his line and he’d been in aeromedics since before the start of the U.S. moon probe programme. At the time he had come over to Britain he had been especially interested in the work of the NASA quarantine station at Houston, Texas, which had gone into business around a couple of years before the first American moon landing and even in those days had begun operations on a limited scale. The idea was to quarantine the astronauts on their return from their lunar explorations and carry out, at the Lunar Receiving Laboratory at NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center, all manner of tests on the men and their lunar samples during a 30-day period of quarantine.

  That was interesting too.

  Quarantine, possible sickness, skin loss and that yellow dust … Dr Ewart Hartinger, double tails and sudden messy death. Sure, they said there were no organisms on the moon, but you couldn’t really escape the link.

  *

  “Whether you can escape it or not,” Max said, “it eludes me. Not the actual link, of course — I see that, but I’d say it’s highly tenuous all the same. Hartinger wouldn’t have risked bringing contamination out with him. He wouldn’t have been allowed to anyway. They wouldn’t slip up on the medical screening, you can bet on that.” He frowned. “Even assuming he did have some contagion, I don’t see how the rest fits. Why kill Hartinger?”

  I said, “I don’t know — yet. But I’m pretty certain there’s a link somewhere — a link with these skin-loss outbreaks. If there’s not, then there’s a damn sight too much coincidence around.” I hesitated. “When did the last moon landing get back to earth, d’you remember?”

  Max thought. He said, “It was about six weeks ago. The team’ll be out of quarantine by now. I’ll check that.” He pressed a switch in his intercom and spoke to his secretary. “Are you seriously suggesting there may be some sort of moon disease around down here?” he asked me when he’d released the switch.

  I nodded. “I know it sounds fairly extreme, but —”

  “It’s moon madness, Shaw.”

  “It isn’t. It’s only too possible. Never mind the official handouts — they never tell the whole tale! Nobody really knows yet what’s up there on the planets. Or what’s likely to come down from them.”

  “True. But … well, for one thing, what’s the connexion with that yellow dust stuff?” He gave a grim sort of laugh. “You’re
not suggesting that came down from the moon — did a neat little job of atmosphere penetration all on its own and —”

  I broke in, “I’m not suggesting that and you know it. I don’t know what the connexion is, but I’m going to find out, don’t worry.”

  Max was about to say something when his secretary came through on the intercom. The last moon-landing spacecraft had been recovered in a perfect operation in the Caribbean on 28th May and the astronauts had been discharged from the Lunar Receiving Laboratory on 30th June — just over a fortnight ago. They had been fit in every respect and the aeromedics had been pleased. No information had been released yet as to the analysis of samples they had brought back with them, and it was assumed that the tests would still be in progress. I knew of course that they had an exhaustive programme at Houston every time a spacecraft came back and that some of the tests went on for weeks.

  I said, “I’m going out to Houston.”

  “Who said?” Max stared me in the eyes; he never did like his thunder stolen.

  “I said. It’s the obvious next step, isn’t it?” I liked Max and respected him, but I never let him intimidate me, and I think really he respected that in return. “Will you do the necessary?”

  He gave me a grunt and then shrugged. “All right,” he said, grinning now. “I’ll have you on your way tomorrow. It’s nice and sunny down Houston way. Don’t spend too much time making up for the leave you didn’t get, will you?”

  *

  I had a word with Doc Carson in the medical section and told him my theory, so far as I had worked it out. I asked him if moon diseases were likely to be transmittable to earth but he gave me the answer I’d more or less expected.

  “How the hell should I know, man? If I’d been up there I might have been able to help.”

  “You should take a trip sometime, Doc. It’s the medicine of the future. You don’t want to be left behind, do you?”

  He said in rather a grim tone, “Perhaps I won’t be.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “If your ideas turn out to be right, we could all be in for a spot of experience — of something we know damn-all about to date. Just chew that one over!”

  I didn’t need to chew for long. An epidemic that nobody knew how to control was best not thought about, except by the medical profession. So I left Carson to do the worrying on that angle and I went for a telephone and called Jane Airdrie’s number. I wanted to talk to her about Dr Ewart Hartinger — not on the phone, of course, I meant to suggest meeting for lunch — but there was no reply. I put back the handset and drove west, found a meter by the grace of God off Pall Mall and walked up to the Captain’s Cabin where I had a lonely drink, and then tried Jane Airdrie again. There was still no reply. She was probably off somewhere with the boy friend, or maybe she was back on duty. I lunched at Hatchett’s, and then I rang again with the same result as before. I went back to the flat after that and got a grip ready. At 1700 hours Max’s secretary rang through to say she’d booked me a seat on the Pan Am leaving London for Houston at 1400 hours next day and that the NASA people had been warned to expect me. I had a leisurely bath and after that an early drink. I filled in time until 1830 when I tried my air stewardess again and this time there was a reply, a breathless one in a girl’s voice but not Jane Airdrie’s.

  I asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Vanessa Blake. Who did you want?”

  “Miss Airdrie.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s … not in.”

  There was worry in the voice, so I pressed, feeling worried too. I asked, “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “No, I — I don’t, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “She is still in London?”

  Vanessa Blake said, “I don’t know. Who is that?”

  I told her. I said, “I came to see her yesterday.”

  “Oh yes, she said someone had called.”

  “She didn’t say anything else?”

  “No.”

  I said, “You sound worried, Miss Blake. Can I help?”

  “I don’t know. You see, she went out last night and she didn’t come back. She hadn’t turned up when I left for work this morning and she’s not here now. I rang three times during the day and got no answer —”

  “Same here,” I told her. “Have you contacted the airline?”

  “Not yet. I was thinking of it when you rang.”

  I said, “I’ll ring off, then you’d better get on to them. And I think we’d better meet after that, Miss Blake, if they’ve nothing helpful to tell you. Ring me back at this number, will you?” I gave her my number and rang off. Twenty minutes later she called me. The airline had no information; it was not a case of Jane Airdrie having been unexpectedly detailed for a flight or anything like that. She was due out the following afternoon and not before. I said, “For certain reasons I’d sooner not come to your flat, Miss Blake. Care for a blind date?”

  “Is this important?” she asked directly.

  “Very important.”

  “All right, then. Where?”

  I said, “Thank you. Shall we say Gattopardo’s at eight? It’s in St James’s Street.”

  “All right. Thank you.” I told her how to identify me and she rang off. She had a nice voice and I’ve always considered I can visualize a girl from her voice. She would be pretty. She wasn’t; she was dead plain, but nice. She worked in a solicitor’s office in Surrey Street off the Strand, she told me in a rush of words. I ordered a substantial dinner for her, because she didn’t look too well fed. She was around twenty-three, I thought, about the same age as Jane Airdrie. She didn’t talk about her friend until I brought the subject up myself, which was not until a bottle of Montrachet had been brought. Then I asked her about Jane. I asked, “Would you say it’s unusual for her to disappear for a night?”

  She knew what I meant, all right, and her reply was sharp. “It’s not in the least like her, Commander Shaw. I know air stewardesses have a reputation and I dare say some of them earn it. Not Jane. She isn’t like that at all.”

  “But she has men friends?”

  “Well, yes, of course she has, but none of them very serious and I’m quite sure she’s not sleeping with anyone.”

  I said, “If she is, it’s not my concern. I’m worried about her safety. That’s all. By the way, haven’t you another flat-mate, Miss Blake?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Val Thomas. She’s away, gone off with her boss to Amsterdam.” She gave a fleeting smile over her glass. “Strictly business.”

  I nodded, without interest. “Tell me about Miss Airdrie.”

  She said, “Isn’t it time you told me something about yourself first?”

  “Fair enough question. I’m sorry I can’t answer it in full. I can only tell you this: Security’s involved. Just as I told Miss Airdrie yesterday, I have to tell you that nothing of our conversation is ever to be repeated to anyone. I hope you understand, Miss Blake?”

  “I suppose I do, up to a point.” She studied me, guardedly. “You look genuine, anyway.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s happened to Jane, Commander Shaw?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “or I wouldn’t be sitting here. Whatever it is, it could be nasty. Dangerous. And it may have happened as a result of my being seen going to her flat.” So it could, I told myself; but it could be something very different. Miss Jane Airdrie could be an integral part of whatever was going on and she could have vanished from the London scene before the heat was turned on fully. Somehow I doubted it, but it was something I had to bear in mind; so I had to know a little about her background. I got it from Vanessa Blake without too much difficulty. Jane Airdrie was the only child of a retired colonel living in Bournemouth; her mother had died some years before and there was a stepmother ten years older than Jane herself. She went home quite often, but she hadn’t gone home this time.

  “How do you know?” I asked. “Did you ring?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn
’t have done anyway, not till I knew a little more, but they aren’t there. They’ve flown out to the Canaries for a holiday. They’ve gone for two months and the flat’s let to strangers.”

  “I see. What does Jane do in her spare time?”

  Vanessa laughed. “Catches up on sleep, mostly. We go to a film sometimes. And there’s always the cooking and the chores, of course.”

  “Political affiliations?”

  She laughed again. “Oh, heavens, none! She’s not interested in anything like that, I assure you!”

  “Money? I mean, is she ever short?”

  “Not on airline pay. Colonel Airdrie’s a fairly wealthy man, too.” She didn’t like that question. “What are you suggesting. Commander Shaw?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing specific. We have to explore all possibilities, that’s all. I’d like you just to keep on talking about Jane, Miss Blake. I promise you none of what you say will ever get into any wrong ears.”

  The Montrachet and the excellent food helped; Vanessa Blake talked a lot. I got what I felt was a pretty fair picture of Jane Airdrie and one that I liked as much as I had liked the girl herself. But it was not very much help. It wasn’t going to give any pointers to where Jane was likely to be, though I became more and more convinced that there was no funny business on her part. Which alarmed me more as to her safety. I tried not to pass my alarm on to Vanessa Blake and when I slipped away to make a telephone call I didn’t tell her that call had been to Focal House with a request for a round-the-clock strongarm watch to be put on the flat in Kensington Park Road and on the solicitor’s office in Surrey Street, as well as on Miss Blake’s person whilst in daily transit. And I didn’t see her home; I kept her in Gattopardo’s until Focal House had had the time to send a man round to follow her taxi. I saw her off, then took a taxi home myself. I had a peaceful enough night; no callers, either by telephone or in person. Next morning’s newspapers had quite a lot about that body down in Hampshire, because two of the police officers involved in its discovery had come out with the skin-loss symptoms and one was pretty bad — and this even though there hadn’t been any more of the yellow dust deposits. On account of Hartinger’s work, the pressmen had got around to a little theorizing and there was a suggestion in the air that came pretty close to my own ideas as to the origin of the strange disease — if it was a disease. It seemed that the authorities didn’t like that, because the BBC radio news, which came on while I was having breakfast, announced that there was absolutely no cause for alarm. It sounded a damn sight too cocksure. At 0930 hours Vanessa Blake rang through from her office to say that Jane Airdrie hadn’t turned up at the flat and she was going to ring the police. I said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”