by John Brunner
“I see.” The pathologist passed the papers back. “And are these compounds all you expected them to be?”
“All, and more. The police gave us copies of the formulae that were found in Tileman’s car, and we had samples made up for test purposes. I’ve already seen the euphoric work a minor miracle with a patient suffering from severe depression, and I think the hallucinogen is going to break a block in an acute ochlophobia that’s been giving me trouble for months. When I think we could have had these drugs four years ago, I get furious!”
Reggie Flanceau poured himself a fresh glass of gin. There was an oppressive silence in the room. He broke it by saying, “The bastard. The bastard!”
“Who?” Miriam looked up.
“Tileman, of course! He swore blind there was no danger in the stuff he was concocting, and then it turns out he died of it.”
“So did Sammy Logan, apparently,” Miriam said after a pause.
“I don’t care about him,” Reggie said. “But when I think of what might have happened to us…!”
He shuddered and gulped at his drink.
Bitchy sang:
“He had a private session and there came uninvited
An angel with a flaming sword,
And he carved that carcase into itsy-bitsy pieces
And the owner went to his reward.”
“So what are you going to do now, Polly?” Courcy asked.
Polly gave a shrug. “I suppose go home to Scotland. I had a letter from mother saying father’s changed his mind about Sammy’s money, so it’ll mean they never need to worry again, at least… But I wish it didn’t have to happen this way!” She added in a rush, “I wish I’d known him as well as you did, Courcy! In spite of what I was told about him, he must have been an awfully nice person—to make people like you care about him so much!”
Barnaby Skelton rose to greet his visitor with his usual professional smile. He said, “Good morning! I understand you wish to see me in connection with Barsamby Loans.”
“That’s right,” said the visitor. “Specifically, in connection with the loan you made to Dramagic Limited. I’m from the Inland Revenue. My card.”
The smile vanished from Skelton’s face.
Bitchy sang:
“They poured him in his coffin like a dollop of jelly,
Nailed the lid down over his face,
And there he may lie until hell freezes over
And the world is a cleaner place!”
Contentedly, Laird grinned at the girls across the table. “It all seems to be coming out right,” he said. “According to Lewis we shan’t have anything further to worry about. Shannon’s tested the drugs, and they do exactly what I said they did in my statement, and they’re going to sort things out with the French police, and they’re promising to have the inquest verdict on Sammy amended, so that means Bitchy has been proved right and after that the Lizzie Borden club certainly isn’t going to fire its star performer.”
“What are you going to do about Dagmar, though?” Courcy asked. “She seems to have come out worst from all this—I mean, apart from poor Sammy.”
“No, I haven’t,” Dagmar said positively. “I’m free of Dr Tileman, and that’s all that matters to me.”
“Yes, but you’ve been awfully dependent on him ever since you came to England,” Courcy persisted. “I mean, it sounds as if you’ve hardly had a chance to lead a life of your own at all.”
“Yes, that is true,” Dagmar admitted. “I have hardly seen this country, and I have been here four years.”
“And you haven’t got a job, or any money, or anything,” Courcy concluded. “Laird, you’re going to do something about that, aren’t you?”
Laird sipped his wine. “Sure I am. There are a lot of places in England I promised myself I’d go see when I came back—Stonehenge, and Wells, and Bath, and all the rest of it. So if Dagmar would like to ride along… And then later, if I find I’m bored with doing nothing and decide to set up some sort of business—well, you’re a hell of a good secretary, Liebchen.”
“That sounds marvellous!” Courcy exclaimed. “I love the West Country. Er—you wouldn’t want somebody to play gooseberry, would you?”
Polly looked from her to Laird and back in amazement, shaking her head. She said, “I suppose I ought to think that’s terrible, oughtn’t I? But I don’t know what to think any longer. I literally don’t know.”
She stared down at the bubbles dying in her glass.
“Out there I thought I saw hell. But it was…”
“It was just a lot of gaudy shadows cast on a rock by a burning car,” said Laird.
Bitchy pushed back the piano stool and murmured to the mike, “All over London the swingers are hip that Tileman’s taken his final trip. Did he go up or did he go down? That’s the problem that’s bugging this swinging town. But carry on swinging—there isn’t any doubt that sooner or later you’ll all find out.”