Dimension Of Horror rb-30
Page 6
«There was a telephone call for you, mum.»
«Really? Who from?»
«I’ve no idea, mum. When I found out it was long distance, I passed the phone to the mister.»
«If you don’t know who it was from, surely you can tell me where it was from.»
«From London, mum.»
«London? I don’t know anyone in London. At least, not anymore.»
Mrs. Kelly drew herself up indignantly. «I wouldn’t lie to you, mum.»
«No, no, of course you wouldn’t.» Zoe was perplexed.
The children, freed from their raincoats, clambered up the stairs. Mrs. Kelly, with a minimum of movement, stood aside to let them pass.
From the library, at the opposite end of the entrance hall, came the well-modulated, profoundly civilized voice of «the mister» himself, Reginald Smythe-Evans. «Is that you, dear?»
«Yes. I’m home,» Zoe answered brightly.
«Could you come in here for a moment, old girl?» In his carefully controlled tone there was a trace of tension that only someone who knew him well could have detected.
«Of course.» She hurried to the library door and opened it.
Reginald, behind his massive plain «functionally modern» desk, looked up at her as she entered. He was pale, thin, balding, and had a spotty complexion. He forced a broad toothy grin as he leaned back in his chair, but the illusion of ease and calm was spoiled by the way he pulled nervously at the lapels of his brown tweed suitcoat with his long white fingers. To her surprise, she noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.
«Good Lord, Reggie. What’s the matter?»
«If you’ll sit down, I’ll tell you.» He gestured toward one of the few chairs in the room. (It was, she knew, no more uncomfortable than any of the others.)
She sat down, saying, «The phone call?»
”Yes.»
«What was it?»
«You remember that fellow Richard Blade?»
«Blade?»
«Come, come, old girl. I know you remember him. I daresay there are times when you’re out of sorts with me that you wish you were his wife instead of mine. I’m not a fool, you know.» He paused, frowning. «But be that as it may, it seems something’s happened to him.»
«Happened? Are you trying to tell me he’s dead?»
Reginald waved the suggestion aside with a languid hand. «No, nothing like that. His employer, a chap named Jay, claims your Mr. Blade is sick. Yes, and it seems the only thing can put the fellow to rights is a few words from you. Bleeding romantic, eh what?»
«Reggie, there’s no need to be upset. Whatever there was between Richard Blade and me is over.»
«Nothing but memories, eh? Never mind. I’m not the sort to turn up on the front page of The Sun, a smoking revolver in my hand and my wife and her lover tastefully piled in the background.»
Impulsively she stood up and leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek, whispering, «You do understand me, don’t you?»
«Yes. Quite. Are you going to see Mr. Blade?»
«Not if you say no.»
«I won’t be put in the position of jailer, my dear. You’re old enough to make up your own mind.»
She sat down again, unnerved by the coldness in her husband’s voice. «What’s the phone number of this Jay person?» she asked. «We could ring him back and see how serious this is. Perhaps there’s no real need for me to step in.»
«He wouldn’t give me his phone number, my dear. If he’s Richard Blade’s employer, his phone number is probably secret, like everything else about him. He said he would phone back.»
She searched her memory frantically. Jay? Jay? Suddenly she placed him. J! The funny old man with no name, only an initial. He’d been at her wedding, hovering in the background, always in the background. Had she known J before? Had she seen him after that? She could not remember. The man was so gray, so utterly-perhaps deliberately-forgettable.
When the telephone on the desk rang, it startled her badly. Though she sprang up and reached for it, Reginald was quicker.
«Hello. Reginald Smythe-Evans speaking. Yes, she’s here now.»
He handed her the receiver.
J had briskly walked the few blocks from the Tower of London to the Fenchurch Street Station where now he paused inside the entrance, stepping out of the stream of pedestrian traffic to examine his pocketwatch and get his breath.
He was a little early, though the gathering darkness outside in the street showed nightfall was not far off, overcast blurring the distinction between night and day. By fast train, as J knew, Norwich was only two hours from London. Mrs. Smythe-Evans would be arriving in three minutes, if the British railway system performed with its customary punctuality. He waited, composing himself, until he heard, above the murmur of the crowd, the rumble of the train entering the station, then he went to meet her.
He recognized her instantly when he saw her coming toward him along the platform. The years had been remarkably kind to her; at least at a distance she seemed hardly changed at all from the time he had seen her at her wedding. She was wearing a yellow plastic raincoat, unbuttoned in front to reveal a tasteful tweed pantsuit, and she carried a small green overnight bag.
J frowned. At her side strolled her husband in a similar yellow raincoat, and following him, trotting along hand in hand, came three yellow-raincoat-clad boys. Bringing up the rear, in another yellow raincoat, was a fat, red-faced woman, who could only be their maid, loaded down with luggage. Mrs. Smythe-Evans had brought her whole family.
«Damn and blast,» J muttered, but he hid his consternation behind a set of shiny grinning false teeth as he advanced to welcome her.
«Ah, Mrs. Smythe-Evans!» He shook her hand heartily. «How good of you to come. And this, I take it, is your husband?»
«Yes. J, meet Reginald Smythe-Evans,» she answered brightly.
The men shook hands.
Reginald said stiffly, «Jay? Is that your first name or your last?»
«Neither, old man. It’s only a nickname, but people have been calling me by it for so long I hardly remember any other.» Reginald obviously was not satisfied with this answer, but J turned to the children. «And these, I suppose, are your handsome children?»
«That’s right,» she replied, somewhat nervously, but with a note of pride in her voice. «Here’s Reggie Jr., and Smitty. Shake hands with the gentleman, boys.» Gravely they obeyed. «And this is my youngest, little Dickie.» J found a small hand thrust into his, and a pair of dark eyes peering up at him with a look of disquieting intelligence.
«Pleased to meet you, sir,» said Dickie.
«I hope you don’t mind if I brought my family along,» she continued. «I thought if I was coming in to London anyway, we might as well make an event of it. The boys are out of school, and Reggie has been working so hard he deserves a holiday. It’s all right, isn’t it?» She looked at J doubtfully.
«Of course, of course. No problem,» J assured her. «I’ve booked a room at a hotel for you not far from here, and I’m sure we can expand the reservation to cover your entourage. If you’ll follow me… «He led the way toward the exit, allowing no trace of his inner indignation to show outwardly.
«Perhaps I can be of some assistance with this Blade business,» Reginald offered, falling in step.
«I’m afraid not, old chap,» J said.
«I can come along for moral support, at least,» Reginald persisted.
«Thank you, but I’ll have to say no.» J was firm.
«And why not?» Reginald demanded.
Awkwardly J explained, «It’s a matter of security, classified information, government secrets and all that rot. I don’t make the rules, but I have to play by them. Your wife is cleared-that is, she has a security clearance.»
«And I don’t?» said Reginald.
«That’s right.»
Now Reginald was genuinely surprised. «Why should she have a clearance when I don’t?»
J hesitated a moment, then told him the truth.
«When your wife was, so to speak, intimately associated with our Richard Blade, we looked into her background quite carefully, and we’ve kept track of her, in our quiet way, ever since. Strictly routine, you understand, but fortunate in this case. That’s how we were able to find her so easily. I’m sure you’re a loyal British subject, Mr. Smythe-Evans, at least as loyal as Kim Philby or some other people who have gotten the highest clearances only to turn out to be Russian spies. Obviously this security clearance business doesn’t work. Obviously it only makes us keep tripping over our own feet, but it’s a tradition. You can’t expect us to go against tradition.»
«I suppose not,» Reginald reluctantly agreed, bewildered but clearly impressed by the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere J had managed to project.
«I’ll get you all settled in your hotel,» J said in a businesslike tone. «Then I’ll borrow your wife for a few hours. I hate to inconvenience you, but it’s dreadfully important. You can fend for yourself for awhile, can’t you?»
«I suppose so.»
J clapped him on the back. «There’s a good chap!»
They came out of the station and descended the steps into Hart Street, hunching their shoulders against the chill of early evening.
Chapter 5
The Tower of London had been officially closed for hours. The quaint red-uniformed Yeomen Warders who squired the tourists during the day and served, in their way, as guards had long since left. The only people who remained were the inconspicuous plainclothesmen of MI6A who hovered around the entrance as if waiting for an omnibus that never came.
As J and Zoe trudged across the street, two of the agents came forward into the pale illumination of the streetlamp to meet them.
«Good evening, sir,» said the taller. «Identification, please.»
J handed over his papers.
«And the lady, sir?» the other asked.
«Her name is Zoe Smythe-Evans,» J said.
She showed the man her driver’s license. He frowned, dissatisfied.
«I’ll take full responsibility for her,» J added.
The taller man took J to one side and said softly, «This is highly irregular, sir.»
«I know that.»
The agent shrugged. «Very well, sir. Password?»
«Lotus.»
«Countersign Eaters,» said the man, snapping on his flashlight.
«Follow me, please.»
While his partner remained behind, the tall man led J and Zoe through the deserted Tower Park, among the ancient cannons and leafless trees. There was no fog tonight, and J could see the lights on the opposite bank of the river, and their reflections shimmering in the water like ghostly spears of colored flame. Ahead and above, endless streams of headlights crossed the massive Tower Bridge.
The agent unlocked the Traitor’s Gate and let J and Zoe in, then left them to continue on their own. Zoe exclaimed with surprise when J opened the hidden door. «Amazing! I could have sworn that was a blank wall.»
J chuckled and continued on.
Zoe followed though it was plain she found the long dim damp tunnel and the maze of subbasements highly distasteful.
When they reached the elevator, Zoe pressed the button.
J smiled when the elevator did not come.
«What’s keeping it?» she demanded.
«It doesn’t know you, my dear.»
J pressed with his thumb, and the elevator arrived an instant later.
«How did you do that?» she asked as she stepped inside.
«Magic, my dear. Magic.»
They plunged downward at an alarming speed, then slowed to a stop. «I feel ill,» Zoe said softly, long fingers touching the base of her throat.
The door slid open.
In a brilliantly lighted foyer a man behind an olive drab desk looked up from a magazine he was reading. The man wore a green uniform and was armed with a large pistol in a hip holster. He looked at Zoe and frowned.
«We’re going down, Peters,» said J.
Peters pressed a button on his desk. The elevator door closed. Again they plummeted downward.
Zoe said, «I would rather have gotten off there and taken the stairs.»
J answered, «If you had stepped into that foyer, you would have heard more alarm bells, sirens and whistles than you’d care to hear in a lifetime.»
«Good Lord. You must be guarding something frightfully valuable in there. What is it?»
«The Russians know there’s something in there, but they don’t know what it is. I hope you don’t expect to be better informed than they are.»
The elevator decelerated.
«This will be our little hospital,» J said.
«How convenient.»
The door slid open.
Standing in the hall, waiting, were Lord Leighton and Dr. Leonard Ferguson. Both looked haggard and tense, as if they had not slept in a long time.
When the introductions had been completed, Dr. Ferguson said, «Come along, dear.» The fat little psychiatrist had an oily way with women. Rumor had it, around the project, that he had seduced an awesome number of females, but J had never been able to understand what they saw in the fellow.
Now he was saying, as he waddled along, «You look pale, dear. Are you feeling well?»
«I’m all right, doctor. I was a bit queasy in the lift, but I’m fine now.»
«There’s a good girl.» He patted her arm.
Lord Leighton, hobbling along behind, grunted, «I hope you’ve prepared her for what she’s going to see, J. Yes, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, this could be quite a shock to you. Richard Blade is far from being the man you remember.»
«What exactly is wrong with him?» Now that her husband was not around, she made no attempt to conceal her concern.
«Amnesia, with fits of violence,» the hunchback answered grimly.
«He probably won’t recognize you,» Ferguson put in. «In fact, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, I must warn you that I am very pessimistic about this whole business of bringing you here. It smacks a good deal more of the telly than sound psychiatric procedure. Indeed, I probably would have voted against the idea if I’d been given the opportunity to do so.»
«It’s my idea,» J admitted. «If it doesn’t work, we’ll simply have to think of another one, won’t we?»
«And you think seeing me will bring back his memory?» she asked, puzzled.
«Exactly,» J said with conviction, a conviction he did not feel.
«I’ve had Mr. Blade moved to a new room while we-er-redecorate his old one,» Ferguson said with a touch of ironic humor J always found so annoying. «Here we are.»
They stopped before the closed door of Room 27.
«Are you ready, Mrs. Smythe-Evans?» Ferguson said gently.
She bit her lip and nodded.
Ferguson opened the door.
He hasn’t changed.
That was Zoe’s first impression as she entered the room and diffidently approached the foot of the bed. Richard Blade’s affliction had removed, along with his memory, the facial expression of age, relaxing his muscles, smoothing the lines around his eyes and mouth. For a moment he seemed exactly the big, powerful, yet reserved and gentlemanly fellow he’d been when first they’d met, so many years ago, the man who’d looked like an athlete but had quoted poetry like a Rhodes scholar.
Then she looked again, and felt a chill creep over her. Those dark eyes, which once had been so unnervingly alert, were now dull, unfocused and opaque. And she noticed, with an unpleasant jolt, that he was strapped down to the bed.
Dr. Ferguson spoke to the burly white-clad orderly who stood nearby. «Have you discontinued sedation?»
«Yes, sir.» The man looked worried.
«Good,» Ferguson said thoughtfully. «We want the poor fellow to be able to react if he can.»
«But I’m ready with the tranquilizer if he gets wild.» The orderly indicated a large dart pistol on the dresser.
«Acetylcholine esterase?»
«Yes, sir.»
Ferguson
nodded with satisfaction. «Good. The barbiturate charge we used before was a little slow.»
Zoe continued to stare into Richard Blade’s tanned empty face. «Can he see me?» she whispered.
«Oh, certainly, if he looks at you,» Ferguson assured her.
«Say something to him, Mrs. Smythe-Evans,» J prompted.
She leaned forward over the foot of the bed. «Richard?» she called softly.
He did not respond.
«Richard?» she repeated, louder.
Still he gave no sign.
Ferguson shrugged. «I didn’t think it would work. We might as well leave poor Mr. Blade in peace and… «
«Try again,» J commanded sharply, ignoring the fat little psychiatrist. «Try again, Mrs. Smythe-Evans!»
Her vision blurred with sudden tears. «Please,» she said. «Please. It’s me, Zoe.» She moved to Blade’s bedside and touched his cheek with her fingertips.
«Be careful, miss,» the orderly warned nervously.
«There’s no danger,» Lord Leighton snapped. «Blade’s trussed up like a blooming mummy.»
«He’s a strong one, he is,» said the orderly, still not at all at ease.
«Don’t you remember me?» she pleaded. «Dick? Dick? Can’t you answer me?» Ineffectually she stroked his dark unruly hair.
Then she felt his head turn toward her and it seemed to her, through her tears, that she saw a faint trace of a smile on his lips.
«Look out there, miss,» said the orderly. «He’s moving.»
«Moving?» she cried. «He’s smiling! Can’t you see he’s smiling?»
«We mustn’t give way to wishful thinking, my dear,» Ferguson said, but he had stepped forward and was staring intently at Richard’s features. Leighton and J had also come forward.
«You remember me, Dick,» she said triumphantly. «I know you do! But you must give some sign for the others. Prove it to them!»
Richard Blade’s lips moved.
«Dorset,» he whispered.
«What did he say?» Leighton demanded.
«He said Dorset,» J answered.
She clutched Blade’s shoulders, her fingernails digging into the rough white material of his hospital gown, and said urgently, «You remember Dorset? So do I! Do you remember the cottage, the sea, the cold mornings when I fixed your breakfast? Do you remember how we used to swim together in the surf before dawn? The long walks down those country lanes with all the trees and cows? Do you remember that niche in the cliff top I called ‘Blade’s Snuggery,’ where we made love outdoors and didn’t give a damn?» The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks and dropping from her chin onto his bedcovers. «Do you remember how we used to quote poetry to each other?» She paused, sobbing, unable to speak. The vision she was trying to make Richard remember had overwhelmed her, and everything that had happened in the intervening years seemed unreal and dreamlike.