by John Creasey
“Fair-Fairweather.” It almost choked her.
“Dr. Fairweather? I can tell you that myself, miss. He has been operated on and the operation appears to have been successful. He is as well as can be expected. No further bulletin will be issued until tomorrow. Is that all you require?”
“Yes,” Effie said weakly. She was thinking, Oh, thank God, thank God. “Yes, thank you ever so.”
“Quite all right,” the operator said.
“I don’t know who that was,” the operator confided in a nurse who was passing his office. “It wasn’t Mrs. Fairweather, she’s only just left the hospital. Sounds cut up, though. I wonder if Doc F has a little bit of fluff tucked away somewhere.”
“Telephonists,” sniffed the nurse, and went on.
Scott Hannaford read the Evening Times too, and he reread the story about the attack on Dr. Fairweather at Osbert Jones’s house. Nothing had yet been said in the newspapers, but several reports had made it almost certain that the attack had been on a locum. The name Wilcox made Hannaford very thoughtful.
“That’s the last thing I ever expected,” Hannaford said to himself. “I’ll have to be careful. I wonder if the poor devil will die.”
In Brixton Jail, where he was spending the night before appearing in court the next morning, Fred Wilcox kept tossing and turning on a bed which was quite comfortable. He had seen the newspapers but taken little notice of anything, except the piece which told everyone what he had done. From the moment he had realized that the man he had attacked had not been the bogus doctor his whole world had smashed—his real world, as well as the nightmare one of the past week or so. The horror of what he had done, the fact that his victim was on the danger list, the fact that he would gladly have killed, seemed like a new kind of nightmare. He kept shivering. He felt dreadful, and he felt so lonely. He couldn’t talk to anybody; not talk. There had been a solicitor, and some of the policemen had been kind although some of them obviously thought he ought to be horsewhipped. But he couldn’t talk.
He wanted to talk, desperately, and there was only one person in the world to whom he could.
Effie.
He wanted to tell her that it had been like a cancer in his mind, that nothing he had said or done or tried to do had helped, that he had hated himself as well as the bogus doctor, and that he had hated her in those awful days when his mind seemed to have been twisted by the shock and by his own jealousy. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he couldn’t live without her, that he wanted their child now, now, now; and he longed to talk to her about his dread of what would happen if the victim died.
He was so afraid.
Gideon wished he could talk to Kate, but it was impossible to discuss a security case with her, just as it was impossible to conceal his anxiety from her. She did not ask questions, for she knew that as soon as he could tell her he would.
There had been no word of Travaritch.
There had, as yet, been no word about anything stolen from the research unit where Travaritch worked, but supposing he had photographed the documents and the data. That was the great danger now; that he had walked out with those vital statistics in his pockets, and might turn up in Moscow, or in Peking, or in any part of the world where Operation Keyboard had a cash value.
As he left his house next morning Gideon saw a group of a dozen people at one end of the street, each carrying sheets of paper, each holding a pencil, each sporting the yellow rosettes of the Liberal party in this constituency. As he strolled along, a plump young man came toward him; he had sheets of the electoral roll in his hand.
“Good morning, Commander. I’m John Seal.”
Gideon shook hands.
“My son’s been standing in for you at school, Mr. Seal. How are things going?”
“Very well, I think. We’re starting the day’s canvass, and hope to cover every house before we’re through. It’s a bit tricky with a comparatively new—well—revived organization, but we’re doing all right. Daren’t ask you who you’re going to vote for, dare I?”
Gideon smiled.
“You can ask,” he said. He nodded to all of the others, who were receiving instructions from an elderly man. He was at the corner, heading for his garage, when he stopped short.
“My God!” he breathed. “There is a way!”
Scott-Marie said thoughtfully, “I think it might be possible, Gideon. I’m not sure what the Home Secretary would feel about it, but in circumstances like these I think he would agree. Tell me again exactly how you would like to handle the situation.”
“I’d like to go to the headquarters of each main party, sir. The Conservative Central Office, Transport House and Liberal party HQ in Victoria Street. I’d ask them if they would request all their constituency organizations to co-operate with the local police in requesting information about Travaritch. It wouldn’t take long to get enough copies of a photograph made, we could get cracking on that at once. Within three days we could show that photograph to practically every household in the country. Any streets already canvassed by the parties we could cover ourselves.”
“I see the advantages of such opportunism,” agreed Scott-Marie. “I will talk to the Home Secretary at once.”
“He will realize that this isn’t a time for being long-winded, won’t he?”
“No time for protocol,” said Scott-Marie dryly. “Yes, he will realize that.”
“Gideon.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go ahead with your plans for the canvass inquiry. It must be arranged separately with each local constituency, through the local police, and one simple question may be asked: ‘Do you recognize this man?’ Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” said Gideon. “I’ll get moving.”
In the turmoil of the most open general election for twenty years, the organizational leaders found time for Gideon. He pushed his way through seething crowds sorting out posters, bills, slogans, envelopes. He sensed the tension and the excitement and that mood of dedication which seemed to be as deep in one party as in another.
Each of the leaders listened attentively.
Each said, in effect, “Yes, of course. We’ll send the request to the constituencies. Then the local police will take it from there.”
Gideon, back at the Yard, felt suddenly on top of the world; here was something he could do to fight back and also make amends. Teleprinter messages went out to all provincial forces and divisions; then he, Lemaitre, Parsons and Ripple talked to chief constables. Copies of photographs of Travaritch were already coming off the presses in their tens of thousands, and being sent by special messenger or by passenger train or even by air, picked up at their destination, taken round by the local police to the local committee rooms. There the strength or the weakness of the party’s organization at constituency level showed up. As the reports came in to Gideon he was impressed by the efficiency of most of them, by the number of divisions which would in fact be covered in a door-to-door canvass by at least two of the parties. Everyone would be visited, and most of the canvassing had still to be done, so the simple question could be fitted in.
A photograph of Travaritch was shown, and the simple question asked: “Do you recognize this man?”
When it was all in hand, Gideon sat back and smiled almost cheerfully at Lemaitre and Parsons, then said: “Now all we can do is wait. Who’s coming across for a drink?”
Cecil Libby was alone in the front room of his bungalow, which was littered with envelopes, election addresses still not mailed, bills, streamers, posters, poll cards, bits of string, bottles of ink – a room which was hardly recognizable. In a small corner cupboard he kept the bottle of whisky against emergencies – he seldom touched spirits – but tonight he went across and opened the cupboard, took out the bottle and a glass, poured himself out a finger, then realized that there was no soda water. He went to the kitchen for some tap water. As he reached the door of the cloakroom he heard Monk call: “Daddy!”
He looked up. The
child, in pyjamas, was standing at the end of his cot. A teddy bear, almost unrecognizable as such, was on the floor.
“Daddy, Teddy was naughty,” Monk fibbed. “He climbed out.”
Libby gulped. “We’ll have to make him pay for it, won’t we?” Glass in hand, he went toward the bedroom, and as he did so his wife opened the kitchen door wider.
“Is that you, Cecil?”
“Yes,” Libby said. “Monk—I mean Teddy climbed out of his cot.”
He was very conscious of the glass in his hand, and did not drink the whisky then. They spent a few minutes with Monk, before shutting the door on him. Outside the room Jane said quietly: “If you drive after drinking and anyone smells your breath, you might offend a lot of voters.”
He said, “I suppose I would.”
“What is it? That questioner?”
“Yes,” he said miserably. “The same man. He comes to meeting after meeting and asks the same question. It’s affecting me so that I hardly know what I’m doing. The first thing I do when I get to a meeting is to look round to see if he’s there. Jane, I don’t think I can go on.”
Only half a mile away from Libby’s home, Richard Benwell said to his agent, “Clark, I don’t think I can use that skeleton out of Libby’s cupboard. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. If I’m going to beat him, wonderful, but I’m not going to rake up old dirt. Keep that Midland chap away from the meetings, will you?”
The wily old campaigner pulled at his beard.
“It would help you a lot, Ricky.”
“I’ve got to live with myself afterwards.”
“Yes, so you have,” agreed the agent. “All right, I’ll fix it.” He smiled into his beard. “From what I can gather, the harm’s done. Libby’s gone all to pieces at his meetings.”
“Oh.”
“And no one’s actually said a word about his wicked past!”
At home with his wife, at half past twelve that night, Benwell talked over the happenings of the day, the canvass results, the meeting attendances and the progress report, and finally told her what he had decided and what the agent had said.
“I feel a swine about it as it is,” he went on. “I know what it’s like when a questioner starts needling you. Remember, I said last year that I thought Ban the Bombers ought to be shot? How I’ve paid for that! Every time I get asked whether I still think they ought to be shot, or wouldn’t I rather kill them by radiation?”
His wife said, “I know, darling. I shouldn’t worry about Libby, though.”
Jane Libby seldom got away from the bungalow during the day, and her husband looked up in surprise when he saw her. He had just popped in after visiting a nurses’ training college and talking to the off-duty nurses. He was tired and dejected and almost hopeless, and hadn’t much heart even to have a cheery word with his committee room helpers. The sight of Jane did him good, for she looked so happy. He wondered what Monk had been up to now.
“Darling,” his wife said, as soon as they were alone. “I had a telephone call from Mrs. Benwell half an hour ago. I just had to come and tell you. She said that she thought it might be helpful if you knew that Ricky Benwell does not believe in raking up the past.”
Libby didn’t speak, just held her hands tightly, and closed his eyes; they were like that when a helper called out that the candidate was wanted on the telephone by the local newspaper. His voice was husky when he answered.
16: “Keyboard”
Daniel Ronn knew that he was being watched by the police, but he also knew that the police were stretched tightly and that many policemen felt that the surveillance over members of the Battle Committee need be only nominal. He had always known that the time would come when he would want to evade them, and he had deliberately moved about openly so that he was easy to follow and report on; he expected that as a result of this some of the police who watched his flat would take it for granted that he was just a nuclear disarmament weirdie. Twice he slipped his watchers without going anywhere of importance, and turned up again quickly, to the obvious satisfaction of the men who had been watching him.
He was acutely conscious of the fact that he had made a serious mistake when he met Travaritch at Cleo’s Restaurant, with Amanda, but it did not look as if that was going to catch up with him. He had not seen too much of Amanda since the night she had come to see him, bursting with the great idea. He had been to some meetings with her, but most of their business had been transacted by telephone, or through Lady Wallis, who was always ready – in fact eager – to help. Lady Wallis, Amanda Tenby, and he had one thing in common – a passionate belief in the wickedness of nuclear weapons and a determination to risk everything to compel Great Britain first and if possible the rest of the world later to give such weapons up. On this issue, Ronn was absolutely ruthless.
Two mornings after Amanda had agreed to find the extra money and one morning after he had received it – in cash – from the little house in Highgate, he got into his battered MG car, waved to a constable who was watching the street, and grinned. The man smothered a grin in return. Ronn drove along steadily until he came to a garage, fully aware that he had passed two policemen and one plain clothes man en route, who had noticed him and would report his normal movements. He went into the garage, talked to the foreman about some imaginary distributor trouble, left the garage and walked along until a taxi picked him up. He asked to be dropped at Swiss Cottage Underground Station. That was one of the easiest places in London to lose oneself and to shake off pursuers. In a side street he walked boldly up to parked cars until he found one unlocked – a Ford Consul. He did not think he was seen when he got into it. One of his own keys fitted the ignition.
He dumped the case containing the money into the back of the car, as if it were full of old clothes, drove past the pond, and headed northwest. He was not followed. He put on speed once he was on the A41 but he was cautious. South of St. Albans he turned off the A41 road, and half a mile along a narrow byroad he pulled in outside a solitary cottage. There was nothing attractive about it: it was ugly in the worst Victorian way, with fading red brick and a slate roof. The garden was neglected, and the surrounding privet hedge badly needed trimming. He took the case with him and walked up to the front door.
It opened as he stepped onto the porch, and Travaritch stood there. Travaritch, with his huge glasses and pale face and shiny forehead, looked almost like a troglodyte. He was wearing a polo-neck sweater, a pair of slacks and brown leather sandals which showed most of his feet. He needed a shave and a haircut – and also a bath.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I know I’m late,” reported Ronn. “I had to shake off the police.”
“Have you got the money?”
“Yes. Have you got the keyboard?”
Travaritch said, “I’ve got it. I want to see the money first. And don’t make any mistake, Ronn. The machine can be safe or it can be deadly, and if you don’t know how to handle it, it will be deadly. I can show you how to handle it, but you can’t find out by yourself.”
Ronn, so spruce and well-groomed, gave the kind of laugh which made people feel that he was a thoroughly nice chap.
“You don’t trust me, do you? It’s a funny thing, but nobody does, really. Not even Amanda. And I’m so trustworthy.” He pushed past Travaritch into a tiny kitchen. The table was littered with cups and saucers, dirty plates, knives and forks, half-empty marmalade and jam jars. The old stoneware sink was filled with more dirty crockery, and one of the draining boards was piled high with empty meat, soup and fruit tins which also spilled out of a bin on the floor. Flies hummed and buzzed against the window and over the empty tins.
Ronn wrinkled his nose in disgust, but made no comment. Travaritch cleared a corner of the table and Ronn put the suitcase down, then unlocked it and threw the lid back. Travaritch stared at the closely packed wads of five-pound notes. He moistened his lips. He gulped. Then he said thickly: “Wait a minute.”
He went out, but almost at once
he came back and stood in the doorway.
“I forgot the passport.”
“It’s here.” Ronn handed one to him from his breast pocket. Travaritch took it. His own photograph stared up at him, but the details of his name, address and birthplace were all very different from the real ones: he was shown here as Ian Thomas. Folded inside the passport was a BOAC envelope, and inside this was a ticket to Vienna on an aircraft leaving London Airport that afternoon. There was also a train ticket from London to Vienna, including a sleeper for one night. “You have alternative means of travel,” Ronn said dryly.
“That’s what I asked for, isn’t it?”
Travaritch went out. Ronn did not follow him, but stood looking out a window which had not been cleaned for weeks, perhaps for months. There was a buzzing blanket of flies in this window, too. The cottage was in a shallow valley, in the fold of gently sloping hills, brown with stubble. At one end of it was a copse of beech and oak, the leaves already changing colour. The sky was a clear, pale blue. Rooks wheeled and circled about the tops of the trees.
Travaritch said, “Here it is.”
Ronn turned round, slowly. The physicist was carrying what looked like a portable typewriter, but it was larger than most – nearly as large as a table-size record player. It was in a black leather case, which he opened. Inside was a shiny metal box. When Travaritch put the box on the table it looked as if it were almost hermetically sealed; there was no outward sign of a join. In the centre was a slightly mottled piece of metal, about the size of a shilling. Travaritch’s right forefinger, the nail broken and dirty, hovered over this.
“Closed like this, it’s absolutely safe,” he declared. “It’s unbreakable and it’s fireproof. Nothing can go wrong – absolutely nothing. You close it, and it’s self-locking. This is the only way to unlock it.”
He pressed the mottled round mark. Very slowly, the top of the box began to open. As he watched it, Ronn found himself clenching his teeth. There was no sound, and it was uncanny to see that lid rising and to know what was inside. When it was at right angles to the main case, the lid stopped moving. Another layer of shiny metal, with four mottled marks, showed now.