by L. P. Davies
“A friend, then,” she persisted.
“Those, I can count on the fingers of one hand. There’s never been time in my life for that sort of thing. Social occasions—” He broke off, his expression changing.
“You’ve thought of someone?”—eagerly.
“Dinner, about a month ago …” He searched for a name. “Watten. Douglas Watten.”
“Who is he, Axel?”
“Our local Member of Parliament. He has no time for Kendall, he’s in business himself and his name carries weight.”
“Can you get in touch with him? Where does he live?”
“Live—” Another memory search. “A flat in town. I don’t know the address. They’ll know at the House.”
“You mean your Parliament, the House of Commons?”
“He won’t be there. Sunday. Is it still the summer recess?” He couldn’t remember. “There’ll be someone there.”
Louise came to her feet. “Telephone,” she said briskly. “Bridford’s the nearest place where there’s likely to be a call box. I get through to the House of Commons. And then?”
“Ask where I can get in touch with Watten. Tell them it’s of vital importance. If you have to, tell them my name. That will be enough. But don’t mention it unless you have to. When you speak to Watten, simply tell him that Axel Champlee needs his help. You won’t have to say more than that.”
He looked up at her. “I did right to take you into my confidence, Louise—”
“If you’re going to thank me, wait until your friend shows up first.* She looked at her watch. “Still early. I should be back before Bert opens the bar and the place comes to life. What was the name again?”
“Douglas Watten.”
“And he’s the M.P. for-?”
“Grenfelle.” He reached for his wallet. “You’ll need money for the call—”
But she was away, handbag tucked under her bare arm, black skirt swirling about slim brown legs, hair dancing in the sunlight.
Axel turned from watching her disappear into the house. He hoped to God she would be able to get in touch with Watten. There was no reason why she shouldn’t. He could recall some of the conversation of that dinner party, Watten remarking that unlike other M.P.s he didn’t fritter time away on the Continent but stayed in town, kept there by his business commitments. It would be unfortunate if Louise had to use the name Champlee when she spoke to the blouse. A thing like that could very easily start rumours.
He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to ten. Bridford couldn’t be far away, somewhere between Littledene and Grenfelle. He must have come through the place last night on the bus. Louise had a car. At the outside, quarter of an hour and she should be talking to Watten. The moment he received the message he would drop everything and come running. From the City, by fast car, say thirty minutes. It wouldn’t take long then to explain what was going on. Axel looked down at the list. It would mean taking Watten into his confidence over the extent of the holdings, but that would be a small price to pay. Within an hour from now Watten would be on his way back to town to set the necessary countermeasures in action. Content, relaxed in mind, Axel settled down to wait.
The girl returned so quietly that he didn’t know she was back until she was lowering herself to the seat at his side.
He leaned forward eagerly. “You talked to him? He’s coming?”
“Axel—” She held her handbag across her knees, clasping it so tightly her knuckles were white. “I’ve been trying to think of the best way of telling you …You had a shock last night. You’re going to have another now. I think—if it hadn’t been for what happened before I phoned—I think I would have told myself you were really out of your mind.”
Foreboding came in an ice-cold wave. “You’re trying to say Watten refused to help,” he said harshly.
“No.” She turned to look at him, speaking quickly, as if to have the thing over and done with. “I was tailed, Axel. I was followed by a man in a car.”
Alarm brought him out of his seat and on his feet. “You were followed back here?”
“No. Not that, the other way. Not from there to here, from here to there. He first came up behind me along the lane out there. He must have been waiting in the turning that goes to the farm. He followed me all the way to Bedford. I thought I was imagining it at first, so I slowed right down, giving him every chance to pass. But he didn’t, he slowed down as well. He stopped behind me when I went to phone. I tried to get a good look at him, but he kept his head well down. All I do know is that he could match Bert’s description of the man who came after a room last night. When I came out of the kiosk he had gone. There was no sign of him on the way back. Axel, they know where—”
“What about Watten?” he almost shouted at her.
Louise looked up at him.
“This is going to be bad. Maybe worse than last night. Try to hang on, Axel … I got through to the House of Commons. A woman was very abrupt with me. She told me there is no Member of Parliament called Douglas Watten, that there is no such constituency as Grenfelle.”
5
“You could use a drink,” Louise said. “So could I. The bar should be open now.”
She brought two glasses on a tray, a tall amber one for herself, a small one for Axel. “Brandy, the treatment as before. How are you feeling now?”
“Empty.” He took his glass. “You don’t think I have gone out of my mind?”
“If I hadn’t been followed,” she said frankly, “I may have thought just that. Not insane as such, just mentally deranged, unable to tell the difference between fact and fancy. All the symptoms, as I know them, of megalomania. A sense of superiority, grandeur. Imagining yourself to be a Captain of Industry. But they obviously know where you are, and they haven’t come to take you away—”
“So at least I’m harmless.”
She seated herself at his side again, putting the tray on the grass and cradling her glass between her hands.
“I had time to do some thinking on my way back from Bedford. Axel, when did you first meet this Douglas Watten?” He said: “I can see him now as clearly as I can see you, Louise. I can describe him for you down to the colour of the tie he was wearing. He spoke with a kind of lisp. He had a way of running his fingers over his eyebrows. He—”
“I’m not saying there never was such a person,” the girl interrupted. “I’m sure there was. But Watten wasn’t his real name, and he’s certainly not a Member of Parliament.”
Lie sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “I first met him—oh, about a year ago. Carla brought him to the house for dinner one night. He’s been several times since. I liked him; we got on well together.”
“So it was your sister who first brought you together. Axel —I think we ought to talk to Uncle Vince.”
“A doctor.” He smiled sideways. “You’re still not sure.”
“It’s not that at all!” She was both impatient and indignant, shaking her head vigorously. “What you must try to realise is that you’ve been treated. That’s a nice word. Others aren’t so pleasant. Brain-washed, indoctrinated, conditioned. They all amount to the same thing. If we can find out how it was done, it might help to tell us who did it and why. That’s where Uncle Vince comes in. He’s not a psychiatrist, Axel, but like most doctors these days he’s dabbled in the subject.
“Look—” She leaned forward. “I’m trying to do your thinking for you. If they hadn’t messed about with your mind, you’d be able to work it out for yourself. They must have started work on you a long time ago. Watten was part of it, and he was a year ago. I’m guessing it started when you first took over the—what do you call it—a Business Empire? It started way back, and last Friday almost brought it to a head. It would have done if you hadn’t jumped on that bus.
“There are parts of it that don’t make sense, that don’t seem to fit. The coincidence of the conductor recognising you is too much for me to swallow. I feel pretty certain your appearance was changed to make you resemble a man
named Adrian Wolfax. But what has he got to do with all this?”
“I think I’ve come across the name before,” Axel said. “I have the feeling that he’s a director in one of my companies.”
“Which doesn’t help. It could be they’re out to kill several birds with the one stone. That would explain all the complications. They’re out to take your empire away, get rid of Kendall, have you put out of the way, perhaps have Wolfax step into your shoes. Right now, your mind’s a mixture of half-remembered truths and hypnotically implanted lies. Or am I trying to be too clever? We need someone experienced in such matters to sort out the mess. If it’s beyond Uncle Vince, the odds are he’ll know someone who can help.”
“You said he was in Norwich.”
“That’s right,” Louise agreed eagerly. “He’s staying with one of the directors of the firm that has been supplying him with drugs. It wouldn’t take me long to drive out there and bring him back with me.”
It wouldn’t take long to bring him from Norwich … Something wrong there, something out of place. But it was difficult enough for Axel to control and follow one train of thought, impossible to cope with two.
“What is the name of the firm?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” She frowned obligingly. “The Imperial something or other.”
Taking the list from his pocket, he laid it on her lap. “Can you see the name down there?”
Then she saw what he was driving at. “You think it might be one of your firms, Axel?”
“The odds are it is one of mine. I just can’t take the risk of talking to your uncle.” He bent to put his empty glass on the tray. “You can have no conception at all of what is involved. One word in the wrong ear, just one, and not only would I be ruined, but so would thousands, perhaps millions, of small investors. The risk is too great.”
“I can’t believe—” She met his gaze. “You know best, Axel. This is your world. Then what are you going to do? Is there anyone else you can turn to?”
“There is no one else.” That was a cold, simple statement of fact. “There is only one thing left for me to do now. That is try to stop Kendall on my own. It will be hopeless, but I might be able to salvage something from the wreckage. The first thing I have to do is get away from here.”
“I was waiting for that.” The girl nodded over the rim of her glass. “I have just the place. The house I told you about earlier—Green Ladies.”
“Very Olde Englishe, very romantic.” His smile faded. “And very rural by the sound. Is there a phone?”
“I’ve seen the place from the outside. It’s fairly modern. It’s bound to be on the phone.”
“They must have traced me here through that conductor. When I leave, I must make absolutely certain I’m not seen by anyone at all. They mustn’t know where I am.”
Louise raised her brows at his tone. “Then we’d better wait until it’s dark. But is secrecy all that essential, Axel? I mean, they know where you are right now, and they’re doing nothing about it.”
“They’re doing nothing because I’m doing nothing. The man they have watching the place is there to make sure no one tries to contact me. For the time being I’m harmless. But tomorrow will be a very different story. I will contact an office in town. I will issue instructions. Within ten minutes of those instructions being put into operation, certain people will know from whom they have originated.” Axel paused significantly. “I would rather they didn’t know from where.” She took his meaning. “You don’t think they’d actually try to use force to stop you?” Her expression showed she didn’t think that was possible.
“You don’t know what is at stake.” Axel smiled with little humour. “At a conservative estimate, something in the region of a hundred million sterling. When you’re dealing in figures like that—” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “For the record, I don’t think they’ll resort to physical violence. Up to now their approach has been along the lines of psychological subtleties. But one can never tell. Desperate men do desperate things.” Fie turned to look at her. “It could be dangerous, Louise.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to put me off, Axel?” Smiling, she put her empty glass on the tray. “You might not believe it, but I’m used to danger. Life isn’t all honey and roses on St. Anatole. We have what Uncle Vince calls a subversive element. I’ve had pot-shots taken at me. We’ve had the clinic burnt down. I can handle a gun. And I’m used to driving a rickety lorry over mountain roads that have to be seen to be believed. If anyone tries to follow us, I’ll show them what driving really is. When do we start—as soon as it’s dark?”
“It seems I have an amazon on my hands.” He grinned back at her. “And here I was, thinking I was dealing with a frail, fragile blossom.” He became serious. “As soon as it’s dark, yes. But first I’ll have to go to the house, Barkley House.” He took the list from her lap. “There isn’t enough here for me to work from. I must have some of the files from my study. I don’t relish the idea of going back there, but I’ve no choice. Not if I want to give Kendall a run for his money. It might be useful if I collected my gun at the same time. You could drop me off at the entrance to the mews, Louise. I’ll have no trouble getting inside. Keys—” He patted his pocket. “And once I have the gun—”
“I think I’d like to come in the house with you,” the girl said slowly. “I’m very curious about it. There’s something about the place that—that—” She wavered, paused, started again. “I’m usually very good at picturing places when they’re described to me. But for the life of me I can’t get a clear picture from the way you describe it. It seems sort of one-sided. I mean, you told me you couldn’t escape through any of the windows because they all overlooked a garden enclosed within high walls. The way you described the garden I got the impression it ran along only one side of the house. What about the other sides, Axel? Don’t any of the windows overlook the road?”
“The front windows are in the hall.” He had to concentrate to bring the geography of his home to mind. “The door to the hall was the one they’d fastened from the other side, the one I had to force open. As for any other windows … there aren’t any. It’s a very old house. I suppose that at one time it must have stood in its own grounds. As time went by it became built-in. Now it’s sandwiched between other buildings.”
The explanation didn’t seem to satisfy her. “Even so, Axel —no rear entrance? I’ve never seen a house that has no back way in.”
He was suddenly weary of the conversation, of the trend it had taken. All he wanted to do now was sit quietly and think of the best way of approaching tomorrow’s problems.
“You’ll be able to see the place for yourself,” he said shortly.
“Yes.” Louise wrinkled her forehead at his tone.
“How old are you, Axel?” she asked suddenly.
He didn’t have to think, the answer came automatically.
“Forty.”
“You look younger than that.” She peered closely into his face. “Much younger. Take those grey streaks from your hair and I would say you were no more than—”
She broke off at his expression. “I’m sorry, Axel. That’s only adding to it.”
He said: “You’ve tried to help me, Louise, and I’m grateful. If I hadn’t met you, I think I would really have taken leave of my senses. But you’re wrong when you say I’ve been brain-washed. Whatever it is they have done to me, it’s not that. Everything was all right up until Friday afternoon. That was when it started. Before then everything was normal. I know that I have lost a day. The only possible explanation is that I slept through it. I know very little about the techniques of brain-washing—only what I’ve read. It must involve hypnosis in one form or another. Can a man be hypnotised while he is asleep?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “I was thinking about Douglas Watten.”
“I can remember Carla first bringing him to the house as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. It was almost exactly a year ago. A warm August
evening. I can remember the feel of Watten’s hand when we were introduced. Carla was wearing a blue dress. She always wears blue. There were about twenty guests for dinner—I can see them seated round the table now. Carla and Kendall. Romaine, Norville. Gregson, my manservant, leaning over Carla’s shoulder to show her a bottle of the new wine he’d just bought and laid down. My house, my servant, my wine, but Carla’s approval. Bernard Lovey the actor was there. And Heston, Clive Heston the author. That’s a name you must know.”
“Clive Heston …” She frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“Your island couldn’t have been that uncivilized. Heston is world-famous. You must have heard of him. One of Carla’s hobbies is scalp-collecting. Celebrity scalps.
“I can remember Watten talking politics with Heston, telling him about his election campaign, the trouble he’d had with his agent. Don’t you see, Louise—Heston accepted Watten. They all did. If Watten was a fake, then so must they all have been. Twenty people, many of them household names. And that’s utterly impossible.”
Louise was silent.
“It’s unthinkable that that dinner party never really happened,” Axel said, “that it was all implanted in my mind. I can remember what we had to eat, that someone—Norville —complained because the soup wasn’t up to standard. Even though it was a year ago, everything about it down to the smallest detail is clear in my mind.”
“1 believe you, Axel,” she said slowly.
He came to his feet. “I think I’ll go to my room and lie down for a while. If you’ll excuse me—” And when she looked up at him, her face concerned: “It’s all right, Louise—I’m just tired.”
When he had gone—her eyes followed him into the house —she picked up the tray and made her way slowly and pensively across the lawn in his wake. The bar was full of men and talk and smoke. She nodded and smiled to faces that had already become familiar.
“You needn’t have done that,” Bert said as she put the tray on the counter. He nodded in the direction of the garden. “How docs he seem now?”