Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  Arthur stared at the ceiling for a long moment. It was dirty and water-stained. "Supposing such information were available," he said, "it would certainly be secret, and we would therefore be unable to share it with you."

  "Then I'll have to write the story as I see it," I replied self-righteously, "and let my readers draw their own conclusions. Of course, if the information clears the government of any—oh, how shall I put it?—impropriety, I would think you might want to share it with me, secret or not."

  "How would it 'clear the government,' as you put it?"

  "Well, what would you do if you came into power as a humane, antiscience government, and you found out you had inherited this bunch of young clones?"

  "I'd put them up for adoption, I daresay."

  "Of course you would. You'd try to give them as normal a life as possible and hope they'd forget about whatever happened at Bromford. Now maybe your government did that and maybe it didn't. Maybe Cornwall has an ax to grind with the government and is lying about everything. Maybe the government had nothing to do with his disappearance. I don't know, but I'm hoping someone will tell me."

  Arthur sighed and stood up. He had not bargained on this when he came to work this morning. "Would you kindly wait here for a few moments, Walter?"

  "Of course."

  He left the office, and I leaned back in my chair. Could have been worse. Of course, I hadn't accomplished anything yet, just made a junior bureaucrat a little nervous. I picked up a press release from his desk. It was full of misspellings.

  He was gone a long time. When he returned, it was with the brisk step of a junior bureaucrat who has been told what to do. "Sorry for the delay, Mr. Sands. I was wondering if I might examine your press credentials—purely a formality, of course. I should have done it to start with. An oversight on my part. Please excuse."

  I smiled at him and noted that we were back on a last-name basis. "I haven't got any credentials, Mr. Finch-Thistle. We've lost some of those formalities back in the States."

  Arthur smiled apologetically. "Well, I'm sure you can understand that we can't do anything without the proper credentials."

  "I can understand. But that means I'll have to write the story as it stands. How shall I word it? 'A spokesman for the British government refused to comment on the allegations.' Does that sound about right?"

  "Oh, now, Mr. Sands, surely you can understand the need for—"

  "I can understand. But I've got a story to write, whether or not the British government wants to help."

  Arthur pondered. Oh, come on, give in. "I suppose we could write to your newspaper," he suggested. "That would establish your bona fides."

  "I don't have time for that," I responded. "I'm leaving the country tomorrow. The Globe is influential, but it doesn't have a lot of money to send its reporters overseas. I'm way over budget as it stands."

  "But surely, Mr. Sands, you didn't expect us to provide you with this kind of information immediately," Arthur objected. "Even if it exists, it strikes me as being quite obscure. And with the security issues to be dealt—"

  Time to get mean. "Mr. Finch-Thistle, I don't expect anything. You will either help me today or you won't help me at all. The choice is yours. Either way, the story is going to get written."

  Arthur tried to suppress a glare. He did not entirely succeed. "Would you excuse me again?" he asked, and he strode out of the room without waiting for a reply. He was away somewhat longer this time, and he returned looking decidedly harried. He didn't sit down. "We are attempting to locate the information you have requested, Mr. Sands," he announced. "This is certainly against our policies, but we have decided to make an exception. Even so, we cannot guarantee that we will find this information today. If you would like to call us, or leave a number where you can be reached, we will be happy to—"

  "I'll wait, if that's okay with you." Arthur shook his head. "Perhaps you don't understand. This may take hours, or we may not even find it."

  "I've got nothing better to do. I'll wait."

  Arthur tried to suppress a look of total exasperation. He did not succeed. "Very well," he said. "You will have to wait downstairs, however. You'll be sent for when—if—we find what you are looking for."

  "Terrific."

  Arthur escorted me back down to the lobby, where I sat in the uncomfortable chair across from the cranky old receptionist. People came and went; the phone buzzed; morning turned into afternoon. I chatted with one of the bobbies. I listened to my stomach growl. I thought about the man who was waiting for me outside in the cold. Should I go out there and get it over with? No, this was more important.

  I tried not to look as tense as I felt. Arthur Finch-Thistle approached. I stood up.

  He looked embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "Only going to lunch. Be back shortly."

  I sat down and waited.

  He returned within an hour. His florid face was a little more florid than when he had left. Had his pint, probably, to help him make it through the afternoon. He nodded to me. "Working on it," he said.

  "Waiting," I said.

  He came downstairs again an hour later. "Mr. Sands, would you come with me, please?"

  "Success?" I asked.

  "I'm taking you to speak to the Deputy Minister."

  We went to a different floor this time. The offices looked larger and less dingy. There were portraits of sallow, supercilious men on the walls. Arthur knocked on an oak door. The sign on it said simply: "D. Cahill."

  "Come," a deep voice said. Arthur opened the door and ushered me in.

  D. Cahill was a large, silver-haired man wearing an expensive suit. His eyebrows were so bushy they looked as if birds could have nested in them. The dark eyes beneath the eyebrows stared at me curiously. "Mr. Sands," he said. It sounded like a statement, not a question or a greeting.

  I nodded. He gestured to a seat. I sat. Arthur sat too. Cahill ignored him.

  "I understand you are preparing to write some sort of exposé of the government for an American newspaper," Cahill said to me. He had a beautifully intimidating upper-crust accent. He made the phrase "American newspaper" sound faintly obscene.

  "I'm just trying to write a story," I responded. "I've told Mr. Finch-Thistle the facts as I know them so far. If you have more facts, I'd love to know them too."

  "Some facts are more newsworthy than others," Cahill observed. "In my experience, reporters tend to ignore the facts that aren't newsworthy."

  "Facts are a lot easier to ignore if you don't know them," I observed in turn.

  Cahill made the faintest of movements with his shoulders. It could have been a shrug. There was a terminal on his desk. He switched it on and typed something on the keyboard. "You are investigating Robert Cornwall's activities at Bromford, and what happened after Bromford was closed," he informed me unnecessarily. "You think it had to do with the cloning of human beings, and you think the experiments are continuing under the present government. I am now going to tell you the truth. It will be interesting to see if you believe it as readily as you believed a somewhat more sensational fiction."

  I didn't argue. I took out Kathy's notebook and a pencil and smiled expectantly.

  "In fact," Cahill went on, "Cornwall told you the truth about the cloning. That is what he was doing at Bromford. The previous government were interested in its potential for perpetuating useful genetic traits, especially in view of the somewhat doubtful future of the human race back then. This is precisely the kind of meddling with nature that our present government find reprehensible, of course.

  "The other assertions that you claim he made to you are incorrect, however. When Bromford was closed, there was an attempt to continue Cornwall's study in some fashion. The new government put an end to that as soon as they learned of it. The children involved were placed in suitable homes and have not been bothered since. And I sincerely hope that this article of yours does not cause them to be bothered now. They are not freaks, Mr. Sands. They are human beings, and we have treated them that
way."

  I pretended to scribble a few notes. "Well, that's just terrific, sir. Believe me, I think it's eminently newsworthy. I wonder if you have any proof, though."

  Cahill raised one of his immense eyebrows.

  "Right now I have your assertion and Cornwall's assertion," I explained. "How am I to choose between them without proof?"

  Arthur cleared his throat. "As I suggested to you might be the case, Mr. Sands, the relevant documents are secret."

  "All right," I said. "I don't need copies of them. Just let me take a peek, to satisfy myself that they exist."

  I stared at Cahill and tried to maintain an expression of detached journalistic interest. Wasn't easy. Cahill returned my stare, and then gave another one of his almost-shrugs. "I expected as much," he said, and he typed something else on the keyboard of his terminal. "This is only for purposes of verification," he added. "If you say that I showed this to you, I shall deny it."

  He swiveled the screen halfway toward me. I leaned forward.

  On the screen was the beginning of a memo dated nine years ago. I didn't recognize the name of its writer or recipient. Its title was "Disposition of Subjects in Research Program 014-6125." It was what I wanted.

  It began by sketching in vague bureaucratic terms the background of the situation. The children were always "subjects," never "clones." The Ministry had determined that the research program was to be terminated and the subjects put up for adoption. The adoptive parents were informed in a general way about the research, but it was not felt necessary to go into detail. The Ministry was prepared to deal with the appropriate social welfare agencies if problems were to develop, but it was not expected that any would.

  The list of adoptive parents follows:

  I thought of the government office in Boston and the other list, slid across the desk to me for one magic moment. "May I page down?" I asked.

  Cahill reached forward and pressed a key. A new page appeared. When he noticed that it showed the list, he quickly pressed the key again. "There's no need for you to see the names," he said. "I don't want you bothering any of those people."

  Too late. "You're absolutely right," I said. "I've seen all I need to see." I stood up. "I want to thank you both for taking the time to provide me with this information. I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've caused. I can't imagine why Cornwall would have said the things he did."

  "We'd appreciate a copy of the article when published," Cahill said gruffly.

  "Of course, of course." I headed for the door. I didn't have time to waste on pleasantries.

  Arthur followed me, clearly delighted that everything had turned out all right. "So glad we could help, Walter. We do try to oblige, you see. The Deputy Minister is a crusty sort, but he—"

  I didn't listen. I had to think. "Pay phone?" I interrupted.

  "Oh, well, you could use my phone."

  "Thanks. I need privacy, though."

  "Of course."

  We returned to his office. He showed me how to make an outside call, and then tactfully departed. I dialed long distance directory inquiries and got a number. I dialed it. No answer. I cursed and hung up. I thought for a moment, then got the number for BritRail information and called it. The person who answered told me what I needed to know. Finally, I dialed Kathy's number, hoping she'd be home from rehearsal.

  She was.

  "Hi, Kathy, it's me."

  "Hello, Walter. Did you—were you successful?"

  "Yeah. I saw the list. I'm sorry, Kathy. I was right. The kids in East Norton and Castle Frome were on it. The other kid didn't have an address in Shrewsbury, but the list was old and his family could've moved there."

  She was silent for a moment. I looked at Arthur's grimy ceiling. This couldn't be easy for her. "What do you want me to do, Walter?" she asked in a whisper.

  "Well, the obvious next candidate on the list lives in Bath. I got the phone number from directory inquiries and called, but there's no answer. I'm going to Bath—it's only an hour and a quarter from Paddington. Do you want to come?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Meet me under the message board as soon as possible. What's Winfield doing?"

  "I'm afraid he found my bottle of whiskey. He's passed out."

  "Good. Listen, it might not be a bad idea if you brought his gun. I hid it in the top drawer of your bureau."

  "Oh, Walter."

  "Just in case, Kathy. Would you rather we just called the police?"

  "No. I'll be there. And Walter?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you."

  "Okay, Kathy."

  I hung up and hurried out of the office. Arthur was lingering in the corridor. I smiled at him. "Thanks. Gotta run."

  He smiled back. "Don't mention it. I'll escort you out." He brought me downstairs and left me at the doorway, expressing warmest regards that I absently returned.

  I opened the door and walked outside. The day had turned overcast and raw; the late-afternoon sky looked heavy with snow. I took a deep breath. Theory 1 was on its way to being proved correct; I didn't feel particularly good about that, but at least it showed my thinking wasn't completely crazy.

  And that left Theory 2. Was the man in the gray overcoat still waiting for me? Had to be. And now was the time to meet him.

  Chapter 29

  I sauntered away from the Ministry. I turned a corner and sauntered down a busy street. There was too much traffic to hear any footsteps behind me. I sauntered for about a hundred yards, and then turned abruptly. Was that his gray overcoat disappearing into a doorway? I walked back and stopped in front of the doorway. He was standing there. A newspaper hid his face. The hands holding the newspaper were trembling slightly.

  I took a deep breath. "Don't you think it's time we had a talk, Professor Hemphill?" I said.

  The newspaper slowly descended.

  I studied the thin, nervous features that I had last seen in the corridor at Northeastern. The man looked old and tired and very frightened.

  The door behind him opened, and I caught the aroma of french fries as a couple of teenagers pushed past us. We were standing in front of a McDonald's, and I was suddenly very hungry. "Let's go inside," I said.

  He obeyed.

  We sat in a booth. "Want coffee or something?" I asked.

  He nodded. I got him his coffee, and a Big Mac and french fries for myself. I set the cup down in front of him. He put both hands around it and lifted it slowly to his lips, trying not to slosh the coffee onto the table. I took a bite of my Big Mac. There was time before the train for Bath. Time to straighten out a lot of things.

  "I should have figured out days ago that you had lied to me back in Cambridge," I began. "First of all, you were so certain that Cornwall was dead—and he is so obviously alive. Second, you said he couldn't have created a clone of himself—and he obviously did. But I didn't really think about you—I had more important things to worry about—until I received a letter yesterday from a friend of mine named Bobby Gallagher."

  I paused. Hemphill looked at me silently over the coffee cup.

  "Bobby mentioned that he'd sold a painting by Sargent to one of his customers," I went on. "Ain't that many Sargents kicking around nowadays, I figure. I remember the one you had hanging over your mantel, though. And I remember telling you how valuable it was. I probably even mentioned Bobby's name. But you weren't eager to sell it—and with that dog of yours, no one was likely to steal it. So I thought: if it was your painting that Bobby sold, what made you sell it to Bobby? And the answer I came up with was: to get airfare to England."

  Hemphill didn't respond. I realized that he hadn't said anything so far. And I realized what I had let myself in for: the big scene where the private eye explains it all to the culprit and forces him to break down and confess. Trouble was, I wasn't at all sure I had everything straight. And what if the culprit didn't cooperate—just sat there drinking his coffee and listening? Couldn't be helped. I plunged ahead.

  "Here's how I figure it, Professor. Yo
u hate Cornwall—I don't know why, and I don't know what sort of hatred can last for twenty-two years after a nuclear war, but there it is. When you saw his clone at Northeastern, you tried to kill him—maybe as a kind of posthumous revenge, maybe because you went a little crazy and thought Winfield really was Cornwall. But the situation changed when you found out Cornwall was still alive—or maybe you knew all along. I don't know. Doesn't matter. Anyway, your hatred made you sell your most prized possession and come to England in search of Cornwall. You found Winfield and me and followed us to Oxford. You waited for him to be alone. You went in, the two of you quarreled, but he escaped. So you set fire to his house, and then kept after him. You broke into his daughter's flat, hoping to find out where he might be hiding. Then you staked out her flat, hoping one of us would lead you to him. And here you are."

  I paused again. It wasn't going particularly well so far. Theory 2 was obviously correct in outline—here was Hemphill to prove it—but its specifics sounded a little thin when recited like that. And the culprit wasn't breaking down.

  "Do you know where Cornwall is?" he asked, finally speaking. His voice was a thin rasp.

  "If I know where he is, why should I tell you?"

  "If you tell me, then I'll tell you the real story," Hemphill whispered.

  I ate some more of my Big Mac and considered. I held the upper hand here. "Tell me the story," I said, "then I'll tell you where Cornwall is—if I think you ought to know."

  Hemphill nodded. "All right." He stared at his coffee, as if trying to find inspiration there, or a key to the past. His eyes glazed over a little, as they had in Cambridge when the memories came. "You've got it all wrong," he began, and my heart sank. "Well, most of it, anyway. Yes, I lied to you when we spoke in America. Cornwall and I had in fact figured out a method for cloning adult human cells. Tensions were high back then, of course, and we wanted to try it out as soon as possible. We found a volunteer to be the surrogate mother, and then we had to decide who to clone. The choice was obvious. Me.

  "You see, even before the war made it a popular condition, I was sterile. So cloning was my only chance for reproducing my genes. Cornwall was unmarried, but as far as we knew he wasn't sterile. We agreed, then, that I would be the one. We agreed."