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The Satan Bug

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Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

Cliveden reached for the phone. His hand was shaking. While he was dialling, I said to Hardanger, "Right, Superintendent, the explanation."

"Martin here?"

I nodded.

"Two good reasons. The first was that you are number one suspect."

"Say that again."

"You'd been sacked," he said bluntly. "Left under a cloud. Your opinion of Mordon's place in the scheme of things was well known. You have a reputation for taking the law into your own hands." He smiled without humour, "I've had plenty of experience of that from you."

"You're loony. Would I murder my best friend?" I said savagely.

"You were the only outsider who knew the whole security set-up in Mordon. The only one, Cavell. If anyone could get into and out of that place it was you." He paused for a significant moment. "And you are now the only man alive who knows the combinations for the various laboratory doors. The combinations, as you know, can only be altered in the factory where the doors are made. After your departure, the precaution of changing was not thought necessary."

"Dr. Baxter, the civilian director, knows the combinations."

"Dr. Baxter is missing. We can't trace him anywhere. We had to find out fast how the land lay. This was the best way. The only way. Immediately after you left home this morning we checked with your wife. She said—"

"You've been round at my house." I stared at him. "Bothering Mary? Questioning her? I rather think—"

"Don't trouble," Hardanger said dryly. "You'd get no satisfaction from breaking in false teeth. I wasn't there, sent a junior officer. Silly of me, I admit, asking a bride of two months to turn in her husband. Of course she said you hadn't left the house all night."

I looked at him without speaking. His eyes were exactly on a level with mine. He said, "Are you wondering whether to haul off at me for even suggesting that Mary may be a liar or why she didn't phone to tip you off?"

"Both."

"She's no liar. You forget how well I know her. And she didn't tip you off because we disconnected your phone, both home and here. We also bugged this phone before you arrived this morning — I heard every word you said to Martin on the phone in your outer office." He smiled. "You had me worried for a few minutes there."

"How did you get in? I didn't hear you. The bell didn't go off."

"The fuse box is in the outer corridor. All very illegal, I'm afraid."

I nodded. "I'll have to change that."

"So you're in the clear, Cavell. An Oscar for Inspector Martin, I should say. Twelve minutes flat to find out what we wanted to know. But we had to know."

"Why? Why that way? A few hours leg-work by your men, checking taxis, restaurants, theatres and you'd have known I couldn't possibly have been in Mordon last night."

"I couldn't wait." He cleared his throat with unnecessary force. "Which brings me to my second reason. If you're not the killer, then you're the man I want to find the killer. Now that Clandon is dead, you are the only man who knows the entire security set-up at Mordon. No one else does. Damned awkward, but there it is. If anyone can find anything, you can."

"Not to mention the fact that I'm the only man who can open that door now that Clandon is dead and Baxter missing."

"There's that too," he admitted.

"There's that, too," I mimicked. "That's all you really want. And when the door is open I can run along and be a good boy."

"Not unless you want to."

"You mean that? First Derry, now Clandon. I'd like to do something."

"I know. I'll give you a free hand."

"The General won't like it." No one ever called Hardanger's ultimate superior by his name: very few even knew it.

"I've already fixed it with the General. You're right, he doesn't like it. I suspect he doesn't like you." Hardanger grinned sourly. "Often the way with relatives."

"You did that in advance? Well, thanks for the compliment."

"You were the number one suspect. But I never suspected you. All the same, I had to be sure. So many of our best men have gone over the wall in the past few years."

"When do we leave?" I said. "Now?" Cliveden had just replaced the receiver on its rest. His hand still wasn't very steady.

"If you're ready."

"I will be in a moment." Hardanger was a past master at keeping his expressions buttoned up, but there was a speculative curiosity in those eyes that he couldn't hide. The sort of look he'd give a man who'd just put a foot wrong. I said to Cliveden, "The guards at the plant? Any word?"

"They're all right. So it can't have been botulinus that got Clandon. The central laboratories are completely sealed up."

"And Dr. Baxter?"

"Still no signs of him. He—"

"Still no signs? That makes two of them now. Coincidence General. If that's the word I want."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said irritably.

"Easton Deny. My predecessor in Mordon. He vanished a couple of months ago — just six days after he was the best man at my wedding and he still hasn't turned up. Surely you knew?"

"How the hell should I?" A very testy little man indeed, I was glad he wasn't a civilian doctor and myself one of his patients. "I've only been able to get down there twice since my appointment… Anyway, Baxter. He left the laboratories all right, checking out slightly later than usual. He didn't return. He lives with a widowed sister in a bungalow near Alfringham, five miles away. He didn't come home at all last night, she says." He turned to Hardanger. "We must get down there immediately, Superintendent."

"Right away, sir. Cavell is going to come with us."

"Glad to hear it." Cliveden said. He didn't look it and I couldn't blame him. You don't make major-general without developing an army mind in the process and the army mind sees the world as a neat, orderly and regimented place with no place at all in it for private detectives. But he was trying to be courteous and making the best of a bad job for he went on, "We'll need all the assistance we can get. Shall we go?"

"Just as soon as I've phoned my wife to let her know what's happening — if her phone's been reconnected." Hardanger nodded. I reached for the receiver but Cliveden's hand was on it first, pressing it firmly down on its cradle.

"No phoning, Cavell. Sorry. Must have absolute security on this. It's imperative that no one—no one—knows that anything has happened at Mordon."

I lifted his wrist, the phone came up in his hand and I took it from him. I said, "Tell him, Superintendent."

Hardanger looked uncomfortable. As I dialled he said apologetically, "I'm afraid Cavell is no longer in the Army sir. Not under the jurisdiction of the Special Branch. He is — um — allergic to authority."

"Under the Official Secrets Act we could demand—"

"Sorry, sir." Hardanger shook his head heavily. "Classified information voluntarily disclosed to a civilian out with a government department is no longer an official secret. No one made us tell Cavell anything and he never asked us to. He's under no obligation. And we want his cooperation."

I made my call, told Mary that no, I wasn't under arrest, that I was going down to Mordon and would call her later in the day. After I hung up I took off my jacket, strapped on a felt shoulder holster and stuck the Hanyatti into it. It was a big gun, but it was a big jacket with plenty of room in it, unlike Inspector Martin I didn't go in much for the Italian line. Hardanger watched me expressionlessly, Cliveden disapprovingly: twice he made to say something, twice he thought better of it. It was all very irregular indeed. But so was murder.

CHAPTER TWO

The Army had a helicopter waiting for us, but the fog was too heavy. Instead we went down to Wiltshire in a big Jaguar saloon driven by a plain-clothes policeman who took far too much satisfaction in leaning with all his weight on both accelerator and siren button. But the fog lifted as we cleared Middlesex, the roads were fairly clear and we made it intact to Mordon by just after midday.

Mordon is an architectural monstrosity, a guaranteed blot on any landscape. Had the designer — if it had a designer— based it on an early nineteenth-century prison, which it exactly resembles he couldn't have achieved an uglier or more repulsive structure. But Mordon is only ten years old.

Grim, grey and gaunt under the darkly lowering October skies of that day, Mordon consisted of four parellel rows of squat, flat-topped concrete buildings, three stories high, each row, in its repellent forbidding lifelessness, for all the world like condemned and abandoned Victorian tenements in the worst slums of a great city. But a fitting enough facade for the work that went on behind the walls.

Each row of buildings was about a quarter of a mile in length, with about two hundred yards separating the rows. The space between buildings and boundary fence, five hundred yards at the nearest approach, was completely open, completely clear. No trees, no bushes, no shrubs, not even a clump of flowers. A man can hide behind a bush. He might even be able to hide behind a clump of flowers. But he can't hide behind a blade of grass two inches high — and nothing higher grew in the bleak desolation of the grounds of Mordon. The term boundary fence — not a wall, people can hide behind walls — was a misnomer. Any World War 2 concentration camp commandant would have sold his soul for Mordon: with fences like those a man could sleep soundly at nights.