The Satan Bug

CHAPTER ONE

There was no mail for me that morning, but that was no surprise. There had been no mail for me in the three weeks I'd been renting that tiny second-floor suite of offices near Oxford Street. I closed the door of the outer eight by ten office, skirted the table and chair that might one day house a receptionist if the time ever came that Cavell Investigations could run to such glamorous extras, and pushed open the door marked "Private."

Behind that door lay the office of the head of Cavell Investigations, Pierre Cavell. Me. And not only the head but the entire staff. It was a bigger room than the reception office, I knew that because I'd measured it, but only a trained surveyor could have told it with the naked eye.

I'm no sybarite, but I had to admit that it was a pretty bleak sort of place. The distempered walls were of that delicate tint of off-grey pastel shading from off-white at floor level to off-black just below the ceiling that only London fog and the neglect of years can achieve. In one wall, overlooking a narrow grimy courtyard, was a tall narrow window, washed on the inside, with a monthly calendar close by. On the linoleum-covered floor a square desk, not new, a swivel chair for me, a padded leather armchair for the client, a strip of threadbare carpet to keep the client's feet from getting cold, a hatrack and a couple of green metal filing cabinets, both empty. Nothing more. There was no room for anything more.

I was just lowering myself into the swivel chair when I heard the deep double chime of the bell in the reception-room and the sound of hinges creaking. "Ring and enter" the legend on the corridor door read and someone was doing just that. Ringing and entering. I opened the top left-hand drawer of my desk, pulled out some papers and envelopes, scattered them before me, pulled a switch by my knee and had just risen to my feet when the knock came at my inner door.

The man who entered was tall, thin and a close student of the Tailor and Cutter. A narrow-lapelled coat hung over an immaculately cut charcoal suit in the latest Italian line, and in his suede-gloved left hand he carried his other glove, black bowler, brief-case and, a few inches up his wrist, a tightly-rolled, horn-handled black umbrella. He had a long pale narrow face, thin black hair parted in the middle and brushed almost straight back, rimless glasses, an aquiline nose and on the upper lip a thin black line that, on closer inspection, still looked like a thin black line, miniaturisation of the moustache brought to an almost impossible state of perfection. He must have carried a micrometer about with him. He looked for all the world like a top-flight City accountant: I couldn't see him as anything else.

"Excuse my walking straight in like this." He smiled briefly, three gold caps in the upper teeth, and half-glanced over his shoulder. "But it seems your secretary—"

"That's all right. Please come in." He even talked like an accountant, controlled, positive, slightly over-precise in the articulation. He offered me his hand, and the hand-shake, too, was in character, quick, neat, giving nothing away.

"Martin," he introduced himself. "Henry Martin. Mr. Pierre Cavell?"

"Yes. Won't you sit down, Mr. Martin?"

"Thank you." He sat down gingerly, very straight, feet together, brief-case balanced with scrupulous care across his touching knees and looked around him slowly, missing nothing, a faint smile not showing his teeth. "Business not — ah — so very brisk these days, Mr. Cavell?"

Maybe he wasn't an accountant after all. Accountants, as a rule, are polite, well-mannered and slow to give unnecessary offence. But then maybe he wasn't feeling quite himself. People who came to see private detectives were seldom hi a normal frame of mind.

"I keep it this way to fool the Inspector of Taxes," I explained. "How can I help you, Mr. Martin?"

"By giving me some information about yourself." He was no longer smiling and his eyes were no longer wandering.

"About myself?" My voice was sharp, not razor-edged, just the voice of a man who hasn't had a client in all the three weeks he's been in business. "Please come to the point, Mr. Martin. I have things to do." So I had. Lighting my pipe, reading the morning paper, things like that.

"I'm sorry. But about yourself. I have you in mind for a very delicate and difficult mission. I must be sure you are the man I want. That is reasonable, I think?"

"Mission?" I looked speculatively at Henry Martin and thought I could get to disliking him without too much trouble. "I don't carry out missions, Mr. Martin, I carry out investigations."

"Of course. When there are investigations to carry out." The tone was too neutral to take specific offence. "Perhaps I should supply the information. Please bear with my unusual method of approach for a few minutes, Mr. Cavell. I think I can promise that you will not be sorry." He opened his brief-case, brought out a buff folder, abstracted a stiff sheet of paper and began to read, paraphrasing as he went along.

"Pierre Cavell. Born Lisieux, Calvados, of Anglo-French parents. Father civil engineer, John Cavell of Kingsclere, Hampshire, mother Anne-Marie Lechamps of Lisieux. Mother of Franco-Belgian descent. One sister, Liselle. Both parents and sister killed in air attack on Rouen. Escaped fishing-boat Deauville-Newhaven. While still in late teens parachuted six times into Northern France, each time brought back information of great value. Parachuted into Normandy D-Day minus two. At end war recommended for no fewer than six decorations — three British, two French and one Belgian."

Henry Martin looked up and smiled thinly.

"The first discordant note. Decorations refused. Some quotation to the effect that the war had aged you fast and that you were too old to play with toys. Joined regular British Army. Rose to Major in Intelligence Corps, understood to have co-operated closely with M.I.6—counterespionage, I believe. Then joined police. Why did you leave the Army, Mr. Cavell?"

I'd throw him out later. Right now I was too intrigued. How much more did he know — and how? I said, "Poor prospects."

"You were cashiered." Again the brief smile. "When a junior officer elects to strike a senior officer, policy dictates that he should choose a man below field rank. You had the poor judgment to select a major-general." He glanced at the paper again. "Joined Metropolitan Police. Rapid rise through the ranks — one must admit that you do appear to be rather gifted in your own line — to position of Inspector. In last two years seconded for special duties, nature unspecified. But we can guess. And then you resigned. Correct?"

"Correct."

"On a record card, 'Resigned' looks much better man 'Dismissed.' Which is what you would have been had you remained another twenty-four hours. You do appear to have what amounts to a genius for insubordination. Something to do with an Assistant Commissioner, I understand. But you still had friends, quite powerful friends. Within a week of your resignation you had been appointed as head of security in Mordon."

I stopped what I was doing, which was squaring off the papers on my desk, and said quietly, "Details of my record are readily available, if you know where to look. But you have no right to possess that last item of information." The Morden Microbiological Research Establishment in Wiltshire had a security rating that would have made access to the Kremlin seem simple.

"I am perfectly aware of that, Mr. Cavell. I possess a great number of items of information that I shouldn't. Like the additional item that I know that, in keeping with your record, you were also dismissed from this post. Like yet another item — the real reason why I am here to-day: I know why you were dismissed."

The accuracy of my first deduction in the detecting business, that my client was an accountant, spoke ill for my prospects: Henry Martin wouldn't have recognised a balance sheet if it had been handed to him on a silver salver. I wondered what his line of business might really be: but I couldn't even begin to guess.

"You were dismissed from Mordon," Martin went on precisely, "primarily because you couldn't keep a still tongue in your head. Oh, nothing to do with security, we know that." He removed his rimless glasses and polished them thoughtfully. "After fifteen years in your line you probably don't even tell yourself half of what you know. But you talked to top scientists, directors, in Mordon, and you made no secret of your opinion of the nature of the work in which they were engaged. You are not the first person to comment bitterly on the fact that this establishment, referred to in Parliamentary estimates as the Mordon Health Centre, is controlled exclusively by the War Office. You knew, of course, that Mordon is concerned mainly with the invention. and production of microbiological organisms for use in war — but you are one of the few who know just how ghastly and terrifying are the weapons that have been perfected there, that armed with those weapons a few planes could utterly destroy all life in any country in the space of a few hours. You had very strong opinions about the indiscriminate use of such a weapon against an unsuspecting and innocent civilian population. And you made your opinion known in many places and to many people inside Mordon. Too many places, too many people. So to-day you are a private detective."

"Life's unjust," I agreed. I rose to my feet, crossed to the door, turned the key in the lock and pocketed it. "You must realise, Mr. Martin, that you have already said too much. The sources of your information about my activities at Mordon. You're not leaving here till you tell me."

Martin sighed and replaced his spectacles,

"Melodramatic, understanding but totally unnecessary. Do you take me for a fool, Cavell? Do I look a fool? What I told you I had to tell you to gain your co-operation. I will put my cards on the table. Quite literally." He drew out a wallet, found a rectangle of ivory cardboard and placed it on the table. "Mean anything to you?"

It meant a great deal. Across the middle of the card ran the legend. "Council for World Peace." At the bottom right-hand corner: "Henry Martin, London Secretary."

Martin pulled his chair close and leaned forward, his forearms on my desk. His face was intent, serious.

"Of course you know about it, Mr. Cavell. I don't think I exaggerate when I say that it is by far the greatest force for good in the world to-day. Our council cuts across race, religion and politics. You will have heard that our Prime Minister and most members of the cabinet belong. I do not wish to comment on that. But I can state that most of the church dignitaries in Britain, whether Protestant, Catholic or Jewish, are members. Our list of titled members reads like Debrett's, of other distinguished members like Who's Who. The Foreign Office, who really know what's going on and are more afraid than any, are solidly on our side. We have the support of all the best, the wisest, the most far-seeing men in the country to-day. I have very powerful men behind me, Mr. Cavell." He smiled faintly. "We even have influential members in Mordon."

All he said I knew to be true — except that bit about Mordon, and maybe that had to be true, to account for his knowledge. I wasn't a member of the council myself, not being the right type for inclusion either in Debrett's or Who's Who, but I knew that the Council for World Peace, a society semi-secret in its nature inasmuch as it recognised that diplomatic negotiations were best not conducted through newspaper headlines, was of only the most recent origin but already regarded through the western world as the last best hope for mankind.

Martin took the card from me and slipped it back in his wallet. "All I am trying to say is that I am a respectable man working for a pre-eminently respectable body."

"I believe that," I said.

"Thank you." He dipped into his brief-case again and brought out a steel container about the size and shape of a hip-flask. "There is, Mr. Cavell, a militarist clique in this country of whom we are frankly terrified, who promise to wreck all our dreams and hopes. Madmen, who are talking, every day more loudly, of waging a preventive war against the Soviet Union. Germ warfare. It is highly unlikely that they will win their way. But it is against the most unlikely contingencies that we have to be most warily on our guard." He spoke like a man who had rehearsed his speech a hundred times.

"Against this bacteriological assault there could and would be no defence. A vaccine against this virus has been developed, after two years of the most intensive research, but the only supplies in the world are in Mordon." He paused, hesitated, then pushed the flask across the table to me.

"A statement that is no longer quite accurate. This flask was removed from Mordon three days ago. The contents can be cultured to produce sufficient vaccine to immunise any nation on earth. We are our brothers' keepers, Mr. Cavell."

I stared at him. I said nothing.

"Please take this at once, to this address in Warsaw." He pushed a slip of paper across the table. "You will be paid a hundred pounds now, all expenses, and a hundred pounds on your return. A delicate mission, I realise, perhaps even a dangerous one, although in your case I should not think so. We have investigated you very carefully, Mr. Cavell. You are reputed to know the byways of Europe as a taxi-driver knows the streets of London: I do not foresee that frontiers will present you with much difficulty."

"And my anti-war sympathies," I murmured.

"Of course, of course." The first trace of impatience. "We had to check most carefully, you realise that. You had the best all-over qualifications. You were the only choice."

"Well, now," I murmured. "This is flattering. And interesting."

"I don't know what you mean," he said brusquely. "Will you do it, Mr. Cavell?"

"No."

"No?" His face became very still. "You say no? This, then, is the extent of your precious concern about your fellowmen? All this talk in Mordon—-"

"You said yourself that my business wasn't very brisk," I interrupted. "I haven't had a client for three weeks. For all indications to the contrary, I won't have one for three months. And," I added, "you said yourself I was the only choice."

The thin mouth twisted in a sneer.

"You don't positively refuse to go, then?"

"I don't positively refuse."

"How much?"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds. Each way."

"Your last word?"

"That's it."

"Mind if I say something, Cavell?" The man was losing his manners.

"Yes, I mind. Keep your speeches and moralities for your council. This is a business deal."

He stared at me for a long moment, eyes hostile behind thick glasses, then reached again into his brief-case and brought out five flat packets of treasury notes, laid them neatly on the table before him and glanced up at me. "Two hundred and fifty pounds. Exactly."

"Maybe the London branch of the council should get itself a new secretary," I suggested. "Was it myself or the council that was to be defrauded of the extra £150?"

"Neither." The tone came with the eyes, glacial both of them. He didn't like me. "We offered a fair price, but in a matter of such importance were prepared to meet extortion. Take your money."

"After you've taken off the rubber bands, stacked the notes together and counted them out, fifty fivers, in front of my eyes."

"My God!" The cool meticulous speech had gone and something almost savage came to take its place. "No wonder you were kicked out of so many jobs." He ripped off the bands, stacked the notes and counted them off separately. "There you are. Fifty. Satisfied?"

"Satisfied." I opened my right-hand drawer, picked up the notes, address and flask, dropped them into the drawer and closed it just as Martin was finishing the securing of the straps on his brief-case. Something in the atmosphere, maybe an extra stillness from my side of the table, caused him to look up sharply and then he became as immobile as myself, except for his eyes, which continued to widen until they seemed to take up all space behind the rimless glasses.

"It's a gun all right," I assured him. "A Japanese Hanyatti nine-shot automatic, safety-catch off and indicator, I observe, registering full. Don't worry about the scotch tape over the mouth of the barrel, that's only to protect a highly delicate mechanism. The bullet behind will go through it, it'll go through you and if you had a twin brother sitting behind you it would go through him also. Your forearms on the table."

He put his forearms on the table. He kept pretty still, which is the way people usually do when they're peering down into the barrel from a distance of three feet, but his eyes had gone back to normal quickly and he didn't seem all that worried that I could notice. This troubled me, for if any man had the right to be worried it was Henry Martin. Maybe this made Henry Martin a very dangerous man.

"You have an unusual way of conducting business, Cavell." No shake in the voice, just a dry contempt. "What is this, a hold-up?"

"Don't be silly — and don't you wish it were. I already have your money. You asked me earlier if I took you for a fool. The time and circumstances didn't seem right for an immediate answer, but I can give it to you now. You are a fool. You're a fool because you forgot that I worked in Mordon. I was security chief there. And the first job of any security chief is to know what goes on in his own bailiwick."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You will. This vaccine here — it's designed to give immunity against which particular virus?"

"I'm only an agent for the Council for World Peace."

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that all the vaccines, up till now, have been made and stored exclusively in Horder Hall, Essex. The point is that if that flask came from Mordon it contains no vaccine. It probably contains one or other of the viruses."

"Secondly, I know that it is normally impossible for any man, Council for World Peace sympathiser or not, to take top secret viruses out of Mordon, no matter how clever or surrepetitious he is. When the last man has left the laboratories fourteen hour time clocks come into operation and the opening combination over-riding those is known to only two men. If anything has been taken it has been taken by force and violence. That demands an immediate investigation."

"Thirdly, you said the Foreign Office was solidly on your side. If that's the case, why all this cloak-and-dagger approach to me to smuggle vaccine through? The diplomatic bag to Warsaw is the obvious answer."

"Finally, and your biggest blunder, my friend, you forgot the fact that I have been engaged in one form or other of counter-espionage for quite some time. Every new body or organisation that's set up in Britain automatically comes under the microscope. As did the Council for World Peace when it set up its headquarters here. I know one of the members, an elderly, stout, bald and short-sighted character who is the complete antithesis to you in every way. His name is Henry Martin and he's the secretary of the London branch of the council. The real one."

He looked at me steadily for a few moments, not scared, his forearms still resting on the table, then said quietly, "There doesn't seem to be much more left to say, does there?"

"Not much."

"What are you going to do?"

"Turn you over to the Special Branch. With you goes a tape of our conversation. Just as a routine precaution I switched on a recorder before you came into this room. Not evidence, I know, but the address, flask and your thumb-print on fifty fivers will be all the evidence they require."

"It does look as if I made a mistake about you," he admitted. "We can do a deal."

"I can't be bought. Not, at least, for fifty miserable fivers."

A pause, then softly, "Five hundred?"

"No."

"A thousand? A thousand pounds, Cavell, inside the hour."

"Keep quiet." I reached over the phone, laid the receiver on the table and began to dial with my left forefinger. I'd reached the third number when a sharp knock came to my office door.

I let the receiver lie and got to my feet, making no noise. The corridor door had been shut when Martin had come into my room. No one could open that corridor door without the bell chiming. I'd heard no chime, there had been no chime. But somebody was in the outer office now, just outside my door.

Martin was smiling. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was there. I didn't like it. I moved my gun and said softly, "Face into that corner, Martin, hands clasped behind your neck."

"I don't think that's necessary," he said calmly. "That man outside the door is a mutual friend."

"Do it now," I said. He did. I crossed to the door, standing well to one side, and called out, "Who's there?"

"Police, Cavell. Open up, please."

"Police?" The word carried familiar overtones, but then there were a great number of people around who were able to imitate a great number of voices. I glanced at Martin, but he hadn't moved. I called out, "Your credentials. Under the door with them."

There was a movement on the other side of the door, then an oblong cardboard slid into view on the floor. No badge, no credentials, nothing like that, just a calling card bearing the words D.R. Hardanger and a Whitehall telephone number. The number of people who knew that this was the only form of identification that Superintendent Hardanger used would be very few. And the card matched the voice. I unlocked and opened the door.

Superintendent Hardanger it was, big, burly, red-faced, with the jowls of a bull-dog, dressed in the same faded grey raglan and black bowler that he'd worn in all the years I'd worked with him. I caught a glimpse of a smaller man behind him, a khaki-clad arm and leg, no more. I'd no time to see more for Hardanger had moved his sixteen stone of solid authority four feet into my office forcing me to take a couple of backward steps.

"All right, Cavell." A flicker of a smile touched the abnormally light blue eyes. "You can put that gun away. You're quite safe now. The police are here."

I shook my head. "Sorry, Hardanger, but I'm no longer working for you. I have a licence for this gun and you're in my office without permission." I nodded towards the corner. "Search this character and then I'll put my gun away. Not till then."

Henry Martin, hands still behind his neck, turned slowly round. He grinned at Hardanger, who smiled back and said, "Shall I search you, John?"

"Rather not, sir," Martin said briskly. "You know how ticklish I am."

I stared at them, from Hardanger to Martin, then back again. I lowered my gun and said wearily, "All right, what gives?"

"I'm genuinely sorry about this, Cavell," Hardanger said in his rough gravelly voice. "But necessary. How necessary, I'll explain. This man's name really is Martin — John Martin. Of the Special Branch. Inspector. Recently returned from Toronto. Want to see his credentials or will my word do?"

I crossed to my desk, put the gun away and brought out the flask, money and slip of paper with the Warsaw address. I could feel the tightness in my face but I kept my voice quiet.

"Take your damned props, Martin, and get out. You, too, Hardanger. I don't know what this stupid charade, this farrago of rubbish, was for and I'll be damned if you can make me care. Out! I don't like smart alecs making a fool of me and I won't play mouse to any man's cat, not even the Special Branch's."

"Easy up now, Cavell," Hardanger protested. "I told you it was necessary and——"

"Let me talk to him," the man in khaki interrupted. He came round Hardanger and I could see him clearly for the first time. Army Officer, and no subaltern either, slight, spare, authoritative, the type I'm allergic to. "My name is Cliveden, Cavell. Major-General Cliveden. I must—"

"I was cashiered from the Army for taking a swing at a major-general," I interrupted. "Think I'd hesitate to do it again now I'm a civilian? You, too. Out. Now."

"I told you what he was like," Hardanger muttered to no one in particular. He shrugged his shoulders heavily, thrust his hand into the pocket of his raglan coat and brought out a wrist-watch. "We'll go. But first I thought you might like to have this. A keepsake. He had it in London for repair and it was delivered to the General's office yesterday."

"What are you talking about?" I said harshly.

" 'm talking about Neil Clandon. Your successor as security chief in Mordon. I believe he was one of your best friends."

I made no move to take the watch from the outstretched hand.

"'Was', you said? Clandon?"

"Clandon. Dead. Murdered, if you like. When someone broke into the central laboratories in Mordon late last night-early this morning."

I looked at the three of them and then turned away to stare out through the grimy window at the grey fog swirling along Gloucester Place. After a time I said, "You'd better come in."

Neil Clandon had been found by a patrolling security guard shortly after two o'clock that morning, in the corridor beside the heavy steel door leading to number one lab in "E" block. That he was dead was beyond dispute. What he had died of was not yet known, for in an establishment staffed almost entirely by doctors no one had been allowed to approach the dead man. The strictness of the rule was absolute. When the alarm bells rang it was a job for the Special Branch and the Special Branch alone.

The senior guard had been summoned and had approached within six feet of the body. He had reported that Clandon had been violently ill before dying, and that he had obviously died in convulsions and great agony. The symptoms had all the hallmarks of prussic acid poisoning. Had the guard been able to get the typical bitter almond smell, this, of course, would have put the tentative diagnosis beyond reasonable doubt. But that, of course, had been impossible. All guards on internal patrol had to make their rounds in gas-tight suits with a closed circuit breathing apparatus.

The senior guard had noticed something else. The time clock setting on the steel door had been altered. Normally it was set to run from 6 p.m. till 8 a.m. Now it was set to run from midnight. Which meant that access to number one lab would be impossible before 2 p.m., except to those who knew the combination that overrode the time lock.

It was the soldier, not Hardanger, who supplied this information. I listened to him and said, "Why you? What's your interest in all this?"

"Major-General Cliveden is the second-in-command of the Royal Army Medical Corps," Hardanger explained. "Which automatically makes him the director of the Mordon Microbiological Research Establishment."

"He wasn't when I was there."

"My predecessor has retired," Cliveden said curtly, but the underlying worry was clear to see. "Ill health. First reports naturally came to me. I was in London. I notified the Superintendent immediately. And on my own initiative I ordered an oxy-acetylene team from Aldershot to rush there: they will open the door under Special Branch supervision."

"An oxy-acetylene team." I stared at him. "Are you quite mad?"

"I don't understand."

"Cancel it, man. Cancel it at once. What in God's name made you do that? Don't you know anything about that door? Apart from the fact that no acetylene equipment in existence could get through that special steel of that door inside hours, don't you know that the door itself is lethal? That it's filled with a near-lethal gas? That there's a central insulator mounted plate inside the door that damn well is lethal — charged with two thousand volts?"

"I didn't know that, Cavell." His voice was low. "I've only just taken over."

"And even if they did get inside? Have you thought of what would happen then? You're scared, aren't you, Major-General Clivedon, you're terrified at the thought that someone has already been inside. Maybe that someone was careless. Maybe that someone was very careless, maybe he knocked over a container or cracked a sealed culture tank. A tank or container, for instance, with botulinus toxin — which is one of the viruses both made and stored in number one lab. It takes a minimum of twelve hours exposure to air to oxidise the toxin and render it harmless. If anyone comes into contact with it before oxidisation, they're dead men. Before midday, that is. And Clandon, had you thought of him? How do you know the botulinus didn't get him? The symptoms are exactly the same as those of prussic acid poisoning. How do you know the two guards weren't affected? The senior guard who spoke to you — if he had been affected, the botulinus would have got him as soon as he'd taken off his mask to speak to you. He'd have died in agonies a minute later. Have you checked that he's still alive?"

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.