The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

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Lyn was horrified. ‘You mean everyone is listening to that quarrel?’

‘Everyone except me,’ said Denison drily. ‘Have your Martini.’

Something else occurred to her. ‘But you might have been hurt – he might have killed you!’

‘But he didn’t – and all’s well.’

‘Who could it have been?’

‘I suppose I’m a fairly important man in some respects,’ said Denison tiredly. ‘I told you yesterday that I don’t babble about my work. Someone wanted information and took direct action.’

She straightened her shoulders and looked at him with shining eyes. ‘And didn’t get it.’

He brutally chopped the props from under the hero worship. ‘As for Diana Hansen, there’s nothing in it – not the way you think. But even if there were it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re behaving more like an affronted wife than a daughter.’

The glow died. Lyn hunched her shoulders a little and looked down at the Martini glass. Suddenly she picked it up and drained the contents at a swallow. It took her breath away and she choked a little before putting down the empty glass. Denison grinned. ‘Does that make you feel better?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said miserably.

‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘No harm done. Let’s go for a walk.’ He signalled to the waiter and paid the bill and, as he got up from the table, he glanced over at the bar and saw Armstrong doing the same. It was comforting to have a bodyguard.

They left the bar and went into the lobby. As they approached the entrance a porter came in loaded with baggage, and a burly figure followed. ‘Hey, Lucy; look who’s here,’ boomed a voice. ‘It’s Harry Meyrick.’

‘Oh, hell!’ said Denison, but there was no escape.

‘Who is it?’ asked Lyn.

‘I’ll introduce you,’ said Denison grimly.

‘Hi, Harry!’ shouted Kidder, advancing across the lobby with outstretched hand. ‘It’s great to see you, it sure is.’

‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison without enthusiasm, and allowed his hand to be pulped.

‘It’s a small world,’ said Kidder predictably. ‘I was only saying that to Lucy the other day when we bumped into the Williamsons in Stockholm. You remember the Williamsons?’

‘Of course,’ said Denison.

‘I guess we’re all on the same Scandinavian round, eh? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Williamsons don’t turn up here, too. Wouldn’t it be great if they did?’

‘Great!’ said Denison.

Lucy Kidder popped out from behind her husband. ‘Why, Harry; how nice to see you. Did Jack tell you we saw the Williamsons in Stockholm?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘It’s a small world,’ said Lucy Kidder.

‘It sure is,’ said Jack. ‘If the Williamsons get here – and that nice friend of yours, Diana Hansen – we could get down to some poker. That gal is a mean player.’

Lyn said, ‘Diana Hansen? Why, she’s here.’

Surprise and pleasure beamed from Kidder’s face. ‘Now, isn’t that just great? Maybe I’ll be able to win some of my dough back, Lucy.’

‘Lose it, more likely,’ she said tartly. ‘Jack really believes he can play poker.’

‘Now then, Momma,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘Don’t knock the old man.’ He looked down at Lyn. ‘And who’s the little lady?’

‘Excuse me,’ said Denison. ‘Jack Kidder – my daughter, Lyn – Lucy Kidder.’

They shook hands and Kidder said, ‘You didn’t tell me you had a daughter, Harry. You certainly didn’t tell me you had a beautiful daughter. Where you been hiding her?’

‘Lyn’s been at University,’ said Denison. ‘She’s now on vacation.’

Lucy said, ‘I don’t want to break things up, Jack, but I guess we gotta register. The desk clerk’s waiting.’

‘Sure,’ said Kidder. ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Harry. Tell Diana to break out that deck of cards – we’ll be playing poker.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Denison and, taking Lyn by the arm, he steered her out of the hotel. Under his breath he said, ‘Over my dead body.’

‘Who was that?’ asked Lyn.

‘The biggest bore from the North American continent,’ said Denison. ‘With his long-suffering wife.’

NINETEEN (#ulink_668aa2d1-c17b-5b89-8b07-d4b154cc309a)

Carey and McCready were being violently seasick. They clung to the rail of the small boat as it pitched in the summer gale which had blown up from the south and whistled up the narrow channel between the Swedish mainland and the island of Oland. There was but one significant difference between them – while Carey thought he was dying McCready knew he was dying.

They both felt better when they set foot ashore at Borgholm. There a car awaited them, and a police officer who introduced himself with a jerky bow as ‘Hoglund, Olof.’

‘I’m Carey and this is McCready.’ The wind blew off the sea and riffled his short grey hair. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

‘Certainly. This way.’ As Hoglund ushered them to the car he said, ‘Your Mr Thornton arrived an hour ago.’

Carey stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Has he, indeed?’ He glanced sideways at McCready, and muttered, ‘What the hell does he want?’

They were silent as they drove through the streets of Borgholm. It was not the time yet for talk; that would come later after they had seen what they had come to see. Carey’s mind was busy with speculations arising from the presence of Thornton, and even if he wanted to discuss it with McCready he could not do so in the presence of Hoglund.

The car pulled up in front of a two-storey building and they went inside, Hoglund leading the way. He took them into a back room where there was a trestle table set up. On the table was a long shape covered with a white cloth. Behind the table stood a short young man with a neat vandyke beard, who wore a white coat. Hoglund introduced him as Dr Carlson. ‘You already know Mr Thornton.’

Thornton was a tall, dark man of cadaverous features, smooth unlined skin and indecipherable expression. He was a young-looking sixty or an aged forty – it was hard to determine which and Thornton was not going to tell anybody. It was not his habit to tell anyone anything that did not concern him and he was chary of doing even that. He could have been Carey’s boss but he was not; Carey was proud and pleased to be in another department.

He lifted yellowed, dyspeptic eyes as Carey and McCready entered the room. Carey nodded to him curtly, and turned to Carlson. ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he said in a weary voice. He was very tired. ‘May I see it?’

Carlson nodded without speaking and drew back the cloth. Carey looked down with an expressionless face and motioned for the cloth to be drawn back farther. ‘This is how he was found?’

‘The body has been cleaned externally,’ said Carlson. ‘It was covered with oil. And the manacles have been removed, of course.’

Carey nodded. ‘Of course. There was no clothing?’

‘The man was naked.’

McCready looked at Carey and raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as …’

Carey was unaccountably clumsy. He turned and trod heavily on McCready’s foot. ‘Sorry, George.’ He turned to Carlson. ‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’

Carlson frowned. ‘That will have to await the autopsy,’ he said cautiously. ‘At the moment it is a question of whether he was drowned or poisoned.’

Thornton stepped forward. ‘Did you say poisoned?’ Carey analysed the tone of voice. In spite of Thornton’s habitual flatness of expression he thought he detected a note of genuine surprise.

‘I’ll show you,’ said Carlson. He opened the jaws of the corpse and took a long spatula and thrust it down the throat. McCready winced and turned away. Carlson withdrew the spatula and held it out. ‘A scraping from the inside of the throat.’