Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

Branson was alone with Hendrix in the Presidential coach. Branson said: ‘Do you honestly expect me to believe that you and Hagenbach know nothing about this?’

Hendrix said wearily: ‘Nothing. There’s been a botulinus outbreak downtown in the past few days.’ He pointed towards the TV set in the middle of the roadway. ‘If you watch that at all, you must have heard of it.’ He pointed again towards the evening meal wagon where the two doctors were busily at work. ‘They were convinced before arrival what the trouble was.’ He refrained from adding that he’d told the doctors to find not more than a dozen cases of poisoning. ‘You have lives on your hands, Branson.’

‘Don’t we all. Get on that phone there. Some more hot meals. The first three, taken by random sample, will be by the President, the King and the Prince. You do understand, don’t you?’

Revson was in the ambulance with O’Hare and April Wednesday. She was lying blanket-covered on the hinged-down bed.

She said, drowsily: ‘Did you have to do this to me?’

‘Yes. You don’t like thumb-screws.’

‘No. Maybe you’re not the monster I thought you were. But Dr O’Hare–’

‘Dr O’Hare, as he would say in his own native tongue, is a different kettle of fish. What did Branson say?’

She said sleepily: ‘Same cable. Bay side.’

Her eyelids closed. O’Hare took Revson by the arm. His voice was quiet. ‘Enough.’

‘How long?’

‘Two hours. Not less.’

‘The pens.’

O’Hare withdrew the pens from his clipboard. ‘You do know what you’re doing?’

‘I hope.’ He thought briefly, then said: ‘You’re going to be questioned.’

‘I know. You want your torch?’

‘Later.’

Kylenski was the senior of the two doctors examining the food trays. He said to Branson: ‘My colleague and I have found twelve infected food trays.’

Branson looked at Van Effen then back at Kylenski. ‘That all? Twelve? Not seventeen?’

Kylenski had a grey beard, grey moustache and aquiline aristocratic stare. ‘Twelve. Spoiled meat. Some form of botulinus. You don’t even have to taste it. You can smell it. Well, I can. Apparently Hansen didn’t.’

‘Lethal?’

‘In this concentration, normally, no. This infected food didn’t kill Hansen. Well, not directly. But it was almost certainly responsible for reactivating this long-standing and severe heart ailment which did kill him.’

‘What would the effect of this be on the average healthy adult?’

‘Incapacitating. Violent vomiting, possibility of stomach haemorrhaging, unconsciousness or something pretty close to it.’

‘So a man would be pretty helpless?’

‘He’d be incapable of action. Most likely of thought, too.’

‘What a perfectly splendid prospect. For some.’ Branson looked again at Van Effen. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think I want to know what you want to know.’ Van Effen turned to Kylenski. ‘This poison or whatever it is – could it have been deliberately introduced?’

‘Who on earth would want to do a thing like that?’

Branson said: ‘Answer the question.’

‘Any doctor specializing in this field, any research fellow, even a reasonably competent laboratory assistant could produce the necessary toxin culture.’

‘But he would have to be a doctor or in some way associated with the medical profession? I mean, this would call for trained knowledge and laboratory facilities?’

‘Normally, yes.’

Branson said to the meal wagon attendant: ‘Come out from behind that counter, Tony.’

Tony came. His apprehension was unmistakable.

Branson said: ‘It’s not all that hot, Tony. It’s turning quite cool, in fact. Why are you sweating?’

‘I don’t like all this violence and guns.’

‘No one has offered you any violence or even pointed a gun at you, although I’m not saying that both of them aren’t going to happen to you in the very near future. I suggest, Tony, that you are suffering from a guilty conscience.’

‘Me? Conscience?’ Tony actually mopped his brow: if his conscience wasn’t troubling him something else clearly was. ‘God’s sake, Mr Branson–’

‘Fairy stories are fairy stories but they don’t run to a dozen coincidences at a time. Only a fool would accept that. But there had to be some way of identifying the poisoned plates. What way, Tony?’

‘Why don’t you leave him alone, Branson?’ Vice-President Richards’s voice was at once harsh and contemptuous. ‘He’s only a van driver.’

Branson ignored him. ‘How were the plates to be identified?’

‘I don’t know! I don’t! I don’t even know what you are talking about!’

Branson turned to Kowalski and Peters. ‘Throw him into the Golden Gate.’ His voice was as level and conversational as ever.

Tony made an animal-like noise but offered no resistance as Kowalski and Peters took an arm apiece and began to march him away. His face was ashen and rivulets of sweat were now pouring down his face. When he did speak his voice was a harsh unbelieving croak.

‘Throw me off the bridge! That’s murder! Murder! In the name of God I don’t know–’

Branson said: ‘You’ll be telling me next that you have a wife and three kids.’

‘I’ve got nobody.’ His eyes turned up in his head and his legs sagged under him until he had to be dragged across the roadway. Both the Vice-President and Hendrix moved in to intercept the trio. They stopped as Van Effen lifted his Schmeisser.

Van Effen said to Branson: ‘If there was a way of identifying those plates, that would be important and dangerous information. Would you entrust Tony with anything like that?’

‘Not for a second. Enough?’

‘He’ll tell anything he knows. I suspect it won’t be much.’ He raised his voice. ‘Bring him back.’

Tony was brought back and released. He sagged wearily to the roadway, struggled with difficulty to his feet and clung tremblingly to the luncheon wagonette. His voice shook as much as his frame.

‘I know nothing about the plates. I swear it!’

‘Tell us what you do know.’

‘I thought something was far wrong when they loaded the food into my van.’

‘At the hospital?’

‘The hospital? I don’t work at the hospital. I work for Selznick’s.’

‘I know them. The caterers for open-air functions. Well?’

‘I was told the food was ready when I got there. I’m usually loaded and away in five minutes. This time it took three-quarters of an hour.’

‘Did you see anybody from the hospital when you were waiting at Selznick’s?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You’ll live a little longer, Tony. Provided you don’t eat that damned food of yours.’ He turned to O’Hare. ‘Well, that leaves only you and the fragile Miss Wednesday.’

‘You insinuating that either of us might have been carrying secret instructions from your alleged poisoners?’ There was more contempt than incredulity in O’Hare’s tone.

‘Yes. Let’s have Miss Wednesday here.’

O’Hare said: ‘Leave her alone.’

‘You said – who do you think is in charge here?’

‘Where a patient of mine is concerned, I am. If you want her here, you’ll have to carry her. She’s asleep in the ambulance, under heavy sedation. Can’t you take my word?’

‘No. Kowalski, go check. You know, a couple of stiff fingers in the abdomen.’

Kowalski returned within ten seconds. ‘Out like a light.’

Branson looked at O’Hare. ‘How very convenient. Maybe you didn’t want her subjected to interrogation?’

‘You’re a lousy psychologist, Branson. Miss Wednesday is not, as you know, cast in the heroic mould. Can you imagine anyone entrusting her with any vital information?’ Branson made no reply. ‘Apart from that, the only good thing that’s ever been said about you is that you never molest women.’