Agatha Christie - Destination Unknown

There were few people left now. Betterton guided Hilary with his hand on her arm to a clear space near the parapet. The stars showed above them and the air was cold now, crisp and exhilarating. They were alone here. Hilary sat down on the low concrete, and Betterton stood in front of her.

"Now then," he said in a low nervous voice, "Who the hell are you?"

She looked up at him for a moment or two without answering. Before she replied to his question there was something that she herself had got to know.

"Why did you recognise me as your wife?" she asked.

They looked at each other. Neither of them wished to be the first to answer the other's question. It was a duel of wills between them, but Hilary knew that whatever Tom Betterton had been like when he left England, his will was now inferior to her own. She had arrived here fresh in the self-confidence of organising her own life – Tom Betterton had been living a planned existence. She was the stronger.

He looked away from her at last, and muttered sullenly:

"It was – just an impulse. I was probably a damned fool. I fancied that you might have been sent – to get me out of here."

"You want to get out of here, then?"

"My God, can you ask?"

"How did you get here from Paris?"

Tom Betterton gave a short unhappy laugh.

"I wasn't kidnapped or anything like that, if that's what you mean. I came of my own free will under my own steam. I came keenly and enthusiastically."

"You knew that you were coming here?"

"I'd no idea I was coming to Africa, if that's what you mean. I was caught by the usual lure. Peace on earth, free sharing of scientific secrets amongst the scientists of the world; suppression of capitalists and warmongers – all the usual jargon! That fellow Peters who came with you is the same, he's swallowed the same bait."

"And when you got here – it wasn't like that?"

Again he gave that short bitter laugh.

"You'll see for yourself. Oh, perhaps it is that, more or less! But it's not the way you thought it would be. It's not – freedom."

He sat down beside her frowning to himself.

"That's what got me down at home, you know. The feeling of being watched and spied upon. All the security precautions. Having to account for one's actions, for one's friends… All necessary, I dare say, but it gets you down in the end… And so when someone comes along with a proposition – well, you listen… It all sounds fine…" He gave a short laugh. "And one ends up – here!"

Hilary said slowly:

"You mean you've come to exactly the same circumstances as those from which you tried to escape? You're being watched and spied upon in just the same way – or worse?"

Betterton pushed his hair back nervously from his forehead.

"I don't know," he said. "Honestly. I don't know. I can't be sure. It may be all going on in my own mind. I don't know that I'm being watched at all. Why should I be? Why should they bother? They've got me here – in prison."

"It isn't in the least as you imagined it?"

"That's the odd thing. I suppose it is in a way. The working conditions are perfect. You've every facility, every kind of apparatus. You can work for as long a time as you like or as short a time. You've got every comfort and accessory. Food, clothes, living quarters, but you're conscious all the time that you're in prison."

"I know. When the gates clanged behind us today as we came in it was a horrible feeling." Hilary shuddered.

"Well," Betterton seemed to pull himself together. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine. What are you doing here pretending to be Olive?"

"Olive -" she stopped, feeling for words.

"Yes? What about Olive? What's happened to her? What are you trying to say?"

She looked with pity at his haggard nervous face.

"I've been dreading having to tell you."

"You mean – something's happened to her?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, terribly sorry… Your wife's dead… She was coming to join you and the plane crashed. She was taken to hospital and died two days later."

He stared straight ahead of him. It was as though he was determined to show no emotion of any kind. He said quietly:

"So Olive's dead? I see…"

There was a long silence. Then he turned to her.

"All right. I can go on from there. You took her place and came here, why?"

This time Hilary was ready with her response. Tom Betterton had believed that she had been sent "to get him out of here" as he had put it. That was not the case. Hilary's position was that of a spy. She had been sent to gain information not to plan the escape of a man who had placed himself willingly in the position he now was. Moreover she could command no means of deliverance, she was a prisoner as much as he was.

To confide in him fully would, she felt, be dangerous. Betterton was very near a breakdown. At any moment he might go completely to pieces. In those circumstances it would be madness to expect him to keep a secret.

She said,

"I was in the hospital with your wife when she died. I offered to take her place and try and reach you. She wanted to get a message to you very badly."

He frowned.

"But surely -"

She hurried on – before he could realise the weakness of the tale.

"It's not so incredible as it sounds. You see I had a lot of sympathy with all these ideas – the ideas you've just been talking about. Scientific secrets shared with all nations – a new World Order. I was enthusiastic about it all. And then my hair – if what they expected was a red-haired woman of the right age, I thought I'd get through. It seemed worth trying anyway."

"Yes," he said. His eyes swept over her head. "Your hair's exactly like Olive's."

"And then, you see, your wife was so insistent – about the message she wanted me to give to you."

"Oh yes, the message. What message?"

"To tell you to be careful – very careful – that you were in danger – from someone called Boris?"

"Boris? Boris Glydr, do you mean?"

"Yes, do you know him?"

He shook his head.

"I've never met him. But I know him by name. He's a relation of my first wife's. I know about him."

"Why should he be dangerous?"

"What?"

He spoke absently.

Hilary repeated her question.

"Oh, that." He seemed to come back from far away. "I don't know why he should be dangerous to me, but it's true that by all accounts he's a dangerous sort of chap."

"In what way?"

"Well, he's one of those half balmy idealists who would quite happily kill off half humanity if they thought for some reason it would be a good thing."

"I know the sort of person you mean."

She felt she did know – vividly. (But why?)

"Had Olive seen him? What did he say to her?"

"I can't tell you. That's all she said. About danger – oh yes, she said she couldn't believe it."

"Believe what?"

"I don't know." She hesitated a minute and then said, "You see – she was dying…"

A spasm of pain convulsed his face.

"I know… I know… I shall get used to it in time. At the moment I can't realise it. But I'm puzzled about Boris. How could he be dangerous to me here? If he'd seen Olive he was in London, I suppose?"

"He was in London, yes."

"Then I simply don't get it…Oh well, what does it matter? What the hell does anything matter? Here we are, stuck in this bloody Unit surrounded by a lot of inhuman Robots…"

"That's just how they felt to me."

"And we can't get out" He pounded with his fist on the concrete. "We can't get out."

"Oh yes, we can," said Hilary.

He turned to stare at her in surprise.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"We'll find a way," said Hilary.

"My dear girl," his laugh was scornful. "You haven't the faintest idea what you're up against in this place."