Desmond Bagley - The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

‘I don’t think I’ve got this straight,’ said Carey. ‘You’re saying that Denison is half out of his mind and likely to fall asleep – or unconscious – at any time. How do you square that with the fact that he pulled the wool over one of my people’s eyes very successfully, and that he encountered a very tricky situation which might have been the death of him and coped with it very well?’

‘Oh, he’s quite competent,’ said Harding. ‘It’s only when he tries to question his own past that he faces the impossible and goes into a fugue. Judging by what you told me of the manner in which he was wounded I’d say that he’s more competent than I would have expected under the circumstances.’

‘He’s bloody competent,’ said McCready suddenly, and Carey turned to look at him. ‘I haven’t told you this, but he’s tagged Mrs Hansen.’

‘He’s what ?’

‘He knows she carries a gun – he told me so. He said he thought I ought to know.’

Harding wore an I-told-you-so expression and Carey’s face was a study in bafflement. ‘Another thing,’ said McCready. ‘Alcoholic or not, he’s on the wagon now. Mrs Hansen said he tried a whisky last night and he gave the impression that he’d swallowed prussic acid.’

‘Interesting,’ said Harding. ‘The man’s mind has been stirred like porridge. It would be remarkable if it has cured his alcoholism. However, I’m afraid the cure is much worse than the complaint. He’ll have to be hospitalized, of course. I can make the arrangements for that.’

Carey stood up. ‘Thank you, Dr Harding.’

Harding also arose. ‘I’d like to see him again tomorrow. What’s going to happen to him now?’

‘I’ll take good care of him,’ said Carey smoothly.

‘You’d better,’ warned Harding. ‘If he doesn’t get skilled attention he’s quite likely to go insane.’ He yawned. ‘Well, I’m off to bed.’

He left the room and Carey sat down again. He picked up the two photographs and brooded over them. McCready said, ‘That’s it, then; the whole thing’s a bust. No Meyrick – no operation.’

Carey did not say anything, and McCready asked, ‘What are you thinking?’

Carey said slowly, ‘I’m thinking that, while we may not have Meyrick, we’ve got a bloody good substitute.’

McCready’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean you want to hang on to him? You heard what Harding just said – the man’s likely to go crazy. It’s not what I’d call ethical.’

‘Don’t talk to me about ethics,’ said Carey harshly. ‘I have a job to do.’ He threw down the photographs. ‘Iredale wants to give Denison his face back, and Harding wants to restore his past. If we let Harding at him tomorrow with his tricky bloody hypnotism then Denison is going to pick up his marbles and go home.’

He frowned and came to a decision. ‘Take him back to the hotel,’ he said abruptly.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ said McCready. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘I know,’ said Carey. ‘But just work this one out while you’re taking Denison back. When the attempt was being made on Denison’s life at the Spiralen who was being attacked – Denison or Meyrick?’

McCready opened his mouth slowly while his mind spun. Carey said, ‘Denison must be watched. The guard on his room stays and I want somebody outside keeping an eye on his window. And I want that whole bloody hotel sewn up tight. Now get cracking.’

McCready dropped Denison off in the garage of the hotel. ‘I won’t come up,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which is today. God, it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning. You get to bed.’

They had both been silent during the short drive. Now Denison said, ‘What was all that about? I understood the first doctor, but the second was a psychiatrist, wasn’t he?’

McCready said, ‘Carey will be seeing you tomorrow. He’ll explain everything.’ He paused, biting his lip. ‘I promise you.’

‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘I’m too tired to argue now. But Carey had better come up with something good.’ He nodded to McCready and walked towards the stairs. He did not look back, but if he had and if he had been able to interpret the look in McCready’s eyes he might have recognized compassion.

Denison opened the door leading into the hotel lobby and saw suitcases stacked into a pile. There was a peal of laughter from the group of early arrivals, a crowd of young people who adorned the lobby like butterflies. He walked towards the porter’s desk and stood waiting while the overworked night porter did his best to deal with the rush.

At last, Denison caught his eye, and said, Three-sixty, please.’

‘Yes, Mr Meyrick.’ The porter unhooked the key.

Denison did not see the girl who stared at him in surprise, but heard the cool voice behind him saying, ‘Daddy!’ He turned leisurely and was suddenly and horrifyingly aware that the young woman was addressing him.

It was greatly to Denison’s credit that he did not panic. His first impulse was to step back and deny he was Meyrick – that it was a question of mistaken identity. Hard on that decision came the realization that it would not do; the night porter knew his name and was within earshot, and, in any case, a disclaimer in the hotel lobby was sure to create a fuss. He cancelled the impulse.

She was kissing him and he felt his own lips hard and unresponsive. Perhaps it was his lack of reaction that caused her to step back, the smile fading from her face. She said, ‘I was hoping to find you here, but I hardly expected to run into you in the same hotel – and at five in the morning. What are you doing up so early – or so late?’

She was young – not much more than twenty – and had the clear eyes and clear skin of youth. Her eyes were grey and her mouth wide and generous, perhaps too wide for perfect beauty. To the untutored male eye she wore no make-up but perhaps that was a tribute to skill.

He swallowed. ‘I was visiting a friend; the talk tended to go on a bit.’

‘Oh.’ She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her motoring coat and turned her head to look at the harassed porter. ‘It’s going to take hours before I get my room. Can I freshen up in yours? I must look a sight.’

His mouth was dry and, for a moment, he could not speak. She looked at him curiously. ‘You are staying here?’ Then she laughed. ‘Of course you are; you have the key in your hand.’

‘I just have to make a telephone call,’ he said, and stepped away slightly, disengaging himself.

‘Why not from the room?’

‘It’s just as easy from down here.’ He walked away to the public telephones, fumbling in his pocket for coins.

The public telephones were not in booths but were surrounded by large transparent plastic hoods which theoretically would keep conversations private. He was aware that the girl had followed him and was standing close by. He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper, and dialled the number. The ringing sound buzzed in his ear six times, and then a voice said, ‘Yes?’

He kept his voice low. ‘I want Carey.’

‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’

He raised his voice a little. ‘I want to talk to Carey.’

Doubtfully: ‘I don’t think that’s possible. He’s in bed.’

‘I don’t care if he’s in his coffin. Get him up. This is Denison.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Right!’

In a remarkably short time Carey came on the line. ‘Denison?’

‘It’s trouble. Meyrick’s …’

Carey cut in with a voice like gravel. ‘How did you know to ring this number?’

‘For God’s sake! That can wait.’