Sidney Sheldon - The Doomsday Conspiracy

For years he had gone begging to the creeps for jobs, and now they were going to crawl to him, and he was going to make them pay through the nose.

He could not wait. He had to start immediately. Since bloody British Telecom had shut off his phone merely because he happened to be a few weeks late making his last quarterly payment, Mothershed had to go outside to find a phone. On an impulse, he decided to go to Langan’s, the celebrity hangout, and treat himself to a much deserved lunch. Langan’s was well beyond his means, but if there was ever a time to celebrate, this was it. Wasn’t he on the verge of becoming rich and famous?

A maitre d’ seated Mothershed at a table in a corner of the restaurant, and there, at a booth not ten feet away, he saw two familiar faces. He suddenly realized who they were, and a little thrill ran through him. Michael Caine and Roger Moore, in person! He wished his mother were still alive so he could tell her about it. She had loved reading about movie stars. The two men were laughing and having a good time, not a care in the world, and Mother-shed could not help staring. Their glances moved past him. Smug bastards, Leslie Mothershed thought angrily. I suppose they expect me to come over and ask for their autographs. Well, in a few days they’re going to be asking for mine. They’ll befalling all over themselves to introduce me to their friends. “Leslie, I want you to meet Charles and Di, and this is Fergie and Andrew. Leslie, you know, is the chap who took those famous photos of the UFOs.”

When Mothershed finished his lunch, he walked past the two stars, and went upstairs to the phone booth. Directory Inquiries gave him the number of the Sun.

“I’d like to speak to your picture editor.”

A male voice came on the line. “Chapman.”

“What would it be worth to you to have photographs of a UFO with the bodies of two aliens in it?”

The voice at the other end of the phone said, “If the pictures are good enough, we might run them as an example of a clever hoax, and …”

Mothershed said waspishly, “It so happens that this is no hoax. I have the names of nine reputable witnesses who will testify that it’s real … including a priest.”

The man’s tone changed. “Oh? And where were these pictures taken?”

“Never mind,” Mothershed said cagily. He was not going to let them trick him into giving away any information. “Are you interested?”

The voice said cautiously, “If you can prove that the pictures are authentic, yes, we would be very interested.”

Damn right you would, Mothershed thought gleefully. “I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.

The other two phone calls were just as satisfactory. Mothershed had to admit to himself that getting the names and addresses of the witnesses had been a stroke of pure genius. There was no way now that anyone could accuse him of trying to perpetrate a fraud. These pictures were going to appear on the front pages of every important newspaper and magazine in the world. With my credit: Photographs by Leslie Mothershed.

As Mothershed left the restaurant he could not resist walking up to the booth where the two stars were seated. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but would you give me your autographs?”

Roger Moore and Michael Caine smiled up at him pleasantly. They scribbled their names on pieces of paper and handed them to the photographer.

“Thank you.”

When Leslie Mothershed got outside, he savagely tore up the autographs and threw them away.

Screw them! he thought. I’m more important than they are.

Robert took a taxi to Whitechapel. They drove through the City, the business section of London, heading east until they reached the Whitechapel Road, the area made infamous a century earlier by Jack the Ripper. Along the Whitechapel Road were dozens of outside stalls selling everything from clothing to fresh vegetables, to carpets.

As the taxi neared Mothershed’s address, the neighbourhood became more and more dilapidated. Graffiti was scrawled all over the peeling, brownstone buildings. They passed the Weaver’s Arms pub. That would be Mothershed’s local, Robert thought. Another sign read: “Walker Bookmaker” … Mothershed probably places his bets on horses there.

They finally reached 213A Grove Road. Robert dismissed the taxi and studied the building in front of him. It was an ugly two-storey building that had been converted into small flats. Inside was the man who had a complete list of the witnesses Robert had been sent to find.

Leslie Mothershed was in the living room, poring over his windfall, when the doorbell rang. He looked up, startled, filled with a sudden inexplicable fear. The ring was repeated. Mothershed scooped up his precious photographs and hurried into the converted darkroom. He slipped the pictures into a pile of old prints, then walked back into the living room and opened the front door. He stared at the stranger who stood there.

“Yes?”

“Leslie Mothershed?”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

“I don’t know. What is this about?”

Robert pulled out a Defence Ministry identification card and flashed it. “I’m here on official business, Mr Mothershed. We can either talk here or at the Ministry.” It was a bluff. But he could see the sudden fear on the photographer’s face.

Leslie Mothershed swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but … come in.”

Robert entered the drab room. It was shabby-genteel, dreary, not a place where anyone would live by choice.

“Would you kindly explain what you’re doing here?” Mothershed put the proper note of innocent exasperation in his voice.

“I’m here to question you about some photographs you took.”

He knew it! He had known it from the moment he heard the bell. The bastards are going to try to take my fortune away from me. Well, I’m not going to let them do it. “What photographs are you talking about?”

Robert said patiently, “The ones you took at the site of the UFO crash.”

Mothershed stared at Robert for a moment as though caught by surprise, and then forced a laugh. “Oh, those! I wish I had them to give to you.”

“You did take those pictures?”

“I tried.”

“What do you mean … you tried?”

“The bloody things never came out.” Mothershed gave a nervous cough. “My camera fogged. That’s the second time that’s happened to me.” He was babbling now. “I even threw out the negatives. They were no good. It was a complete waste of film. And you know how expensive film is these days.”

He’s a bad liar, Robert thought. He’s on the edge of panic. Robert said sympathetically, “Too bad. Those photographs would have been very helpful.” He said nothing about the list of passengers. If Mothershed lied about the photographs, he would lie about the list. Robert glanced around. The photographs and the list had to be hidden here somewhere. They shouldn’t be difficult to find. The flat consisted of the small living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and what looked like a door to a utility closet. There was no way he could force the man to hand over the material. He had no real authority. But he wanted those photographs and the list of witnesses before the SIS came and took them away. He needed that list for himself.

“Yes,” Mothershed sighed. “Those pictures would have been worth a fortune.”

“Tell me about the spaceship,” Robert said.

Mothershed gave an involuntary shudder. The eerie scene was fixed in his mind forever. “I’ll never forget it,” he said. “The ship seemed to … to pulsate, like it was alive. There was something evil about it. And then there were these two dead aliens inside.”