Sidney Sheldon - The Doomsday Conspiracy

“Can you tell me anything about the passengers on the bus?”

Sure I can, Mothershed gloated to himself. I have all their names and addresses. “No, I’m afraid I can’t.” Mothershed went on, talking to conceal his nervousness. “The reason I can’t help you about the passengers is that I wasn’t on that bus. They were all strangers.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr Mothershed. I appreciate it. Sorry about your pictures.”

“So am I,” Mothershed said. He watched the door close behind the stranger and thought, happily, I’ve done it! I’ve outsmarted the sonsofbitches.

Outside in the hall, Robert was examining the lock on the door. A Chubb. And an old model. It would take him seconds to open it. He would start surveillance in the middle of the night and wait for the photographer to leave the flat in the morning. Once I have the list of passengers in my possession, the rest of the assignment will be simple.

Robert checked into a small hotel near Mothershed’s flat, and telephoned General Hilliard.

“I have the name of the English witness, General.”

“Just a moment. All right. Go ahead, Commander.”

“Leslie Mothershed. He lives in Whitechapel. 213A Grove Road.”

“Excellent. I’ll arrange for the British authorities to speak to him.”

Robert did not mention the passenger list or the photographs.

Those were his aces in the hole.

Reggie’s Fish and Chip Shop was located in a little cul de sac off the Brompton Road. It was a small establishment with a clientele made up mainly of clerks and secretaries who worked in the neighbourhood. Its walls were covered with football posters and the parts that were exposed had not seen fresh paint since the Suez conflict.

The phone behind the counter rang twice before it was answered by a large man dressed in a greasy wool sweater. The man looked like a typical East Ender except for a gold-rimmed monocle fixed tightly in his left eye. The reason for the monocle was apparent to anyone who looked closely at the man – his other eye was made of glass and of a colour blue that was generally seen on travel posters.

“Reggie here.”

“This is the Bishop.”

“Yes, sir,” said Reggie, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Our client’s name is Mothershed. Christian tag Leslie. Resides at 213A Grove Road, E3. We need this order filled quickly. Understood?”

“Consider it done, sir.”

Leslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was being interviewed by the world press. They were asking him about the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his chateau in the South of France, his enormous yacht. “And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become the official Royal photographer?” “Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all excuse me, I’m late for my show at the BBC …”

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Has that man returned? He walked over to the door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man shorter than Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about him) with thick glasses and a thin, sallow face.

“Excuse me,” the man said diffidently. “I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just down the block. The sign outside says you’re a photographer.”

“So?”

“Do you do passport photos?”

Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The man who was about to own the world? That would be like asking Michelangelo to paint the bathroom.

“No,” he said, rudely. He started to close the door.

“I really hate to bother you, but I’m in a terrible jam. My plane leaves for Tokyo at eight o’clock in the morning and a little while ago when I took out my passport, I saw that somehow my photograph had been torn loose. It’s missing. I’ve looked everywhere. They won’t let me on the plane without a passport photo.” The little man was near tears.

“I’m sorry,” Mothershed said. “I can’t help you.”

“I’d be willing to pay you a hundred pounds.”

A hundred pounds? To a man with a castle and a chateau and a yacht? It was an insult.

The pathetic little man was going on. “I could go even higher. Two hundred or three hundred. You see, I really must be on that plane or I’ll lose my job.”

Three hundred pounds to take a passport picture? Forgetting the developing, it would take about ten seconds. Mothershed began to calculate. That came to eighteen hundred pounds a minute. Eighteen hundred pounds a minute was one hundred and eight thousand pounds an hour. If he worked an eight-hour day, that would be eight hundred and sixty-four thousand pounds a day. In one week that would come to …

“Will you do it?”

Mothershed’s ego jockeyed with his greed, and greed won out. I can use a bit of pocket money.

“Come in,” Mothershed said. “Stand against that wall.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Mothershed wished he had a Polaroid camera. That would have made it so simple. He picked up his Vivitar and said, “Hold still.”

Ten seconds later it was done.

“It will take a while to develop it,” Mothershed said. “If you come back in …”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself.”

Mothershed took the camera into the darkroom, put it into the black bag, turned out the overhead light, switched on the red light and removed the film. He would do this in a hurry. Passport pictures always looked terrible, anyway. Fifteen minutes later, as Mothershed was timing the film in the developer tanks, he began to smell smoke. He paused. Was it his imagination? No. The smell was getting stronger. He turned to open the door. It seemed to be stuck. Mothershed pushed against it. It held fast.

“Hello,” he called out. “What’s happening out there?”

There was no response.

“Hello?” He pressed his shoulder against the door, but there seemed to be something heavy on the other side of it, keeping it closed. “Mister?”

There was no answer. The only sound he could hear was a loud crackling noise. The smell of smoke was becoming overpowering. The flat was on fire. That was probably why the man had left. He must have gone to get help. Leslie Mothershed slammed his shoulder against the door, but it would not budge. “Help!” he screamed. “Get me out of here!”

Smoke was starting to pour under the door, and Mothershed could feel the heat of the flames beginning to lick at it. It was getting difficult to breathe. He was starting to choke. He tore at his collar, gasping for air. His lungs were burning. He was beginning to lose consciousness. He sank down on his knees. “Oh, God, please don’t let me die now. Not now that I’m going to be rich and famous …”

“Reggie here.”

“Was the order filled?”

“Yes, sir. A bit overcooked but delivered on time.”

“Excellent.”

When Robert arrived at Grove Road at two o’clock in the morning, to begin his surveillance, he was confronted with an enormous traffic jam. The street was filled with official vehicles, a fire engine, ambulances and three police cars. Robert pushed his way through the crowd of bystanders and hurried over to the centre of activity. The whole building had been engulfed by the fire. From the outside he could see that the first-floor flat occupied by the photographer had been completely gutted.

“How did it happen?” Robert asked a fireman.

“We don’t know yet. Stand back, please.”

“My cousin lives in that flat. Is he all right?”

“I’m afraid not.” His tone became sympathetic. “They’re just taking him out of the building now.”