Skyprobe (7 page)

“Wash,” Horn said. “We don’t like dirt around here. There’s a shaver ready for you, too. Your host is very particular, mac.” He indicated an electric shaver, already plugged in to a point alongside a mirror. There was also a new toothbrush and an unused tube of paste. The service was good, once away from the cellar. Shaw got to work on himself gladly, and sluiced away the coal-dust. When he was ready Horn prodded him out through the door again and along the passage, and halted him at another door leading off the hall.

Moss walked round Shaw and opened the door.

Shaw stopped short in the doorway of a room where two men and a girl were finishing breakfast; it was one of the most ordinary domestic scenes imaginable. Or it would have been if the characters had been different. One of the men was Rudolf Rencke. The girl, a dark piece who used much eye-shadow, was in her early twenties and looked as if she’d just come in from a night on the razzle. But the other man, seated negligently back from the head of the table with his knees crossed, reading the
Times
, was nearer Shaw’s mental image of the kind of master this house would have—yet he was possibly the most surprising person to find at this particular table. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, handsome, with thick, neatly-oiled hair greying above the ears, perfectly groomed in an elegant, expensive and beautifully-cut suit and an Old Etonian tie. Shaw knew that if he had chosen to wear it, the man would have been equally entitled to the colours of the Brigade of Guards. For, on a kind of nodding acquaintanceship, Shaw knew him. His name was Hilary St George Thixey and he worked for a certain department of State as elegant as himself. On the security side.

“Morning, old man! You’ll have some breakfast, of course?” Thixey was entirely at ease, the perfect host, welcoming, charming. Putting the
Times
down beside his plate he smiled across at Shaw. “Or are you not hungry, after the unfortunate occurrences during the last twenty-four hours? I’m awfully sorry about the way you had to be treated, by the way—but it really couldn’t be helped, old man.” He brushed a crumb off his cuff.

Shaw asked, “What are you doing here, Thixey?”

Thixey waved a hand, dismissingly. “Don’t worry about all that for now, old man. Don’t let’s discuss business before you’ve eaten. Breakfast discussions were all very well in the more spacious days when one had had a couple of hours’ crack-of-dawn sniping at the wild duck, what? In these days it’s uncivilized—not done! Do sit down, my dear chap.”

Thixey gestured to Moss. Moss glanced at Shaw, moved past him into the room, and pulled out a chair. There being nothing else to do in this astonishing situation, Shaw walked forward and sat down at the table. Moss asked sardonically, “Bacon an’ eggs—fried? Or haddock, for the gentleman?”

“Neither. Just a roll and marmalade.” He didn’t feel in the least like fried eggs or haddock for the time being, but the hot rolls smelt almost appetizing; so did the coffee. He wondered if this was some dream resulting from the blow he’d taken on his head, or from the hypodermic. It simply wasn’t making sense.

Moss said, “Rolls are on the table, aren’t they? Help yourself. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee—hot, strong and very black.” The girl was watching him, Shaw noticed, with something like approval and desire in her eyes. She looked tough—she was big-built, rather like a layman’s idea of a prison wardress. Any man less tough would be eaten alive. Moss poured coffee and brought the cup to the table, setting it beside Shaw. While Shaw drank, Moss retreated to the window where he slouched against the wall and started picking his nose again. Thixey was watching Shaw, an enigmatic smile twisting his lips. Shaw stared back at him, wondering what the man was playing at, whose side he was on. Thixey had a first-class reputation for brains and initiative, and in his younger days had had his share of field work as an agent. It went without saying that his record was as clear as a bell, that his background and connections were quite beyond reproach ... it was inconceivable, surely, that he could be a traitor. Yet here he was, apparently totally accepted by these men, including Rudolf Rencke. Where, how and why—and when—had Thixey deviated? That background of his didn’t lead a man towards Communism—or could it, perhaps? The stately home—Thixey’s home was Weltham Hall and he was by way of being the local squire, or would have been in the more spacious days of duck shooting that he’d spoken of—Eton and Sandhurst and the Brigade of Guards, followed by absorption into high-level security and all that that entailed, could have produced some kind of inner rebellion, a revulsion of the spirit. It had happened before. And agents, of all people, had the best opportunities of making the wrong sort of contacts—they had to, simply in the line of duty. Thixey could have been seduced by cash or promises—he probably wasn’t exactly wealthy according to his standards—or by threats, after an indiscretion? One thing was clear: Shaw had been brought, if not right to the heart of whatever was being planned against the American space mission, then at least pretty close to it; for Hilary St. George Thixey, if he was one of the other side, must, by the very nature of his British standing and his professional knowledge, be one of the bigger boys in the set-up. They would hardly employ a top British security man as tea boy.

Shaw finished a roll and politely Thixey tried to press him to another. He refused.

“Quite sure, old man?” Thixey was solicitous.

“Absolutely certain, thank you,” Shaw felt a strong desire to laugh; the country-house atmosphere was too ridiculous. He stirred his coffee.

“Smoke?”

“Thank you. . ."

Thixey held out a gold case. Shaw took a Sobrania Virginia. Thixey flicked a lighter; smoke drifted up from his own cigarette, widened into an early sunbeam coming through the tall, elegant window where Moss stood. The girl was still watching Shaw, looking at him now over the rim of her cup as, somewhat noisily, she drank tea. Rudolf Rencke was in the background, just sitting quietly and looking his pasty, unhealthy self. Thixey smiled and asked, “Surprised to see me, old man?”

Shaw gave a hard laugh. “Simply to say yes seems a totally inadequate answer—old man.”

Thixey grinned and leaned back in his chair. He glanced across at the American, Horn, who was still by the door and holding the silenced revolver aimed between Shaw’s shoulder-blades. Breakfast wasn’t really quite the happy, carefree party Thixey was trying to make it seem—the gun spoilt the atmosphere. Moss, too, was keeping a hand loosely inside his double-breasted jacket, ready to reach into the shoulder-holster that showed as a slight bulge in the cloth. Thixey said, “Yes, I quite understand, of course. It must seem awfully odd to you. Don’t be shy in front of my friends,” he added. “They know who I am and what my job is. My
British
job, I’m referring to.”

“What about your other job, Thixey, the one that fits with all this?” Shaw waved a hand around the room, taking in the company. “How did you get hitched up with a man like Rencke?”

Thixey laughed. “Not so fast, my dear chap! All will become crystal clear in due course—”

“What are they paying you for this, Thixey? Or have they got a file on you, held somewhere safe . . . complete with compromising photographs, perhaps?”

Thixey didn’t like that; his mouth thinned for a moment, then he relaxed again and smiled. “My dear old man, there’s nothing like that at all! I assure you, I never get myself into compromising situations of that sort. I’m here of my own free will entirely, and—”

“What do you want with me?”

“That’s what I’m coming to if you’ll give me a chance. Mossy, a little more coffee, please.” Thixey held out his cup; Moss came away from the window, took the cup and refilled it. Thixey drank a little, then went on. “There’s one thing I must tell you. I know your reputation, Shaw—I know you’ve got yourself out of extremely tricky situations before now. At the moment you’ve got one thing in your mind, and that is, to find out all you can from me and then get away in one piece so you can pass it on to Whitehall. That’s your form, isn’t it? This time, if I were you, I wouldn’t even begin to reckon the odds because, believe me, they’re all against you. For a start, if you try anything now, our friends with the guns will rip you apart before you’ve moved out of your chair. And I’m as ready to shoot as they are. Next: you can’t get out of the cellar once we put you back in. If you even try to, an alarm system blasts off where one of us can hear it twenty-four hours a day. So be reasonable. We don’t want to have to kill you, old man, but I do want you to understand that if we have to, we will, without any hesitation whatsoever.”

“We, Thixey?” Shaw looked into the man’s eyes. “Just who do you mean when you say ‘we’? And what have ‘we’ planned for Skyprobe IV, Thixey?”

There was an immediate reaction from the others. The girl’s eyes went blank and she looked down quickly at her cup. Moss’s body jerked and the hand went deeper into the jacket, looking as if it were about to come out with the gun, like a lucky dip. Behind Shaw, the American could be heard sucking in a long, whistling breath. Rencke’s heavy square face, suffusing, lost its pastiness and his fists clenched on the table. Only Thixey remained completely unmoved and at ease, his long, well-kept fingers carrying the Sobranie to his lips and his eyes sardonic, amused, even mischievous beneath the fine head of hair. He asked casually, “What do you know about Skyprobe IV, old man?”

Shaw said, “I asked you the question first, Thixey.'”

The girl came to life then. She said sharply, “Watch out. He’s on to something, Hilary.” The accent was Australian—Sydney, Shaw fancied.

“Nonsense, Beatty!” Thixey gave a light laugh, a laugh of amusement, and once again brushed his cuff with his hand. “We know he met Spalinski, after all.” He paused, drew on his cigarette deeply, filling his lungs and then letting the smoke drift out in twin streams through his nostrils. “We think perhaps you’ll tell us exactly how much Spalinski was able to pass on to you. Are you going to do that, old man?”

Shaw said briefly, “It’s not very likely, is it?”

“You may change your mind, you know.”

“We’ll see about that. Is this why you had me brought here, Thixey?”

“Partly, yes. Naturally, we had to get hold of you once you’d met Spalinski—if it hadn’t been for that, old man, we probably wouldn’t have bothered with you, as a matter of fact—but there are certain other things we’d rather like to know before we put our plans into effect. Just because you happen to be here, you know.” Thixey flicked ash off his cigarette. “We’d like to know what Spalinski told you, and what you’ve passed to your chief and Washington—and what action is being taken on it. If you wonder why I can’t find that out for myself through my official position, the answer is that I’m currently enjoying a well-earned long leave overseas and can’t be got at. That being the case, to contact my office or my colleagues just now would look a trifle curious, and would undoubtedly lead to all kinds of awkward questions being asked.”

Shaw said, “I see. Well—Spalinski didn’t, in fact, tell me anything, so you’re dead unlucky, Thixey. Your man got him before he could talk.” He looked across at Rencke. “It was you, wasn’t it, Rencke?”

Rencke smiled; his eyes held a look of warmth. “Yes,” he said. “I killed Spalinski.”

“Fetters, too?”

“Yes, also Fetters.” He looked and sounded happy about it. Quite clearly, the act of killing gave him pleasure for its own sake.

Thixey said, “Rencke’s terribly efficient, you know.” There was an odd note in his voice. “Now tell me, Shaw: what exactly did Spalinski say? Come on, old man—you can tell us that! Spalinski’s dead already, and you’ll save yourself an immense amount of trouble if you accept the inevitable.”

Shaw said steadily, “All he told me was what I’ve indicated by inference already—that Skyprobe IV was under threat. And if I were you, Thixey, I’d get out from under very fast indeed, because if anything does happen to the capsule, it means war. You can take that as definite.”

“We’ll skip the good advice, old man, if you don’t mind. Is that really all Spalinski said?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“I wonder, old man—I wonder if it was!” Thixey stared at him thoughtfully. “You know . . . it’s rather important we establish whether or not you’re telling the truth. You see, somehow or other Spalinski had got hold of the whole story—”

“I assumed that. If he hadn’t, he would hardly have come to England to talk, would he?”

“I imagine not, indeed.” Thixey blew smoke. “I’m afraid we can’t possibly take your unadorned word, old man. You’ll have to have a little prompting . . . you agree, of course, Rencke?”

“I agree very much indeed,” Rencke said softly. “I think it is of little use to keep the velvet glove too long, my friend.” His moist red lips, sensual lips, hung open a little as his glance strayed towards the Australian girl, Beatty. “Yes, it is time we allowed the young lady to see what she can do.”

“Very well,” Thixey said in an equable tone. “Hands, please, gentiemen.”

Moss moved and the American moved and a Luger automatic appeared in Thixey’s hand. Suddenly Shaw felt his arms taken in a powerful grip and his hands were forced down on to the table. Thixey reached out to the girl with his left hand and passed her his cigarette. “All yours. Beatty,” he said.

Beatty took a pull at the cigarette and when the end was glowing really bright and red she leaned across the table till Shaw could see the deep cleft between her breasts. She was very well built in that respect; Shaw kept his eyes and his thoughts steadily on those voluptuous mounds of flesh when the cigarette came down on the back of one of his clenched fists and burned in deep.

The girl kept it there and leaned right across to take another pull in situ to keep it glowing. Through a mist of pain, the breasts seemed to loom over Shaw like flesh-pink balloons at a children’s party.

Rencke’s mouth was half-way open now, the over-red lips drawn back in a curious snarl to show the gold teeth nestling among the pearls. Rencke was enjoying this; there was a sweat of consummated sadism on his forehead. Thixey asked, “Well, old man?”