The Satan Bug (9 page)

countries or an occasional small group of MP.'s who were given to asking awkward questions in the Commons and were brought down to Mordon to see for themselves the sterling work being carried out there oil the health front against anthrax, polio, Asian flu and other diseases: such groups were shown exactly what the Mordon authorities wanted them to be shown and usually came away no wiser than they had arrived. But, on that previous day, there had been no such groups of visitors: there had been fourteen callers altogether, all of them concerned with the delivery of various supplies. I copied down their names and the reasons for their visits, and left.

I phoned the local car-hire firm, asked for the indefinite hire of one of their cars and that it should be brought and left at the gates of Mordon.

Another call to Alfringham, this time to the Waggoner's Rest, and I was lucky enough to get a room. The last call was to London, to Mary. I told her to pack a suitcase for me and one for herself and bring them both down to the Waggoner's Rest. There was a train from Paddington that would get her down by half-past six.

I left the gatehouse and went for a walk through the grounds. The air was cold and a chill October wind blowing, but I didn't walk briskly. I paced slowly up and down beside the inner fence, head bowed, gazing down at my feet most of the time. Cavell lost in thought, or so I hoped any onlooker would think. I spent the better part of an hour there, paralleling the same quarter mile of fence all the time and at last I found what I was looking for. Or so I thought. Next circuit round I stopped to tic my shoe-lace and then there was no more doubt in my mind.

Hardanger was still in the administrative block when I found him. He and Inspector Martin were poring over freshly developed batches of photographic prints. Hardanger looked up and grunted, "How's it going?"

"It's not. Any progress with you?"

"No prints on Clandon's wallet, cigarette case or books of matches—

except his own, of course. Nothing of any interest on the doors. We've found the Bedford van—rather, Inspector Wylie's men have found a Bedford van. Reported missing this afternoon by a chap called Hendry, an Alfringham carrier with three of those vans. Found less than an hour ago by a motor-cycle cop in the Hailem Woods. Sent my men across there to try it for prints."

" It's as good a way of wasting time as any."

"Maybe. Do you know the Hailem Woods?"

I nodded, " Half-way between here and Alfringham there's a ' B' road forks off to the north. About a mile and a half along that road. There may have been woods there once, but they've gone now. You wouldn't find a couple of dozen trees in the entire area now—outside gardens, that is. Residential, what's called a good neighbourhood. This fellow Hendry—a check been made?"

" Yes. Nothing there. One of those solid citizens, not only the backbone of England but a personal friend of Inspector Wylie's. They play darts for the same pub team. That," Hardanger said heavily, " puts him beyond the range of all suspicion."

"You're getting bitter." I nodded at the prints. "From number one lab, I take it. A first-class job. I wonder which of the prints belongs to the man who stays nearest to the spot where the Bedford was found."

He gave me an up-from-under glance. " As obvious as that, is it?"

"Isn't it? It would seem to leave him pretty well out. Dumping the evidence on your own door-step is as good a way as any of putting the noose round your own neck."

" Unless that's the way we're intended to think. Fellow called Chessingham. Know him?"

"Research chemist. I know him."

"Would you vouch for him?"

"In this business I wouldn't vouch for St. Peter But I'd wager a month's pay he's clear."

" I wouldn't. We're checking his story and we'll see."

" We’ll see. How many of the prints have you identified?"

" Fifteen sets altogether, as far as we can make out, but we've been able to trace only thirteen."

I thought for a minute, then nodded. "That would be about right. Dr.

Baxter, Dr. Gregori, Dr. MacDonald, Dr. Hartnell, Chessingham. Then the four technicians in that lab —Verity, Heath, Robinson and Marsh. Nine.

Clandon. One of the night guards. And, of course, Cliveden and Weybridge. Running a check on them?"

"What do you think?" Hardanger said testily.

"Including Cliveden and Weybridge?"

"Cliveden and Weybridge!" Hardanger stared at me and Martin backed him up with another stare. " Are you serious, Cavell?"

" With someone running around with the Satan Bug in his pants pockets I don't think it's the time for being facetious, Hardanger. Nobody—

nobody—is in the clear." He gave me a long hard look but I ignored it and went on, " About those two sets of unidentified prints-----"

" We'll print every man in Mordon till we get them," Hardanger said grimly.

"You don't have to. Almost certainly they belong to a couple of men called Bryson and Chipperfield. I know them both."

" Explain yourself."

"They're the two men in charge of running Alfringhain Farm—the place that supplies all the animals for the experiments carried out here.

They're usually up here with a fresh supply of animals every week or so—

the turnover in live-stock is pretty heavy. They were here yesterday. I checked on the register book. Making a delivery to the animal room in number one laboratory."

"You say you know them. What are they like?"

" Young. Steady, hard-working, very reliable. Live in adjacent cottages on the farm. Married to a couple of very nice girls. They have a kid apiece, a boy and a girl about six years old. Not the type, any of them, to get mixed up in anything wrong."

"You guarantee them?"

"You heard what I said about St. Peter. I guarantee nothing and nobody.

They'll have to be checked. I’ll go if you like. After all, I have the advantage of knowing them."

" You will?" Hardanger let me have his close look again. "Like to take Inspector Martin with you?"

" All one to me," I assured him. It wasn't, but I'd manners.

"Then in that case it's not necessary," Hardanger said. There were times, I thought, when Hardanger could be downright unpleasant." Report back anything you find. Ill lay on a car for you."

" I already have one. Car-hire firm."

He frowned. "That was unnecessary. Plenty of police and army cars available. You know that."

" I'm a private citizen now. I prefer private transport."

I found the car at the gate. Like so many rental machines it was a great deal older than its actual age. But at least it rolled and took the weight off my feet I was glad to take the weight off my feet. My left leg hurt, quite badly, as it always did when I had to walk around for any length of time. Two eminent London surgeons had more than once pointed out to me the advantage of having my left foot removed and sworn that they could replace it with an artificial one not only indistinguishable from the genuine article but guaranteed pain-free. They had been quite enthusiastic about it but it wasn't their foot and I preferred to hang on to it as long as possible.

I drove to Alfringham, spent five minutes mere talking to the manager of the local dance-hall, and reached Alfringham Farm just as dusk was falling. I turned in through the gates, stopped the car outside the first of the two cottages, got out and rang the bell. After the third attempt I gave it up and drove to the second cottage. I'd get an answer there.

Lights were burning behind the windows. I leaned on the bell and after some seconds the door opened. I blinked in the sudden wash of light, then recognized the man before me.

" Bryson," I said. " How are you? Sorry to burst in like this but I'm afraid I've a very good reason."

"Mr. Cavelll" Unmistakable surprise in his voice, all the more pronounced in the sudden conversational hush from the room behind him. " Didn't expect to see you again so soon. Thought you'd left these parts, I did.

How are you, sir?"

"I'd like a few words with you. And with Chipperfield. But he's not at home."

"He's here. With his missus. Turn about in each other's house for our Saturday night get together." He hesitated, exactly as I would have done if I'd settled down with some friends for a quiet drink and a stranger broke in. " Delighted to have you join us, sir."

" I'll keep you only a few minutes." I followed Bryson into the brightly lit living-room beyond. A log fire burnt cheerfully in the fireplace and around it were a couple of small settees and a high chair or two. In the centre was a low table with some bottles and glasses. A comfortable, homely scene.

A man and two women rose as Bryson closed the door behind me. I knew all three—Chipperfield, a tall blond man, the outward antithesis in every way of the short stocky Bryson, and the two men's wives, blonde and dark to match their husbands, but otherwise was a strong similarity—

small, neat and pretty with identical hazel eyes. The similarity was hardly surprising—Mrs. Bryson and Mrs. Chipperfield were sisters.

After a couple of minutes, during which civilities had been exchanged and I'd been offered a drink and accepted for my sore leg's sake, Bryson said, "How can we help you, Mr. Cavell?"

"We're trying to clear up a mystery about Dr. Baxter," I said quietly.

"You might be able to help. I don't know."

" Dr. Baxter? In number one lab?" Bryson glanced at his brother-in-law.

" Ted and me—we saw him only yesterday. Quite a chat with him, we had.

Nothing wrong with him, sir, I hope?"

" He was murdered last night," I said.

Mrs. Bryson clapped her hands to her mouth and choked off a scream.

Her sister made some sort of unidentifiable noise and said, " No, oh no!"

But I wasn't watching them, I was watching Bryson aad Chipperfield, and I didn't have to be a detective to see that the news came as a complete shock and surprise to both of them.

I went on, " He was killed last night, before midnight, In his lab.

Someone threw a deadly virus poison over him and he must have died in minutes. And in great agony. Then that someone found Mr. Clandon waiting outside the lab and disposed of him also—by cyanide poisoning."

Mrs. Bryson rose to her feet, her face paper-white, her sister's arms around her, blindly threw her cigarette into the fireplace and left the room. I could hear the sound of someone being sick in the bathroom.

"Dr. Baxter and Mr. Clandon dead? Murdered?" Bryson's face was almost as pale as his wife's had been. "I don’t believe it." I looked at his face again. He believed it all right. He listened to the sounds coming from the bathroom and then said with as much angry reproach as his shaken state would allow, " You might have told us private, Mr. Cavell.

Without the girls being here, I mean."

" I'm sorry." I tried to look sorry. " I'm not myself, Clandon was my best friend."

"You did it on purpose," Chipperfield said tightly. He was normally a likeable and affable young man, but there was nothing affable about him right then. He said shrewdly, " You wanted to see how we all took it. You wanted to know if we had anything to do with it. Isn't that it, Mr.

Cavell?"

"Between eleven o'clock and midnight last night," I said precisely, " you and your brother-in-law here were up for exactly five dances at the Friday night hop in Alfringham. You've been going there practically every Friday night for years. I could even tell you the names of the dances, but I won’t bother. The point is that neither of you—nor your wives—left the hall for an instant during that hour. Afterwards you went straight into your Land-Rover and arrived back here shortly after twelve-twenty. We have established beyond all doubt that both murders took place between 11.15 and 11.45 p.m. So let's have no more of your silly accusations, Chipperfield. There can be no shadow of suspicion about you two. If there was, you'd be in a police cell, not seeing me here drinking your whisky. Speaking of whisky-----"

" Sorry, Mr. Cavell. Damned silly of me. Saying what I did, I mean."

Chipperfield's relief showed in his face as he rose to his feet and poured more whisky into my glass. Some of it spilled on to the carpet, but he didn't seem to notice.

" But if you know we've nothing to do with it, what can we do to help?"

" You can tell me everything that happened when you were in ' E' block yesterday," I said. " Everything. What you did, what you saw, what Dr.

Baxter said to you and you to him. Don't miss out a thing, the tiniest detail."

So they told me, taking it in turns, and I sat there looking at them with unwavering attention and not bothering to listen to a word they said. As they talked, the two women came in, Mrs. Bryson giving me a pale, shame-faced half-smile, but I didn't notice it, I was too busy doing my close listening act. As soon as the first decent opportunity came I finished my whisky, rose and made to leave. Mrs. Bryson said something apologetic about her silliness, I said something suitably apologetic in return and Bryson said, "Sorry we haven't been able to be of any real help, Mr.

Cavell."

" You have helped," I said. " Police work is largely confined to the confirming and eliminating of possibilities. You've eliminated more than you would think. I'm sorry I caused such an upset, I realize this must be quite a shock to both your families, being so closely associated with Mordon. Speaking of families, where are the kids to-night?"

" Not here, thank goodness," Mr. Chipperfield said. " With their grandmother in Kent—the October holidays, you know, and they always go there then."

" Best place for them, right now." I agreed. I made my apologies again, cut the leave-taking short and left.

It was quite dark outside now. I made my way back down to the hired car, climbed in, drove out through the farm gates and turned left for the town of Alfringham. Four hundred yards beyond the gates I pulled into a convenient lay-by switched off engine and lights.

My leg was aching badly, now, and it took me almost fifteen minutes to get back to Bryson's cottage. The living-room curtains were drawn, but carelessly. I could see all I wanted to, without trouble. Mrs. Bryson was sitting on a settee, sobbing bitterly, with her husband's free arm round her: the other held a tumbler of whisky and the tumbler was more than half full. Chipperfield, a similar glass in his band, was staring into the fire, his face dark and sombre. Mrs. Chipperfield, on the settee, was facing me. I couldn't see her face, only the fair hair shining in the lamplight as she bent over something held in her hand. I couldn't see what it was but I didn't have to. I could guess with the certainty of complete knowledge. I walked quietly away and took my time in making my way back to the car. I still had twenty-five minutes before the London train was due in Alfringham. The train—and Mary.