The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (21 page)

‘What are they?’

‘Detonators,’ said Harding. ‘I can’t find any powder, though. Come and have a look at the gun.’

‘All right,’ said Denison. It was something to do until he had to go outside again.

He went with Harding into a room at the side of the hut which was used as a store. Rolled up netting hung neatly on pegs on the wall, and there were a lot of boxes which had been pulled away from the wall, presumably by Harding.

‘I found it behind there,’ said Harding. ‘Not so much hidden as concealed from casual eyes. I knew it must be somewhere around because of the punt.’

Denison had not the faintest idea of what Harding was talking about but he obligingly stepped forward and looked behind the boxes. At first he did not realize what he was looking at; Harding had said something about a gun for a punt and that was what he expected to find—a shotgun to kill ducks. What he saw was something unexpected. True, it
was
a shotgun, as he realized as soon as his mind had
shifted gear, but it was a shotgun of Brobdingnagian proportions.

‘What the devil…?’

Harding chuckled. ‘I thought you’d be surprised.’

‘Surprised isn’t the word,’ said Denison. ‘Confounded is more like it. How long is this thing?’

‘A bit over nine feet, taking in the stock. The barrel is about seven feet.’

Denison looked down at the monstrous object and bent to peer at the bore. He measured it with his thumb and found it to be over an inch and a half. He put his hand under the muzzle and lifted. ‘It’s damned heavy. How the hell can you shoot a thing like this? You couldn’t get it to your shoulder.’

‘You certainly couldn’t,’ agreed Harding. ‘I estimate the weight as something over a hundred and twenty pounds. It’ll fire about a pound and a half of shot.’

‘Well, how
do
you shoot it?’

‘It’s a punt gun,’ said Harding. ‘It lies on the foredeck of that punt. You can see that the breech ropes are attached—they run through the ring bolts on the punt and take up the recoil. The stock is merely for aiming it; if you put your shoulder to it when firing you’d end up with a broken shoulder.’

Denison scratched his jaw. ‘An impressive piece of artillery. I’ve never heard of anything like this.’

‘It was developed early in the nineteenth century,’ said Harding. ‘The idea is that you lie flat in the punt and propel yourself with paddles rather like ping-pong bats. It’s quite easy because once all the weight is in the punt it has a freeboard of only about four inches. You stalk the birds on the water—going among the reeds—and you aim by pointing the whole punt. When you’re in range you fire and, God willing, get yourself a dozen birds.’

‘Not very sporting,’ commented Denison.

‘Oh, it isn’t as easy as you’d think. Birds aren’t as easy to stalk as all that; they have more chance of escaping than you have of killing them.’

‘What kind of cartridge does it use?’

‘It doesn’t.’ Harding grinned. ‘Try going to a gunsmith some time and asking for quarter-bore cartridges—he’d think you’d gone mad. If you want cartridges you make up your own. You use ordinary black powder well rammed and with your shot on top with some wadding; you put a detonator on this nipple—I won’t now because it makes quite a noise even without a charge in the barrel—and you pull the trigger. Down goes the hammer on the nipple, the detonator explodes, flame shoots down the hole in the centre of the nipple and ignites the main charge. Bang!’

‘And the whole punt recoils a few feet.’

‘You’ve got the idea,’ said Harding. ‘The detonator is a modern touch. The originals used flint and steel—very unreliable—but with detonators you shouldn’t have one misfire in a hundred.’

‘Interesting,’ said Denison.

‘But no use without powder.’ Harding patted the heavy barrel. ‘I’d have liked to try it out. Like Mannermaa, I’m not averse to roast duck.’

‘Are you averse to sleep?’ Denison checked his watch. ‘I’m going to wake you in two hours for the second guard duty. You’d better get your head down.’

Denison woke up because someone was shaking him. He moaned in protest and opened his eyes to see Diana bending over him. ‘Wake up—we’ve got a visitor.’

He sat up and rubbed bis eyes. ‘Who?’

‘Come and see.’

McCready was at the window, binoculars to his eyes. As Denison joined him he said, ‘It’s one of the characters from Kevo—not the Yanks, the other crowd.’

Denison saw the man walking along the edge of the marsh towards the hut. He was about four hundred yards away. ‘Alone?’

‘I haven’t seen anyone else,’ said McCready. ‘This boy has his nerve, I must say.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t know we’re here.’

‘Then he’s a damned fool,’ said McCready. ‘And they don’t send fools on jobs like this. Diana, stand behind the door with your gun.’

The man tramped stolidly towards the hut. If it were not for his pack he would have looked like any holidaymaker on any beach. Within ten minutes he was within hailing distance and he put up his hands showing empty palms. Holding them up he came to a stop ten yards from the door and waited.

‘He knows we’re here,’ said McCready. He took a pistol from his pack and worked the action to put a round into the
breech. He went to the door and held the pistol behind his back. ‘If he comes in you’ll be behind him,’ he said to Diana, and opened the door.

The man still had, his hands raised as McCready said, ‘What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to Dr Harold Meyrick.’ The man’s English was good but heavily accented. Denison tried to identify the accent but made nothing of it.

‘What if Dr Meyrick doesn’t want to talk to you?’

‘Why not let him make up his own mind?’ asked the man.

‘Whom shall I announce?’ asked McCready suavely.

‘Shall we say…Herr Schmidt?’

McCready had no trouble with the accent. ‘I’d prefer Pan Schmidt—and even then I don’t like it. Schmidt isn’t a Czech name.’

The man shrugged. ‘Many people in Czechoslovakia have German names.’ When McCready did not respond he said, ‘My arms are getting tired.’

‘You put them up, you pull them down—but not just yet.’ McCready made up his mind. ‘All right, Mr Smith; step into my parlour.’ He opened the door wide and stepped back. The man smiled as he came forward, his hands still high.

He walked into the hut and came to a dead stop four feet inside as McCready brought up the hand holding a gun. Diana closed the door behind him. ‘Search him,’ said McCready.

Schmidt half-turned and smiled as he saw the pistol in Diana’s hand. ‘So many guns,’ he said. ‘I am unarmed, of course.’

‘There’s no of course about it,’ said McCready as Diana checked. When she had finished and found nothing McCready wagged the gun. ‘Now take off your pack—slowly.’

Schmidt eased the pack from his shoulders and lowered it to the floor. ‘That’s better,’ he said, flexing his arms. ‘You people use guns too easily. That’s why I came with my
hands up—I didn’t want to be shot by accident. Why did you shoot at me at Kevo?’

‘We didn’t,’ said McCready. ‘You ran into another crowd.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I don’t give a damn if you believe it or not—but you started a war with the United States. I was watching it—three of you against four Yanks. One of your chaps had a broken arm and an American had a bullet in his leg. I had a ringside seat on the other side of the river.’

‘So?’ said Schmidt. ‘The Americans also.’ He smiled pleasantly at Denison and then turned back to McCready. ‘What Dr Meyrick carries must be very important,’

‘And what is it to you?’

‘I’ve come to get it,’ said Schmidt composedly.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that, Mr McCready.’ He grinned. ‘You see that I know your name. In fact, I know the names of everyone here. Mrs Hansen, Dr Harding, Dr Meyrick and, of course, Miss Meyrick. It wasn’t hard.’

‘No doubt it wasn’t,’ said McCready. ‘But what makes you think that Dr Meyrick will give you anything?’

Schmidt looked Denison in the eye. ‘I should think he values the safety of his daughter. It is unwise to go treasure hunting while in possession of a greater treasure, Dr Meyrick.’

Denison glanced at Lyn, then cleared his throat. ‘But we have you, Mr Schmidt—if that’s your name.’

Schmidt smiled and shook his head. ‘I can see you’re no tactician, doctor. You see, I am no treasure. I am sure Mr McCready is ahead of you in his thinking.’

‘You’ve got the place surrounded, then?’ said McCready.

‘Of course. There are more than three of us this time.’ Schmidt looked at his watch. ‘The time is up in twenty-five—no, twenty-four—minutes.’

From the window Harding said, ‘He could be pulling a bluff. I’ve seen no one.’

‘The answer to that is easy,’ said Schmidt. ‘Call my bluff. I’m prepared to wait—if I can sit down.’ He took a very slow step sideways and hooked a chair forward with his foot, never taking his eyes off McCready’s pistol.

McCready leaned against the table. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Tell me what Meyrick has that interests you Czechs so much.’

A pained look appeared on Schmidt’s face. ‘Don’t be stupid, McCready.’ He jerked his thumb at Denison. ‘He babbled about it in Stockholm. He discovered what was in his father’s papers and where they were, and he talked about it to some Swedish friends. You ought to know scientists can’t keep secrets. But then he realized exactly what he was talking about so he shut up and went back to England.’

He stopped. McCready’s face was blank. ‘Go on.’

‘Why?’ asked Schmidt. ‘You know the answers. By then it was too late; the secret was out. Nothing travels faster than the news of a scientific breakthrough. Scientists like to believe in what they call the community of ideas, so the news got around Sweden, to Germany and to Czechoslovakia.’

‘And to the United States,’ commented McCready.

Schmidt hunched his shoulders. ‘Everyone knows the reputation of old Merikken and everyone knows his history. The guess is that he put his papers somewhere for safe keeping. The way you’re behaving leads us to think he buried them—or had them buried—somewhere in northern Finland. So it’s a treasure hunt, as I said, and you’ve got a map with a cross on it. That or the equivalent.’ He straightened. ‘I want it.’

McCready slanted his eyes towards Denison. ‘You see what comes of talking too much.’ They were going to give in—that was the plan—but they must not collapse too easily because that would lead to suspicion. ‘Let’s be democratic,’ he said. ‘We’ll vote on it. Harding?’

‘I think he’s bluffing,’ said Harding flatly. ‘I don’t think there is anyone out there. Tell him to go to hell.’

Schmidt smiled but said nothing. McCready looked at Denison. ‘What about you, Meyrick? You know the importance of this more than anyone.’

‘I’m not the only one to be considered,’ said Denison. ‘Let him have what he wants.’

‘Very wise,’ said Schmidt.

‘Shut up,’ said McCready unemotionally. ‘Diana?’

‘I’m against.’

McCready turned his head. His face was away from Schmidt and he winked at Lyn. ‘What do you say?’

‘I vote with my father.’

McCready turned back to Schmidt. ‘It seems I have the casting vote—yours doesn’t count.’

‘It will.’ Schmidt nodded towards the window. ‘My votes are out there.’

‘I think you’re going to have to prove that,’ said McCready. ‘You might be bluffing and you might not, but I’m going to call you regardless.’

‘This is more dangerous than a game of poker.’

McCready smiled. ‘When you came in here you said you didn’t want to be shot by accident, so my guess is that if you do have a loaded vote outside you won’t use it too forcibly against this hut. You see, you’re inside it, too.’

‘It’s your guess,’ said Schmidt.

‘And it’s your life.’ McCready raised his pistol. ‘If one bullet comes into this hut you’re dead. If I don’t kill you Diana will. And there’s always Harding in reserve.’

Schmidt looked around at Diana who had a gun trained on him. He glanced at Harding who had also produced a pistol. His hand went to the pocket of his anorak. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

McCready said nothing. Schmidt shrugged and lit a cigarette. He blew a perfect smoke ring. There was a crackling silence in the hut that went on and on and on.

Armstrong’s hands sweated as he gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled it along the pavement at a speed that was positively dangerous to the pedestrian population of Enso. Beside him Carey walked quickly to keep pace, every now and then breaking into a little trot. Armstrong came to a halt at a street corner, stopped by the traffic flow.

‘Damn Boris Ivanevitch!’ said Carey. ‘God save us all from talkative coppers. I hope he gets hell for being late on duty.’

‘Not far now,’ said Armstrong. ‘Only another block. You can see the paper mill from here.’

Carey craned his neck and suddenly groaned. ‘And I can see that bloody bus—it’s just leaving.’

‘Is it coming this way? Perhaps we can flag it down.’

‘No, damn it! It’s going away from us.’ Carey checked his watch. ‘Dead on time. Huovinen is chicken-livered; he could have delayed it somehow.’

There came a gap in the traffic and Armstrong jolted the barrow over the kerb. ‘What now?’ he asked as they crossed the street.

‘I don’t know,’ said Carey heavily. ‘Let’s find a place where we’re not too conspicuous.’

‘The mill is as good a place as any.’

‘No; there’ll be a watchman. Go around the next corner and we’ll see what we can find.’

They were lucky. A trench was being dug along one side of the street. Carey said, ‘Just the thing; we’ll stop here.’

Armstrong stopped and lowered the barrow. ‘Why here?’

Carey sighed and plucked at his jacket. ‘Don’t be dim. This uniform and those exposed pipes go together. We look natural’

Armstrong glanced around. ‘A good thing the gang’s knocked off work for the day.’

‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘Jump in the hole and you’ll look natural.’ Armstrong dropped into the trench and Carey squatted on his heels. ‘Got any bright ideas?’

‘There’s the empty house where I found the barrow. We could lie low in the cellar.’

‘Until tomorrow?’ Carey pondered and shook his head. ‘The problem is the head count at the frontier post. They’ll be two short and that might make it a bit unhealthy around here before long.’

Armstrong snapped his fingers. ‘There’s a railway goes from here to Imatra. Maybe we could get a ride.’

‘Nothing doing. Railway police are notoriously efficient—especially at frontiers. All it needs is a telephone call from that frontier post to say there are two Finns missing and they’ll be doubly efficient.’

‘There’s a copper coming up just behind you,’ said Armstrong.

Carey did not turn. ‘Not Boris Ivanevitch, I hope.’

‘No.’

‘Then have a look at that pipe and tell me what you see.’

Armstrong ducked down into the trench. His voice floated up. ‘It’s not cracked.’

‘It must be cracked somewhere,’ said Carey loudly. He heard the crunch of boots on road gravel behind him. ‘We’ll have to do a smoke test.’ He looked up and saw the policeman. ‘Good evening, comrade.’

The policeman’s face was expressionless. ‘Working late?’

‘I always have to work late when something goes wrong,’ said Carey in a grumbling voice. ‘If it isn’t one thing it’s another, and they always pick on me. Now it’s a pipe that’s sprung a leak which no one can find.’

The policeman looked into the trench. ‘What’s this for?’

‘Drainage for the new paper mill over there.’

The policeman looked at Carey. His eyes were like stones. ‘You won’t drain a paper mill through a pipe that size.’

‘Not the main drainage for the mill,’ said Carey. This is what you might call the domestic drainage for the lavatories and the canteen and so on.’ An idea suddenly came into his mind, the brilliance of which astounded him. ‘Perhaps the leak is in the mill. I might have to go in and see if I can find it there.’ He stood up. ‘You never can tell what a bad leak will do underground—undermine walls, anything.’ He frowned. ‘There’s some heavy machinery in there.’

‘So they tell me,’ said the policeman. ‘Imported from Finland.’

‘I don’t know why we can’t use our own Russian stuff,’ said Carey disgustedly. ‘But Russian or Finnish, it will collapse if the foundations are washed from under it. I’d better go and have a look.’

‘You’re keen on your job,’ said the policeman.

‘That’s how I got to where I am,’ said Carey. He jerked his thumb at Armstrong. ‘Now, take that young chap; he’ll never rise to be an inspector if he lives a hundred years. He never raises a finger unless someone tells him to.’ He turned to the trench. ‘Come on, useless; we’re going into the mill. Bring your barrow with your spade—we might need them.’

He walked away as Armstrong climbed out of the trench and the policeman fell into step beside him. ‘You’re right,’ said the policeman. ‘Some of these young chaps
are
useless.’

‘Do you have many like that in your lot?’ asked Carey.

The policeman laughed. ‘They wouldn’t last long with us. No, it’s the layabouts I come across in the course of duty
who grate on my nerves. Youngsters of fifteen and sixteen with hair half-way down their backs and swilling vodka until they’re rotten drunk. I don’t know how they can afford it. I can’t—not on my pay.’

Carey nodded. ‘I’m having something of the same trouble with my own son. This generation is as soft as putty, but what can you do, comrade? What can you do?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said the policeman. ‘Just tell that son of yours to keep out of my way. I’m getting a bit heavy-handed these days.’

They stopped at the mill entrance. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Carey. ‘Maybe that’s what’s needed.’

‘It is,’ said the policeman. He flicked a hand in farewell. ‘I hope you find your leak, comrade.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Carey. ‘I’ve just thought of something. The watchman might not let us in.’

The policeman grinned. ‘I’ll have a word with him; it’ll be all right.’

He walked into the mill and Carey winked at Armstrong. ‘Not bad chaps, these Russian coppers, when you get to know them—in spite of Boris Ivanevitch. Come on.’

‘Thanks for the testimonial,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s just the thing I need to get a job around here. Why are we going in?’

‘You park the barrow near the temporary office in the corner. Then you go away and keep the watchman busy while I do a spot of burglary.’

‘You can’t burgle in front of a copper.’

‘He won’t stay around,’ said Carey. ‘He has his beat to cover.’

‘All right; you do your burglary—then what?’

Carey grinned. ‘Then we get ourselves booted out of Russia.’

Half an hour later, when they were walking up to the frontier post, Carey said, ‘It was the papers that bothered me.
Leaving Russia is easy, but not with Merikken’s papers. Then I started talking to the copper about the mill and it gave me the idea. I’d seen those blueprints in that office this morning.’

Armstrong trundled the wheelbarrow. ‘I hope it works. There’s the frontier post.’

‘Remember you don’t know any Russian,’ said Carey. ‘It would be uncharacteristic in a Finn of your class.’

‘I don’t know any Finnish either,’ said Armstrong. ‘And that’s bloody uncharacteristic.’

‘Then keep your mouth shut,’ said Carey. ‘If you have to talk at all use Swedish; but don’t talk if you can help it. Leave the talking to me. And hope that none of these guards are studying engineering or mathematics.’

They bore down on the frontier post at a steady three miles an hour. Armstrong was still wearing working overalls but Carey had covered his uniform. He had stopped being a Russian and was now a Finn. The guard regarded them with mild surprise as they approached. ‘This is as far as you go,’ he said in Russian, and accompanied the statement with a smile.

Carey answered in fast Finnish. ‘Did the bus driver tell you we were coming? The fool left us behind. We’ve had to walk from the paper mill.’

The smile left the guard’s face as he heard the Finnish. ‘Where the devil have you come from?’ he asked in Russian.

‘I don’t speak Russian,’ said Carey. ‘Don’t you know Finnish?’

‘Sergeant!’ yelled the guard, passing the buck.

A sergeant came out of the guard house, leisurely fastening his belt. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘These two Finns popped up. They came from back there.’

‘Oh, they did, did they?’ The sergeant stepped over and inspected them critically, his eyes dwelling for a time on the
barrow. In exceedingly bad Finnish he asked, ‘Where did you come from?’

‘The paper mill,’ said Carey, speaking slowly. ‘The bus driver left us behind.’ He indicated the barrow. ‘We had to collect these papers to take to the boss in Imatra. It took us a while to find them and when we came out the bus had gone.’

‘What are the papers?’

‘Machine drawings and calculations. See for yourself.’ Carey threw aside the sacking on top of the barrow and picked up the top document. He unfolded it to reveal a blueprint which he gave to the sergeant. ‘That’s one of the drawings.’

The sergeant studied the complexity of lines with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Why take them back to Imatra?’

‘For revision,’ said Carey. ‘It happens all the time. When you build a complicated machine it doesn’t always fit together right, usually because some fool of a draughtsman has made a mistake. So the drawings have to be amended.’

The sergeant raised his head and eyed Carey and then looked at the blueprint again. ‘How do I know this is what you say it is? I know nothing about paper machinery.’

‘In the bottom righthand corner there’s the name of our company and a description of the drawing. Can you read that much Finnish?’

The sergeant did not reply. He handed the blueprint back to Carey. ‘Are they all like this?’

‘Help yourself,’ said Carey generously.

The sergeant bent and rooted about in the wheelbarrow. When he straightened he was holding a hardbound exercise book. He opened it and glanced at a solid block of mathematical equations. ‘And this?’

‘I wouldn’t know until I saw it,’ said Carey. ‘It could be about the chemistry or it could be mechanical. Let me see.’ He leaned over to look at the page the sergeant was
examining. ‘Ah, yes; those are the calculations for the roller speeds. This machine is very advanced—very technical. Do you know that the paper goes through at seventy kilometres an hour? You have to be very exact when you’re working at those speeds.’

The sergeant flicked through the pages and then dropped the book into the barrow. ‘What do you mean—chemical?’

Carey was enthusiastic. ‘Papermaking is as much a chemical process as mechanical. There’s the sulphite and the sulphate and the clay-all have to be worked out in exact formulae for the making of different kinds of paper. I’ll show you what I mean.’ He dug into the wheelbarrow and brought up a roll of papers. ‘These are the calculations for that kind of thing. Look; these are the equations for making tissue paper of cosmetic quality—and here—the calculations for ordinary newsprint.’

The sergeant waved away the papers from under his nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have no authority to let you pass. I will have to consult my captain.’ He turned to go back into the guard house.

‘Perrrkele!’
swore Carey, giving the ‘r’ its full Finnish value. ‘You know damned well by the head count that thirty-six came in and only thirty-four went out.’

The sergeant halted in mid-stride. Slowly he turned and looked at the guard who shrugged helplessly. ‘Well?’ he asked acidly.

The guard was out of luck. ‘I haven’t put it in the book yet.’

‘How many went out tonight?’

‘Thirty-four, plus the driver.’

‘How many came in this morning?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty this morning.’

‘You don’t know!’
The sergeant was apoplectic. ‘Then what’s the use of doing a head count?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Bring me the book,’ he said arctically.

The guard bobbed his head and went into the guard house at the double. He emerged in less than fifteen seconds and handed the sergeant a small record book. The sergeant turned the pages and then gave the guard a look that ought to have frozen the blood in his veins. ‘Thirty-six came in,’ he said softly. ‘And you didn’t know.’

The luckless guard had the sense to keep his mouth shut. The sergeant checked his watch. ‘When did the bus go through?’

‘About three-quarters of an hour ago.’

‘
About!’
the sergeant screamed. ‘You’re supposed to know to the second.’ He slapped the page. ‘You’re supposed to record it in here.’ He snapped his mouth shut into a straight line and the temperature fell. ‘For
about
three-quarters of an hour two foreign nationals have been wandering on the wrong side of the frontier without anyone knowing about it. Am I supposed to tell that to the captain?’ His voice was low.

The guard was silent. ‘Well, speak up!’ the sergeant yelled.

‘I…I don’t know,’ said the guard miserably.

‘You don’t know,’ repeated the sergeant in freezing tones. ‘Well, do you know this? Do you know what would happen to me—’ he slapped himself on the chest—‘to me if I told him that? Within a week I’d be serving on the Chinese frontier—and so would you, you little turd, but that wouldn’t make me any happier.’

Carey tried to look unconcerned; he was not supposed to know Russian. He saw the beginnings of a grin appear on Armstrong’s face and kicked him on the ankle.

‘Stand to attention!’ roared the sergeant, and the guard snapped straight, his back like a ramrod. The sergeant went very close to him and peered at him from a range of six inches. ‘I have no intention of serving on the Chinese frontier,’ he said. ‘But I will guarantee one thing. Within a week
you’ll be wishing you were on the Chinese frontier—and on the Chinese side of it.’

He withdrew. ‘You’ll stay there until I tell you to move,’ he said quietly, and came over to Carey. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked in Finnish.

‘Mäenpää,’ said Carey. ‘Rauno Mäenpää. He’s Simo Velling.’

‘Your passes?’

Carey and Armstrong produced their passes and the sergeant scrutinized them. He handed them back. ‘Report here when you come in tomorrow. Report to me and no one else.’

Carey nodded. ‘We can go?’

‘You can go,’ said the sergeant tiredly. He swung around and yelled at the unfortunate guard, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? The grass to grow between your toes? Raise that barrier.’