The Mind Readers (30 page)

‘The mike for the tape,' he said apologetically. ‘I knew it must be here and hidden in something vaguely connected with tobacco. Wired, too, which is old fashioned. Modern but conventional, Thos is, and he hasn't noticed that the weed isn't quite the commonplace it was. It's extraordinary how one's old chums never change.'

‘Is that the only one?' Luke was scandalised and began to look about him.

‘Almost certainly.' Mr Campion was following the slender cable to its source. ‘I shouldn't think he ever left anyone alone in this treasure chest in the normal way and if he had stayed here he wouldn't need more than just the one for the record. There it is. No second lead. I think we're all right. Now then, while we have a moment, what about the post mortem?'

Luke seemed surprised at the urgency of his interest. ‘The D.I. up in Saltbridge was right in the first place,' he said with authority. ‘Paggen Mayo died as he thought he had. Both horns of the hyoid bone were fractured. There was only one blow. No question about it. Straight across the adam's apple. Arnold was an expert. Yes, I had my briefing from the Director before he went back. I expect I've been told all that's good for me.'

Mr Campion seemed relieved but before he could speak the Superintendent went on again.

‘To my mind the really fascinating part of that story was the way the body got from the car to the truck,' he said. ‘That was straight police stuff and just as barmy as only life can be.'

‘The parked sports car at Earls Court belonged to a youngster, I suppose?' Mr Campion enquired.

‘You spotted that, did you?' Luke was interested. ‘They brought the young man in just before I had to leave. As soon as I saw him I wasn't surprised. They reappear every generation, scatty as cats in the wind! He must be all of eighteen and the car is his life. That morning he got up in the dark to go and meet his gang at the Speedway track, fifteen miles beyond Morton. He threw on his clothes, tore down to the street, lugged the plastic cover off his old wagon, dropped it into his Mum's area for her to put away for him and beetled off for a day's outing without observing a little item like a corpse lying on the floor in front of the back seat! As he came through Morton it was getting light and just outside the town he saw an open transport café with an old truck waiting in the pull in outside. He stopped, rushed out again and was just hopping back into the driving seat when he happened to look in the back!' He laughed. ‘Even then he didn't hesitate,' he went on. ‘If he had, it would have been all up with his day's outing. So he was as foolhardy as one only is at that age. He's a very strong lad and he simply picked up the body, heaved it into the back of the truck whose curtains were swinging, and shoved a few sacks lying there over it. Then he drove away and spent the day happily watching other young idiots trying to break their necks. He said he never thought another word about it until he heard the police call in an all-night road club with the rest of the kids on Sunday morning. We believed him; you couldn't be off it. He was quite open.'

Mr Campion's pale face wore that curiously pained expression which is halfway to laughter. ‘Didn't the truck-driver spot anything either?'

‘Both the truck-driver and his mate were very tired men,' Luke explained. ‘They belonged to Saltbridge and they'd been South with a load of furniture for a friend who was moving. It was a quick, cheap, Friday-after-work-to-Saturday-morning job. They had delivered and were coming back and stopped at the café for breakfast. They saw the youngster come in and buy the cigarettes and the proprietor actually saw the car. Its bonnet was almost in front of his counter window but he was cooking breakfasts and didn't watch it leave. After they'd eaten, the truck-driver and his elderly mate drove on, sitting together, until they reached the motorway, by which time they were both dropping with sleep. They pulled into a lay-by and dozed for a bit in the cab and then the driver suggested that the mate lay down on the packing material inside while he himself pulled a finger out and got them home. The old boy was delighted and slid round the back while the driver pulled out into the stream. Just about the time they settled in their lane the mate threw himself down on the heap of sacks and let out a yell like the end of the world. The driver heard him and must have lost his head, poor beast. He stood on the brakes. It was the father and mother of a pile up. Three killed. Seventeen vehicles involved.'

Mr Campion said nothing for a long time. Finally he looked up. ‘You were all amazingly quick. I heard the police call as soon as it went out—from here, as a matter of fact. Who answered? The boy?'

‘Immediately. He telephoned Saltbridge direct; he isn't a fool, merely preoccupied.' A sudden grin appeared on Charley Luke's vivid face. ‘I remember being like that. I was just too busy being alive to get involved with anything not my business. I suppose you were really asking about Arnold's death just now? I still don't know how much we common policemen are supposed to know about all that?'

The thin man eyed him thoughtfully but did not commit himself.

‘Did they find a wound?' he enquired.

‘Only just.' He was feeling in his pocket for the untidy little bundle of scrap-paper which he used as a notebook. ‘The homework wasn't complete until this morning so there was only the preliminary ‘phone message by the time I came out. Here you are:—
“Small puncture wound one and a half inches beneath the left nipple and three-quarters of an inch to the inner side. On dissection it was found that the wound had entered the intercostal muscles between the fifth and sixth ribs and the pericardal sac. The left ventrical did not appear to have received injury but there was considerable disturbance
(whatever that may mean)
and the left pleural cavity contained fluid blood
.”' He looked up. ‘He fell on the thing. Mr Ferris said that in his deposition. As far as he could see the man was running towards you—doubtless to help you up—when he slipped and fell on the grass which is polished like horsehair, I understand?'

Mr Campion nodded. Luke waited a little longer and tried again.

‘The local C.I.D. Super is a splendid, sensible old chap,' he murmured as quietly as his powerful voice would permit. ‘One of the old school and bright as they come. He told me that in his opinion any kind of accident can happen to the personnel of this sort of set-up. He told me nothing would surprise him.'

Mr Campion's wide mouth grew wider. ‘That's a help.'

‘I can tell you he
is
helpful.' Luke persisted. ‘The only thing he found a little difficult to swallow was why the man should have parked on a lonely track at first light and sat there holding a patent corkscrew, so that he had it in his hand when he went to the rescue of the driver of an oncoming vehicle, who had tripped on getting out to speak to him! However, finally he found a little something to explain even that.'

‘Really?' Mr Campion did his best not to sound astonished.

‘Some recent accidental scratches on the bonnet of the van,' Luke said calmly. ‘Nothing much, but quite enough to get Arnold in dutch with the firm when he had to put in for a repaint. The local Super thinks he was “improving” them well out of sight or witnesses, so that he could say the damage had been done maliciously whilst the vehicle was standing parked somewhere on the mainland at night; possibly in Covent Garden market.'

Mr Campion's incredulous smile grew into a laugh.

‘Who by, for Heaven's sake?' he demanded.

‘Boys.' Luke was firm and straightforward. ‘Hooligans; the Usual. It's all tied up and the coroner will get it in a parcel. You're a very lucky bloke,' he added seriously. ‘That chap was a killer in a thousand. I saw Mayo's body. Neat as a whistle!'

The thin man was saved from the need to comment by a tap on the door behind them and Martin, looking shaken, put his head in.

‘So there you are,' he said with relief. ‘What do you know about the latest?'

‘How come?' Luke stared at him.

‘I'm sorry. I felt sure you'd heard.' He came in, closed the door behind him and glanced about him dubiously.

‘It's quite safe, I think,' Mr Campion said placidly. ‘My old chum has been prevented from making the latest unforgivable social error. It's all turned off. Now what?'

‘It's that cablegram.' Martin was still almost speechless. ‘From Professor Bolitho to Professor Tabard. Ludor was informed, not unnaturally, and he's hit the ceiling. He was supposed to be out here now, listening to a test which is to take place in Paris—in fact they both were—but instead he's up at the Great Man's house raising Cain. Tabard won't stand for that. He may look like a mole but he's a pretty fierce baby when aroused.'

‘Which cable was this?' Luke was being patient and Martin blinked at him.

‘It's so crazy I can hardly bring myself to say it,' he admitted. ‘It's a message of congratulation on the success of the device and an offer of Bolitho's own notes which could effect the whole breakthrough and help to make it practical.'

The two older men, who were very conscious of the complexity of the country in which they were adventuring, exchanged glances and Mr Campion put a cautious query.

‘Is that the Professor Bolitho in Pittsburgh who is doing the new work on the more obscure aspects of the electrical impulses generated by the brain?'

‘It is.' Martin seemed amazed that anyone should have to ask. ‘D. S. Bolitho: quite the greatest man in his field. He's a friend of Tabard's; they've been corresponding. This afternoon I was with the old man when his cable came in and he was wild with excitement, because since Bolitho has been probing into all possible sources of human energy. . . .'

‘I don't understand that.'

‘I don't suppose you do or that you will for a bit. . . .' The scientist was diffident. ‘But you see, at the moment we've got no way of being sure which message we're projecting. I mean we've got no control over the power used. We don't even know what the power
is.
However, that's all rather beside the point. The thing that matters, and which Tabard hardly noticed, was the item in the cable which made the censorship people on the switchboard send it straight in to Ludor. It said:
“Congratulations on your team's achievement. I salute Longfox's I.G
.”'

‘What?'

‘I saw it. I read it.'

‘But . . .' Luke was frowning. ‘I don't get that. I thought . . . ?'

‘I know.' Martin met his eyes. ‘The device is not made by Tabard's team, is it? Who does it belong to? Who has leaked even its name to Bolitho, working on something rather different, miles away back home in the U.S.? Where is Edward and who is behind him?'

‘Now you're talking!' Luke leant towards him. ‘That's what I've been asking myself. It's taking me to the fair because although I don't understand the technicalities of this business I do usually understand men.' He paused, his face very solemn. ‘I don't see
any
man,' he said. ‘Usually in a witch hunt like this there are either too many suspects or just one so-and-so you can't pin down, but as I see the picture at the moment there is nobody over here. What about you, Campion? Do you see anyone?'

The thin man was staring through one of the spyholes at the cluttered scene below.

‘I almost think I do, Charles,' he said at last. ‘The idea came from Thos. I'll tell you one thing; if the answer is what I think it is, any attempt of Lord Ludor's to control this thing is pathetic.'

‘What about Edward?' Martin demanded. ‘Who is behind him?'

‘Now
that
,' Mr Campion was very serious, ‘That's another matter entirely. As I see it, Lord Ludor simply must not be allowed to get hold of Edward.'

A LITTLE OVER
an hour later Mr Campion was still sitting in the projection room; he was reflecting that any device to detect the presence of a personality like Lord Ludor's would be redundant. Now that the man had arrived the impression of acute nervous tension in the sound-proofed building was almost suffocating.

Martin was already downstairs. The thin man could see him standing on one side of the room with Helena and Sam, who had been summoned to attend. The family unit looked subdued and a trifle pathetic, like an item in a political cartoon, a symbol of the Norm amid the machinations of Progress. As a concept this was so foreign to Mr Campion's own nature that he was taken aback by it until he realised that it was merely an offshoot of the impact Lord Ludor himself made upon him. The Baron, splendid in Italian ginger tweed, was something to have seen. His back, under the wool, was powerful and aggressive, and his short neck looked full of strength in his fine shirt collar. He was seated on the middle unit of the assortment on the carpet with a secretary beside him. She was a pale blonde, remarkably like Merle Rawlins even down to the scotch-and-soda hair, except that she was twenty-five years younger and did not yet look spent.

The third person in this central group, bending forward in an attitude of deference which did not suit him, was a heavy newcomer, whom Mr Campion assumed was the other partner in Advance Wires; the Spark himself, newly returned from a dash to France. He was a very familiar type, as ruthless in his own way as Ludor, but not of the same calibre. This man was Regimental Sergeant Major size, by no means negligible. At the moment he was very nervous and, through the spyhole, Mr Campion could see the sweat on his pink forehead under the sparse yellow hairline, and his husky voice, lowered just out of earshot, squeaked from time to time as he talked earnestly. No one else was visible apart from Thos, who hovered in the doorway of a lighted annexe from which ropes of cable sprouted like diabolic vines, yet the impression of activity and nervous strain just behind the scenes was tremendous.