Authors: Alistair MacLean
"The real Gregori was murdered?" Hardanger asked.
"No question of that. The Gregori who set off from Turin with all his worldly wealth stacked in the back of his Fiat was not the Gregori who arrived in Britain. The original Gregori met with a very permanent accident en route and the impostor, no doubt with a few judicious alterations to his features to make his resemblance to the now dead man even closer, arrived in Britain in Gregori's car complete with clothes, passport, photographs—the lot. So far, so very good.
" Now the bad luck. Apart from the reports of his work, the original Gregori was completely unknown in Britain—as a person, that is. There was probably only one man in Britain who knew him well—and by a one in a million chance Gregori found himself working in the very same laboratory as this man. MacDonald. Gregori didn't know that. But Mac-Donald did—
and knew that Gregori was a fake. Don't forget that MacDonald had for many years been a delegate to the W.H.O. and I’ll wager anything you like that the original Gregori held a similar position for Italy."
"Which accounts for the missing photographs in the album," the General said slowly.
" The two of them—MacDonald and the original Gregori —standing arm in arm, no doubt. In Turin. Anyway, probably after weighing up the situation for a day or two, MacDonald told the spurious Gregori that he was on to him. We can guess what happened. Gregori would have produced a gun and said that it was just too bad but that he would have to silence him and MacDonald, nobody's fool, would have produced a piece of paper and said that that would be just too bad because if he died suddenly his bank—or the police— had orders to open immediately a sealed envelope containing a copy of that paper, which would contain a few interesting facts about Gregori. Gregori would then have to put his gun away and they would have made a deal. A one-way deal. Gregori to pay MacDonald so much per month. Or else. Don't forget MacDonald was now in a position to pin a murder rap on Gregori."
" I don't get it," Hardanger said flatly. " It doesn't make sense. Can you imagine the General here having two men working for him on the same project in, say, Warsaw, men who were not only unknown to each other but completely at cross purposes and potentially at each other's throats.
I'm afraid, Cavell, that I have a higher opinion of Communist intelligence than you seem to have."
"I agree with Hardanger," the General said.
" So do I," I agreed. " All I said was that MacDonald was working for the Communists. I never once said that Gregori was or that this Satan Bug has anything to do with Communism. It was you and Hardanger who made that assumption."
Hardanger bent forward to see me better. " You mean— you mean that Gregori is just a raving crack-pot after all?"
" If you still believe that," I said nastily, " it's time you had a long holiday. There was a very powerful and pressing reason why Gregori wanted the viruses and I’ll stake my life that he told MacDonald what it was. He would have had to ensure his co-operation. If he'd told MacDonald that he just wanted to take off with the botulinus I doubt if Mac-Donald would have touched the business. But if he'd offered him, say, £10,000, MacDonald would have changed his mind pretty fast, that being the kind of man MacDonald was."
We were fairly into Alfringham now, the big police Jaguar with its siren switched on, doing twice the legal speed limit, dodging in and out among the thinning evening traffic. The driver was an expert, the pick of Hardanger's own London men, and he knew exactly how much he and the car could do without killing the lot of us in the process.
"Stop the car" Hardanger interrupted me suddenly. "That traffic policeman." We were closing rapidly on Alfringham's one and only set of traffic lights, apparently hand-controlled at what passed for Alfringham's rush hour. A policeman, white cape glistening in the lamp-lit rain, was still standing by a control box attached to a lamp-post. The car stopped, and Hardanger, window wound down, beckoned the man across.
"Superintendent Hardanger, London," he said abruptly. " Did you see a bluish-green Vanden Plas Princess pass this way this evening? An hour ago, slightly less?"
" As a matter of fact I did, sir. He was coming at a fair lick on the amber and I saw he would be on the intersection when it was red. I blew my whistle and he stopped just after he'd passed the second lights. I asked the driver what he thought he was up to and he said his back wheels had locked on the wet road when he tried to brake and when he took his foot off he was frightened to brake again, or brake hard, because his daughter was asleep in the back seat and might have been injured if he'd stopped too suddenly and she'd been flung forward. I looked in the back seat and she was asleep. Sound asleep, even our voices didn't waken her. There was another man beside her. So—so I gave him a warning and waved him on . . ." His voice trailed away uncertainly.
"Exactly," Hardanger roared. "Now you're -realizing. Can't you tell the difference between someone sleeping and someone being forced to fake sleep with a gun in her side? She slept on, forsooth," he said fiercely.
"You miserable nincompoop, I'll have you drummed out of the Force!"
" Yes, sir." The policeman, eyes staring unseeingly over the roof of the Jaguar, stood at rigid attention, a dead ringer for a guardsman on parade about to collapse with the thumbs still at the seams of the trousers.
"I'm sorry, sir."
" Which way did he go?" Hardanger demanded.
" London, sir," the policeman said woodenly.
" It would be too much to expect you to have taken his number, I suppose," Hardanger said with heavy sarcasm.
" xow 973, sir."
"What!"
" xow 973."
" Consider yourself reinstated," Hardanger growled. He wound up the window and we were off again, the sergeant talking softly into the hand microphone. Hardanger said, " Bit rough on him, I suppose. If he had been smart enough to notice anything he'd have been twanging his harp by now instead of playing about with his traffic light buttons. Sorry for the interruption, Cavell."
" It doesn't matter," I said. I was glad of the interruption, glad of anything that would take my mind off Mary, Mary with a killer's gun in her side." MacDonald—I was speaking of MacDonald. Money mad—but also a pretty shrewd character. Very shrewd—he must be to have survived so long in the espionage racket. He knew the theft of the botulinus—I'm certain Gregori never mentioned his intention of taking the Satan Bug as well—would start off an intensive probing into the past life of all the suspects—those working in number one lab. He may also have suspected that his own espionage activities were liable to start a re-check on all scientists. He knew that all the known details of his life were down on his security record card and he was pretty certain that one or more of those details, the ones referring to his immediate post-war activities, wouldn't stand up to rigorous examination. He knew the security chief, Derry, held those records. He told Gregori that there would be no dice, no co-operation, unless he saw that record first.
MacDonald had no intention of being the fall guy in subsequent police investigations."
" So Easton Derry—or what's left of him—lies down in that cellar now,"
the General said quietly.
"Yes. I'm only guessing now, but they're pretty safe guesses. Apart from the records MacDonald wanted, Gregori also wanted something—
the combination of number one lab door which was known only to Derry and Dr. Baxter. I think they arranged for MacDonald to ask Derry to call at his house, saying that he had something of importance to tell him.
Derry came, and when he passed through MacDonald's door he was already as good as dead. Gregori, who would have been waiting hidden, gun in hand, saw to it that he did die. First of all they took the keys from him, the keys to the safes in Derry's house where the records were kept: the security chief had always to carry those keys on his person.
Then they tried to make him tell the combination of number one lab door.
At least, Gregori tried—I don't see MacDonald having any part in this, although he must have known—or seen—what was going on. While Gregori may not be a crackpot, I think he must be some sort of psychopath—a man with a streak of sadistic blood-lust a yard wide. Look what he did to Derry, to the back of Mrs. Turpin's head, not to mention my ribs and hanging MacDonald alive."
" And defeated his own ends," Hardanger said heavily. " He tortured and mutilated Derry so savagely that Derry died before he could talk. It shouldn't be too difficult to find out who this fake Gregori is. A man with his records and techniques is bound to have a record. Given his prints and cephalic index Interpol in Paris will identify him within the hour." He leaned forward, gave instructions to the sergeant.
" Yes," I said. " It won't be hard. But it's not important now. Having killed Derry before he could talk, Gregori had to find another way into number one lab. First of all they searched his house—and I would bet, incidentally, that they searched his private effects also and came across a photograph showing Derry as the best man at a wedding. My wedding.
The General is in the photograph too, of course. That's why they kidnapped me, then Mary. They knew. Anyway, they unlocked the safe, abstracted the dicey page from MacDonald's dossier—and had a damned good look at the other dossiers while they were there. They found out about Dr. Hartnell's financial troubles—and decided he could be blackmailed into helping them by acting as decoy from the break-out from Mordon. For, having failed to get the lab combination from Derry, Gregori had to devise a new plan to get the viruses." ,
"Break-out?" Hardanger frowned. "Break-in, you mean."
" Sorry, break-out." While Hardanger sat there in the semi-darkness in the back of the car looking at me with an expression I didn't much care for, I told him the theory I'd expounded to the General in the early hours of that morning, about how two men had been smuggled into number one lab in crates, one disguised as the criminal ' X', the other as Baxter, both leaving at the normal time and handing in their security tags, while the real ' X' stayed there till eleven o'clock, first killing Baxter with the botulinus toxin, then Clandon with the cyanide butterscotch before breaking out, complete with viruses, through the wire fence.
" Very very interesting," Hardanger said at the end. Professional interest and pique were in voice and face. He said, " My God, and you spoke of Easton Derry playing it too close to the cuff. I suppose you got a kick out of leading me up the garden path, damn you."
"I didn't lead you," I said. "You went by yourself. We were on parallel paths, anyway." I tried to think how, but I couldn't. "The break-through came from you, not me. It was you who had the suspicions about the completeness of MacDonald's dossier."
The car radio crackled suddenly. The owner of the Vanden Plas, a doctor making a call, had gone to the local police station after we had left him and added the interesting fact that his tank had been almost empty.
Hardanger curtly ordered sergeant and driver to keep their eyes open for the nearest garage, then turned to me. " Well, go on." He was only half-mollified by my last remark and I didn't blame him any for his annoyance.
"There's not much. Gregori not only found out about Hartnell's entanglements with Tuffnell, the money-lender, but he also made the discovery that Hartnell, as mess secretary, was embezzling mess funds.
Don't ask me how. After that-----"
"I can tell you," Hardanger broke in. "Too damn late as usual," he added disgustedly. "MacDonald was mess-president in Mordon and finding out the financial trouble Hartnell was in would have made him suspicious. As president, of course, he would have access to the books—and he checked."
" Of course, of course." I was as disgusted as Hardanger. " I knew he was president. Just too damn' obvious, I suppose. Good, old Cavell.
Anyway, after that Hartnell was at his mercy—and knowing from Hartnell's dossier that Hartnell was bound to come under the microscope, he confused things still further by dumping the hammer and pliers used in the breakout in Hartnell's place, smearing some red loam on his moped for good measure. If not Gregori, one of his assistants. Red herring number one. Red herring number two-posing as a mysterious Uncle George he made payments into Chessingham's account weeks in advance of the crime. He knew, of course, that bank accounts would be one of the first subjects of police scrutiny."
" Red herrings," Hardanger said in bitter complaint. " Always those accursed red herrings. Why?"
"To buy time. I'm coming to that."
"And then the two killings in Mordon and the theft of the viruses just as you suggested?" the General said.
" No." I shook my head. " I was wrong on that."
The General looked at me, his face not saying very much but saying a great deal all the same, and I continued, " My idea was that one of the number one lab scientists killed both Dr. Baxter and Clandon. Every single thing pointed unmistakably to that. I was wrong. I had to be wrong.
We've checked and re-checked and every single scientist and technician in that lab had an unbreakable alibi for the night of the murder—
unbreakable because they were true. Two men were smuggled in all right—maybe even three. I don't know. We do know Gregori must have quite an organisation working for him. Three is possible. Say three. Only one of those men left at the usual knocking-off time—the one disguised as Baxter. The other two remained, but ' X' didn't—he also took off at the normal time and arrived home to establish a nice cozy alibi for himself. ' X', of course, was almost certainly Gregori —MacDonald was a sleeping partner in this business. Gregori may or may not have taken the viruses with him—probably not, in case he was caught in one of the occasional spot-checks. Anyway, he certainly left behind him one botulinus ampoule—and one cyanide coated butterscotch. You will remember that none of us has been happy at the idea of Clandon meekly accepting the butterscotch from a potential suspect in the middle of the night."
"But the botulinus, the cyanide. Why?" the General demanded. " They were completely unnecessary."