The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (7 page)

Denison walked into the bar at a quarter to eight and saw the woman who called herself Diana Hansen sitting at a table. He walked over and said, ‘Sorry I’m late.’

She smiled and said lightly, ‘I was beginning to think I was being stood up again.’

He sat down. ‘I fell asleep.’

‘You look pale. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ There was a vague memory at the back of his mind which disturbed him; something had happened just before he had fallen asleep. He was reluctant to probe into it because he caught a hint of terror and madness which frightened him. He shivered.

‘Cold?’ Her voice was sympathetic.

‘Nothing that a stiff drink won’t cure.’ He beckoned to a passing waiter, and raised his eyebrows at her.

‘A dry Martini, please.’

He turned to the hovering waiter. ‘A dry martini and…do you have a scotch malt?’ Normally he bought the cheapest blend he could buy in the cut-price supermarkets but with Meyrick’s finances behind him he could afford the best.

‘Yes, sir. Glenfiddich?’

‘That will do fine. Thank you.’

Diana Hansen said, ‘Food may be better than drink. Have you eaten today?’

‘Not much.’ Just the meal in the police station at Drammen, taken for fuel rather than pleasure.

‘You men!’ she said with scorn. ‘No better than children when left on your own. You’ll feel better after dinner.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘Let’s see - how long have we known each other, Diana?’

She smiled. ‘Counting the days, Harry? Nearly three weeks.’

So he had met her in Oslo - or, rather, Meyrick had. ‘I was just trying to find out how long it takes a woman to become maternal. Less than three weeks, I see.’

‘Is that the scientific mind at work?’

‘One aspect of it.’ Could that mean anything? Was Dr Meyrick a scientist - a government boffin?

She looked across the room and a shadow seemed to darken her face momentarily. ‘There’s Jack Kidder and his wife.’

Denison paused before he turned round. ‘Oh! Where?’

‘Just coming in.’ She put out her hand and covered his. ‘Do you want to be bothered by them, darling? He’s a bit of a bore, really.’

Denison looked at the tall, fleshy man who was escorting a petite woman. Jack Kidder was the name Diana Hansen had mentioned when he had bumped into her outside the bookshop. If she did not want to mix with the Kidders it was all right with him; he had enough to cope with already. He said, ‘You’re right. I don’t think I could cope with a bore tonight.’

She laughed. ‘Thanks for the compliment - hidden though it was. I’ll put him off tactfully if he comes across.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘But if he says that damned slogan of his again I’ll scream.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You must have heard it. It’s when he pulls off one of his dreadful jokes.’ She burlesqued an American accent. ‘ “You know me - Kidder by name and kidder by nature.”’

‘Jack was always the life and soul of the party,’ said Denison drily.

‘I don’t know how Lucy puts up with him,’ said Diana. ‘If you can talk about a hen-pecked husband, can you refer to a cock-pecked wife?’

Denison grinned. ‘It sounds rude.’ Diana Hansen was making things easy for him. She had just given him a thumbnail sketch of the Kidders, including names and temperaments. It could not have been done better if done deliberately.

The waiter put the drinks on the table and Denison found he had a scotch on the rocks, a desecration of good malt. He did not feel like making a fuss about it so he raised his glass.
‘Skal!’
He sipped the whisky and reflected that this was the first real drink he had had since his transformation into Meyrick.

The familiar taste bit at his tongue and somehow released a wave of memories which washed through him tumultuously, tantalizingly close to the surface of his mind. And with the memories, unrealized though they were, came the fear and the terror which set his heart thumping in his chest. Hastily he set down the glass, knowing he was close to panic.

Diana Hansen looked at his shaking fingers. ‘What’s the matter, Harry?’

Denison covered up. ‘I don’t think a drink is a good idea, after all. I’ve just remembered I’m stuffed full of pills.’ He managed a smile. ‘If you shook me I’d rattle. I don’t think they’d mix with alcohol.’

She put down her glass. Then let’s have dinner before the Kidders catch up with us.’ She stood up and took her
handbag from the table. Denison arose and they moved towards the entrance, but then she turned her head and murmured, Too late, I’m afraid.’

Kidder was also standing up, his big body blocking the way. ‘Hey, Lucy, look who’s here. It’s Diana and Harry.’

‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison. ‘Had a good day?’

‘We’ve been up to Holmenkollen; you know - the big ski-jump you can see from all over the city. It’s quite a thing when you get up to it close. Can you imagine, it’s only used once a year?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ said Denison blandly.

Lucy Kidder said, ‘And we went to the Henie-Onstad Art Centre, too.’

‘Yeah, modern art,’ said Kidder disparagingly. ‘Harry, can you make any sense out of Jackson Pollock?’

‘Not much,’ said Denison.

Kidder turned on his wife. ‘Anyway, why the hell do we have to come to Norway to see an American artist?’

‘But he’s internationally famous, Jack. Aren’t you proud of that?’

‘I guess so,’ he said gloomily. ‘But the locals aren’t much better. Take the guy with the name like a breakfast food.’ Everyone looked at Kidder with blank faces and he snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘You know who I mean - the local Scowegian we saw yesterday.’

Lucy Kidder sighed. ‘Edvard Munch,’ she said resignedly.

‘That’s the guy. Too gloomy for me even if you can see the people in his pictures,’ said Kidder.

Diana cut in quickly. ‘Harry’s not been feeling too well lately. I’m taking him in to an early dinner and sending him right to bed.’

‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Kidder. He sounded sincere.

‘There’s a lot of this two-day flu about,’ said his wife. ‘And it can be nasty while it lasts. You look after yourself - hear?’

‘I don’t think it’s too serious,’ said Denison.

‘But we’d better go in to dinner,’ said Diana. ‘Harry hasn’t eaten a thing all day.’

‘Sure,’ said Kidder, standing aside. ‘I hope you feel better real soon. You look after him, Diana.’

Over dinner they talked in generalities, much to Denison’s relief, and he was able to hold his own without much effort. There was not a single thing to trouble him until the coffee was served and that startling thought about the possible relationship between Diana and Meyrick came into his head. He looked at her speculatively and wondered what to do. For all he knew, Meyrick was an old ram.

He held the smile on his face and stirred his coffee mechanically. A waiter came to the table. ‘Mrs Hansen?’

Diana looked up. ‘Yes.’

‘A telephone call.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked at Denison apologetically. ‘I told someone I’d be here. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’ She stood up and left the restaurant, going into the lobby. He watched her until she was out of sight and then stopped stirring his coffee and put the spoon in the saucer with a clink. Thoughtfully he looked at the handbag on the other side of the table.

Mrs
Hansen! He could bear to know more about that. He stretched out his hand slowly and picked up the handbag, which was curiously heavy. Holding it on his lap, below the level of the table, he snapped open the catch and bent his head to look inside.

When Diana came back the bag was back in its place. She sat down, picked it up, and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Still not smoking, Harry?’

He shook his head. ‘They still taste foul.’

Soon thereafter he signed the bill and they left, parting in the lobby, he to go to bed and she to go to wherever she lived. He had decided against making a pass at Mrs Diana Hansen because it was most unlikely that Dr Harold Feltham Meyrick would be having an affaire with a woman who carried a gun - even if it was only a small gun.

The next day was boring. He obeyed instructions and stayed in the hotel waiting to hear from McCready. He breakfasted in his room and ordered English newspapers. Nothing had changed—the news was as bad as ever.

At mid-morning he left the room to allow the maid to clean up, and went down to the lobby where he saw the Kidders at the porter’s desk. He hung back, taking an inordinate interest in a showcase full of Norwegian silver, while Kidder discussed in a loud voice the possibilities of different bus tours. Finally they left the hotel and he came out of cover.

He discovered that the bookshop on the corner of the street had a convenient entrance inside the hotel, so he bought a stack of English paperbacks and took them to his room. He read for the rest of the day, gutting the books, his mind in low gear. He had a curious reluctance to think about his present predicament and, once, when he put a book aside and tried to think coherently, his mind skittered about and he felt the unreasoning panic come over him. When he picked up the book again his head was aching.

At ten that night no contact had been made and he thought of ringing the Embassy and asking for McCready but the strange disinclination to thought had spread to
action and he was irresolute. He looked at the telephone for a while, and then slowly undressed and went to bed.

He was almost asleep when there was a tap at his door. He sat up and listened and it came again, a discreet double knock. He switched on the light and put on Meyrick’s bathrobe, then went to the door. It was McCready, who came in quickly and closed the door behind him. ‘Ready for the doctor?’ he asked.

Denison frowned. ‘At this time of night?’

‘Why not?’ asked McCready lightly.

Denison sighed. It was just one more mystery to add to the others. He reached for his underwear and took off the bathrobe. McCready picked up the pyjamas which were lying neatly folded on top of the suitcase. ‘You don’t wear these?’

‘Meyrick did.’ Denison sat on the edge of the bed to put on his socks. ‘I don’t.’

‘Oh!’ McCready thoughtfully tugged at his ear.

When Denison picked up his jacket he turned to McCready. ‘There’s something you ought to know, I suppose. Diana Hansen carries…’

‘Who?’ asked McCready.

‘The redhead I took to dinner—her name is Diana Hansen. She carries a gun.’

McCready went still. ‘She does? How do you know?’

‘I looked in her handbag.’

‘Enterprising of you. I’ll tell Carey—he’ll be interested.’ McCready took Denison by the arm. ‘Let’s go.’

McCready’s car was in the garage and when he drove out into the street he turned left which Denison knew was away from the Embassy. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Not far,’ said McCready. ‘Five minutes. Possess your soul in patience.’

Within two minutes Denison was lost. The car twisted and turned in the strange streets until his sense of direction
deserted him. Whether McCready was deliberately confusing him he did not know, but he thought it likely. Another possibility was that McCready was intent on shaking off any possible followers.

After a few minutes the car pulled up outside a large building which could have been a block of flats. They went inside and into a lift which took them to the fifth floor. McCready unlocked a door and motioned Denison inside. He found himself in a hall with doors on each side. McCready opened one of them, and said, ‘This is Mr Iredale. He’ll fix up your side for you.’

Iredale was a sallow, middle-aged man, balding and with deep grooves cut from the base of his nose to the corners of his mouth. He said pleasantly, ‘Come in, Mr Denison; let me have a look at you.’

Denison heard the door close behind him and turned to find that McCready had already gone. He whirled around to confront Iredale. ‘I thought I was being taken to a doctor.’

‘I am a doctor,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m also a surgeon. We surgeons have a strange inverted snobbery—we’re called “mister” and not “doctor”. I’ve never known why. Take off your coat, Mr Denison, and let me see the damage.’

Denison hesitated and slowly took off his jacket and then his shirt. ‘If you’ll lie on the couch?’ suggested Iredale, and opened a black bag which could only have been the property of a doctor. Somewhat reassured, Denison lay down.

Iredale snipped away the bandages with a small pair of scissors and examined the slash. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘But clean. It will need a local anaesthetic. Are you allergic to anaesthetic, Mr Denison?’

‘I don’t know—I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll just feel three small pricks—no more.’ Iredale took out a hypodermic syringe and filled it from a small phial. ‘Lie still.’

Denison felt the pricks, and Iredale said, ‘While we’re waiting for that to take effect you can sit up.’ He took an ophthalmoscope from his bag. ‘I’d just like to look at your eyes.’ He flashed a light into Denison’s right eye. ‘Had any alcohol lately?’

‘No.’

Iredale switched to the left eye upon which he spent more time. ‘That seems to be all right,’ he said.

‘I was stabbed in the side, not hit on the head,’ said Denison. ‘I don’t have concussion.’

Iredale put away the ophthalmoscope. ‘So you have a little medical knowledge.’ He put his hands to Denison’s face and palpated the flesh under the chin. ‘You know what they say about a little knowledge.’ He stood up and looked down at the top of Denison’s head, and then his fingers explored the hairline. ‘Don’t knock the experts, Mr Denison—they know what they’re doing.’

‘What sort of a doctor are you?’ asked Denison suspiciously.

Iredale ignored that. ‘Ever had scalp trouble? Dandruff, for instance?’

‘No.’

‘I see. Right.’ He touched Denison’s side. ‘Feel anything?’

‘It’s numb but I can feel pressure.’

‘Good,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m going to stitch the wound closed. You won’t feel anything—but if you do then shout like hell.’ He put on rubber gloves which he took out of a sealed plastic bag and then took some fine thread out of another small packet. ‘I’d turn your head away,’ he advised. ‘Lie down.’

He worked on Denison’s side for about fifteen minutes and Denison felt nothing but the pressure of his fingers. At last he said, ‘All right, Mr Denison; I’ve finished.’

Denison sat up and looked at his side. The wound was neatly closed and held by a row of minute stitches. ‘I’ve
always been good at needlework,’ said Iredale conversationally. ‘When the stitches are out there’ll be but a hairline. In a year you won’t be able to see it.’

Denison said, ‘This isn’t a doctor’s surgery. Who are you?’

Iredale packed his bag rapidly and stood up. ‘There’ll be another doctor to see you in a moment.’ He walked to the door and closed it behind him.

There was something about the way the door closed that vaguely alarmed Denison. He stood up and walked to the door and found it locked. Frowning, he turned away and looked about the room. There was the settee on which he had been lying, a table, two armchairs and a bookcase against the wall. He went over to the bookcase to inspect it and tripped over a wire which threatened to topple a telephone from a small table. He rescued the telephone and then stood looking down at it.

Iredale walked along the corridor and into a room at the end. Carey glanced up at him expectantly, breaking off his conversation with McCready. Harding, the psychiatrist, sat in an armchair, his long legs outstretched and his fingertips pressed together. There was also another man whom Iredale did not know. Carey saw Iredale looking at him, and said, ‘Ian Armstrong of my staff. Well?’ He could not suppress his eagerness.

Iredale put down his case. ‘He’s not Meyrick.’ He paused. ‘Not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.’

Carey blew out his breath in a long gasp. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Iredale, a little testily.

‘That’s it, then.’ Carey looked across at Harding. ‘It’s your turn, Dr Harding. Try to get out of him as much as you can.’

Harding nodded and uncoiled himself from the chair. He walked out of the room without speaking. As the door closed Carey said, ‘You understand that, to the best of our
knowledge, this alteration was made in the space of a week—not more.’ He took a thin, cardboard file from the table. ‘We’ve just received a lengthy cable from London about Denison—and a photo came over the wire.’ He took the photograph and handed it to Iredale. ‘That’s Denison as he was quite recently. It hardly seems possible.’

Iredale studied the photograph. ‘Very interesting,’ he commented.

‘Could this thing be done in a week?’ Carey persisted.

Iredale put down the photograph. ‘As far as I could ascertain there was only one lesion,’ he said precisely. ‘That was at the outside corner of the left eyelid. A very small cut which was possibly held together by one stitch while it healed. It would certainly heal in a week although there might have been a residual soreness. I detected a minute inflammation.’

McCready said in disbelief, ‘You mean that was the only cut that was made?’

‘Yes,’ said Iredale. ‘The purpose was to draw down the left eyelid. Have you got that photograph of Meyrick?’

‘Here,’ said Carey.

Iredale put down his forefinger. ‘There—you see? The eyelid was drawn down due to the skin contraction caused by this scar.’ He paused and said sniffily, ‘A bit of a butcher’s job, if you ask me. That should never have happened.’

‘It was a war wound when Meyrick was a boy,’ said Carey. He tapped the photograph of Meyrick. ‘But how the devil did they reproduce this scar on Denison without cutting?’

‘That was very cleverly done,’ said Iredale with sudden enthusiasm. ‘As expert a job of tattooing as I’ve ever seen, as also was the birthmark on the right jaw.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘In my field, of course, I come across a lot of tattooing but I specialize in removal rather than application.’ He leaned forward again and traced a line on the
photograph. ‘The hairline was adjusted by depilation; nothing as crude as mere shaving and leaving the hair to grow out. I’m afraid Mr Denison has lost his hair permanently.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said McCready, coming forward. He leaned over the table, comparing the two photographs. ‘But just look at these two men. Denison is thin in the face, and he’d look thinner without the beard. Meyrick is fat-jowled. And look at the differences in the noses.’

‘That was done by liquid silicone injection,’ said Iredale. ‘Some of my more light-minded colleagues aid film stars in their mammary development by the same means.’ His tone was distasteful. ‘I palpated his cheeks and felt it. It was quite unmistakable.’

‘I’ll be damned!’ said Carey.

‘You say that Denison lost a week of objective time?’ asked Iredale.

‘He said he’d lost a week out of his life—if that’s what you mean.’

‘Then I can hazard a guess as to how it was done,’ said Iredale. ‘He was drugged, of course, and kept unconscious for the whole week. I noticed a dressing on his left arm. I didn’t investigate it, but that was where the intravenous drip feed was inserted to keep him alive.’

He paused, and Carey said in a fascinated voice, ‘Go on!’

‘The cut would be made at the corner of the eye, giving it a full week to heal. Any competent surgeon could do that in five minutes. Then I suppose they’d do the tattooing. Normally there’d be a residual soreness from that, but it would certainly clear up in a week. Everything else could be done at leisure.’

He picked up the two photographs. ‘You see, the underlying bone structure of these two men, as far as the heads go, is remarkably similar. I rather think that if you had a photograph of Meyrick taken fifteen to twenty years ago he
would look not unlike Denison or, rather, as Denison used to look. I take it that Meyrick has been used to expensive living?’

‘He’s rich enough,’ said Carey.

‘It shows on his face,’ said Iredale, and tossed down the photographs. ‘Denison, however, looks a shade undernourished.’

‘Interesting you should say that,’ said Carey, opening the folder. ‘From what we have here it seems that Denison, if not an alcoholic, was on the verge. He’d just lost his job—fired for incompetence on June 24.’

Iredale nodded. ‘Symptomatic. Alcoholics reject food—they get their calories from the booze.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all I can do tonight, gentlemen. I should like to see Denison tomorrow with a view to restoring him to his former appearance, which won’t be easy—that silicone polymer will be the devil to get out. Is there any more?’

‘Nothing, Mr Iredale,’ said Carey.

‘Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.’

‘You know where your room is,’ said Carey, and Iredale nodded and left the room.

Carey and McCready looked at each other in silence for some time, and then Carey stirred and said over his shoulder, ‘What did you make of all that, Ian?’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ said Armstrong.

Carey grunted. ‘I’m damned, too. I’ve been involved in some bizarre episodes in this game, but this takes the prize for looniness. Now we’ll have to see what Harding comes up with, and I suspect he’s going to be a long time. I think somebody had better make coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’

Carey was right because more than two hours elapsed before Harding returned. His face was troubled, and he said abruptly, ‘I don’t think Denison should be left alone.’

‘Ian!’ said Carey.

Armstrong got up, and Harding said, ‘If he wants to talk let him. Join in but steer clear of specifics. Stick to generalities. Understand?’

Armstrong nodded and went out. Harding sat down and Carey studied him. Finally Carey said, ‘You look as though you could do with a drink, Doctor. Whisky?’

Harding nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He rubbed his. forehead. ‘Denison is in a bad way.’

Carey poured two ounces of whisky into a glass. ‘How?’

‘He’s been tampered with,’ said Harding flatly.

Carey handed him the glass. ‘His mind?’

Harding sank half the whisky and choked a little. He held out the glass. ‘I’ll have water in the other half. Yes. Someone has been bloody ruthless about it. He has a week missing, and whatever was done to him was done in that week.’

Carey frowned. ‘Iredale suggested he’d been unconscious all that week.’