The Tightrope Men / The Enemy. Desmond Bagley
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It was greatly to Denison’s credit that he did not panic. His first impulse was to step back and deny he was Meyrick – that it was a question of mistaken identity. Hard on that decision came the realization that it would not do; the night porter knew his name and was within earshot, and, in any case, a disclaimer in the hotel lobby was sure to create a fuss. He cancelled the impulse.
She was kissing him and he felt his own lips hard and unresponsive. Perhaps it was his lack of reaction that caused her to step back, the smile fading from her face. She said, ‘I was hoping to find you here, but I hardly expected to run into you in the same hotel – and at five in the morning. What are you doing up so early – or so late?’
She was young – not much more than twenty – and had the clear eyes and clear skin of youth. Her eyes were grey and her mouth wide and generous, perhaps too wide for perfect beauty. To the untutored male eye she wore no make-up but perhaps that was a tribute to skill.
He swallowed. ‘I was visiting a friend; the talk tended to go on a bit.’
‘Oh.’ She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her motoring coat and turned her head to look at the harassed porter. ‘It’s going to take hours before I get my room. Can I freshen up in yours? I must look a sight.’
His mouth was dry and, for a moment, he could not speak. She looked at him curiously. ‘You are staying here?’ Then she laughed. ‘Of course you are; you have the key in your hand.’
‘I just have to make a telephone call,’ he said, and stepped away slightly, disengaging himself.
‘Why not from the room?’
‘It’s just as easy from down here.’ He walked away to the public telephones, fumbling in his pocket for coins.
The public telephones were not in booths but were surrounded by large transparent plastic hoods which theoretically would keep conversations private. He was aware that the girl had followed him and was standing close by. He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper, and dialled the number. The ringing sound buzzed in his ear six times, and then a voice said, ‘Yes?’
He kept his voice low. ‘I want Carey.’
‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’
He raised his voice a little. ‘I want to talk to Carey.’
Doubtfully: ‘I don’t think that’s possible. He’s in bed.’
‘I don’t care if he’s in his coffin. Get him up. This is Denison.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Right!’
In a remarkably short time Carey came on the line. ‘Denison?’
‘It’s trouble. Meyrick’s …’
Carey cut in with a voice like gravel. ‘How did you know to ring this number?’
‘For God’s sake! That can wait.’
‘How did you know?’ insisted Carey.
‘There was a telephone in the room where I saw the doctors,’ said Denison. ‘I took the number off that.’
‘Oh!’ said Carey. Then, with grudging respect, ‘Harding said you were competent; now I believe him. All right; what’s your problem?’
‘Meyrick’s daughter has just pitched up at the hotel.’
The telephone blasted in his ear. ‘What!’
‘What the hell am I to do?’ said Denison desperately. ‘I don’t even know her bloody name.’
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ said Carey. ‘Wait a minute.’ There was a confused murmur and then Carey said, ‘Her name is Lyn – L-Y-N.’
‘Do you know anything else about her?’
‘How the devil would I?’ demanded Carey. ‘Not off the top of my head.’
‘Damn you!’ said Denison violently. ‘I have to talk to this girl. I must know something about her. She’s my daughter.’
‘Is she there now?’
Denison looked sideways through the plastic hood. ‘She’s standing within ten feet of me. I’m in the hotel lobby and I don’t know how soundproof this canopy is. She wants to come to my room.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Carey. ‘Hold on.’
‘Make it quick.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl walking towards him. He put his head around the edge of the hood, and said, ‘I won’t be a minute, Lyn. Is there anything you want to take up to the room?’
‘Oh, yes; my little travelling bag. I’ll go and get it.’
He watched her walk across the lobby with a bouncing stride, and felt the sweat break out on his forehead. Carey came back on the line. ‘Margaret Lyn Meyrick – but she prefers Lyn – Meyrick’s daughter by his first wife.’
Denison digested that, and said quickly, ‘Is her mother still alive?’
‘Yes – divorced and remarried.’
‘Name?’
‘Patricia Joan Metford – her husband is John Howard Metford; he’s something in the City.’
‘What about Meyrick’s present wife?’
‘There isn’t one. Also divorced three years ago. Her name was Janet Meyrick, née Austin.’
‘About the girl – what does she do? Her work? Her hobbies?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carey. ‘All this stuff is from Meyrick’s dossier. We didn’t delve into the daughter.’
‘You’d better get something fast,’ said Denison. ‘Look, Carey; I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. My impulse right now is to blow the whole thing.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Carey quickly. ‘I’ll get as much information on the Meyrick girl as I can and I’ll let you have it as soon as possible.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll send it in a sealed envelope by special messenger; she doesn’t have to know what’s on the sheet of paper you’re reading. And if things get too tough I’ll find a way of separating her from you. But, Denison – don’t blow your cover, whatever you do.’
There was a pleading quality in Carey’s voice and Carey, in Denison’s brief experience of him, was not a man who was used to pleading. Denison thought it a good opportunity to turn the screw. ‘I’ve been given the fast run around by you ever since this … this indecent thing was done to me. Now I want an explanation – a full explanation – and it had better be good.’ He was aware that his voice had risen and that he was in danger of becoming hysterical.
‘You’ll get your explanation today,’ promised Carey. ‘Now do your best to handle that girl.’
‘I don’t know if I can. It’s one thing fooling a stranger and another to try it on a member of Meyrick’s family.’
‘We may be lucky,’ said Carey. ‘I don’t think they were too close. I think she was brought up by her mother.’
Denison turned to face the lobby. ‘I’ll have to go now – the girl’s coming.’ He put down the telephone and heard a faint, squawking noise just before the connection was broken. It sounded as though Carey had said, ‘Good luck!’
He walked away from the telephone as she approached. ‘All finished.’
She fell into step with him. ‘You looked as if you were having an argument.’