The Satan Bug. Alistair MacLean
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saw him clearly?”
“Course I did. I’ve been guard here for eighteen months and I know Dr. Baxter as well as my own mother. Dressed in his usual—checked ulster, trilby and those heavy horn glasses of his.”
“You’d swear to it in court? That it was Dr. Baxter, I mean?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’d swear to it. And both my mates on duty saw him also. You can check with them.”
We checked, then left to return to the administrative block. I said, “Did you really think Baxter stayed behind last night?”
“No,” Hardanger admitted. “He left all right—and came back with his pliers. Either alone or with someone else. Which on the face of it, would appear to make Baxter a bad ’un. But it seems that an even badder ’un disposed of him. When thieves fall out, perhaps.”
“You thought the signature genuine?”
“As genuine as any signature can ever be. No one ever signs his signature the same way twice. I think I’ll get on to the General in London straight away. An all-out check on Baxter might turn up something very interesting. Especially past contacts.”
“You’ll be wasting your time. From the point of view of security Baxter was sitting in the hottest seat in Europe—boss of number one lab in Mordon. Every step he’s taken from the day he learnt to walk, every word he’s said since, every person he’s met—they would have checked and re-checked a hundred times. Baxter’s clean. He’s just too big a fish to get through the security mesh.”
“So were a number of other characters who are now either in jail or Moscow,” Hardanger said grimly. “I’m phoning London now. Then checking with Wylie to see if they’ve turned up anything on that Bedford that was used as a getaway car. Then I’m going to see how Martin and the fingerprint boys are getting on. Coming?”
“No. I’d like to check with the internal guards who were on duty last night and mooch around on my own a little.”
He shrugged. “I’ve no jurisdiction over you, Cavell. But if anything turns up—you’ll let me know?” he added suspiciously.
“Think I’m crazy? With a guy walking around with the Satan Bug in his vest pocket do you think I’m going to start a one-man war?”
He nodded, still a little suspiciously, and left me. I spent the next hour checking with the six internal guards who had been on duty before midnight the previous night and learnt what I had expected to learn—nothing. All of them were well-known to me, which was probably the real reason why Hardanger had wanted me down in Mordon, and all of them had been on duty in Mordon for at least three years. All of their stories tallied and none of it helped at all. With two guards I made a minute check of all windows and the entire roof area of “E” block and I was just wasting my time.
No one had seen Clandon from the time he left Lieutenant Wilkinson at the gatehouse, just after 11 p.m., till his body had been found. Normally, no one would have expected to see him, for after making his rounds Clandon retired for the night to the little concrete cottage he had to himself less than a hundred yards from “E” block. This cottage faced on the long glass corridor of the block, where, as a security precaution, the lights burned night and day. It was no great trick to guess that Clandon had seen something suspicious in “E” Block and gone to investigate. No other reason could have accounted for his presence outside number one laboratory.
I made my way to the gatehouse and asked for the register book showing the names and nature of business of all those who had checked in and out of Mordon the previous day. There were several hundred of those altogether, but all but a very few of them were staff regularly employed there. Groups of special visitors to Mordon were not infrequent: visiting scientists from the Commonwealth and Nato countries or an occasional small group of M.P.’s who were given to asking awkward questions in the Commons and were brought down to Mordon to see for themselves the sterling work being carried out there on the health front against anthrax, polio, Asian flu and other diseases: such groups were shown exactly what the Mordon authorities wanted them to be shown and usually came away no wiser than they had arrived. But, on that previous day, there had been no such groups of visitors: there had been fourteen callers altogether, all of them concerned with the delivery of various supplies. I copied down their names and the reasons for their visits, and left.
I phoned the local car-hire firm, asked for the indefinite hire of one of their cars and that it should be brought and left at the gates of Mordon. Another call to Alfringham, this time to the Waggoner’s Rest, and I was lucky enough to get a room. The last call was to London, to Mary. I told her to pack a suitcase for me and one for herself and bring them both down to the Waggoner’s Rest. There was a train from Paddington that would get her down by half-past six.
I left the gatehouse and went for a walk through the grounds. The air was cold and a chill October wind blowing, but I didn’t walk briskly. I paced slowly up and down beside the inner fence, head bowed, gazing down at my feet most of the time. Cavell lost in thought, or so I hoped any onlooker would think. I spent the better part of an hour there, paralleling the same quarter mile of fence all the time and at last I found what I was looking for. Or so I thought. Next circuit round I stopped to tie my shoe-lace and then there was no more doubt in my mind.
Hardanger was still in the administrative block when I found him. He and Inspector Martin were poring over freshly developed batches of photographic prints. Hardanger looked up and grunted, “How’s it going?”
“It’s not. Any progress with you?”
“No prints on Clandon’s wallet, cigarette case or books of matches—except his own, of course. Nothing of any interest on the doors. We’ve found the Bedford van—rather, Inspector Wylie’s men have found a Bedford van. Reported missing this afternoon by a chap called Hendry, an Alfringham carrier with three of those vans. Found less than an hour ago by a motor-cycle cop in the Hailem Woods. Sent my men across there to try it for prints.”
“It’s as good a way of wasting time as any.”
“Maybe. Do you know the Hailem Woods?”
I nodded, “Half-way between here and Alfringham there’s a ’B’ road forks off to the north. About a mile and a half along that road. There may have been woods there once, but they’ve gone now. You wouldn’t find a couple of dozen trees in the entire area now—outside gardens, that is. Residential, what’s called a good neighbourhood. This fellow Hendry—a check been made?”
“Yes. Nothing there. One of those solid citizens, not only the backbone of England but a personal friend of Inspector Wylie’s. They play darts for the same pub team. That,” Hardanger said heavily, “puts him beyond the range of all suspicion.”
“You’re getting bitter.” I nodded at the prints. “From number one lab, I take it. A first-class job. I wonder which of the prints belongs to the man who stays nearest to the spot where the Bedford was found.”
He gave me an up-from-under glance. “As obvious as that, is it?”
“Isn’t it? It would seem to leave him pretty well out. Dumping the evidence on your own door-step is as good a way as any of putting the noose round your own neck.”
“Unless that’s the way we’re intended to think. Fellow called Chessingham. Know him?”
“Research chemist. I know him.”
“Would you vouch for him?”
“In this business I wouldn’t vouch for St. Peter. But I’d wager a month’s pay he’s clear.”
“I wouldn’t. We’re checking his story and we’ll see.”
“We’ll see. How many of the prints have you identified?”
“Fifteen sets altogether, as far as we can make out, but we’ve been able to trace only thirteen.”
I thought for a minute, then nodded. “That would