The Satan Bug. Alistair MacLean

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СКАЧАТЬ mental condition and act accordingly. He did. He took his seat behind a table and looked up under his shaggy brows, the pale blue eyes cold and penetrating and hostile. As an actor, he wasn’t all that far behind Inspector Martin.

      “All right,” he said brusquely. “The jeep crew. The ones who made the wild-goose chase last night. Let’s have you.”

      Three men—a corporal and two privates—rose slowly to their feet. Hardanger gave his attention to the corporal.

      “Your name, please?”

      “Muirfield, sir.”

      “You in charge of the crew last night?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Tell me what happened.”

      “Yes, sir. We’d completed a circuit of the ring road, stopped to report everything O.K. at the main gate and then left again. It would be about eleven-fifteen, sir, give or take a minute or two. About two hundred and fifty yards past the gates we saw this girl running into the headlights. She looked wild, dishevelled like, her hair all over the place. She was half-screaming, half-crying, a funny noise. I was driving. I stopped the jeep, jumped out, and the others came after me. I should have told them to stay where they——”

      “Never mind about what you should have done. The story, man!”

      “Well, we came up to her, sir. She’d mud on her face and her coat was torn. I said—”

      “Ever seen her before?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Would you recognise her again?”

      He hesitated. “I doubt it, sir. Her face was in a fair old mess.”

      “She spoke to you?”

      “Yes, sir. She said——”

      “Recognise her voice? Any of you recognise her voice? Can you be quite sure of that?”

      Three solemn shakes of their heads. They hadn’t recognised her voice.

      “All right,” Hardanger said wearily. “She pitched the tale of the damsel in distress. At the psychological moment someone conveniently betrayed his presence and started running. You all took off after him. Catch a glimpse of him?”

      “A glimpse, only, sir. Just a blur in the darkness. Could have been anyone.”

      “He took off in a car, I understand. Just another blur, I take it?”

      “Yes, sir. Not a car, sir. A closed van type, sir. A Bedford.”

      “I see.” Hardanger stopped and stared at him. “A Bedford! How the devil do you know? It was dark, you said.”

      “It was a Bedford,” Muirfield insisted. “I’d know the engine anywhere. And I’m a garage mechanic in civvy street.”

      “He’s right, Superintendent,” I put in. “A Bedford does have a very distinctive engine note.”

      “I’ll be back.” Hardanger was on his feet and it didn’t need any clairvoyance to see him heading for the nearest telephone. He glanced at me, nodded at the seated soldiers and left.

      I said, pleasantly enough, “Who was the dog-handler in number one last night?” The circuit between the two barbed-wire fences were divided into four sections by wooden hurdles: number one was the section in which the break-in occurred. “You, Ferguson?”

      A dark stocky private in his middle twenties had risen to his feet. Ferguson was regular Army, a born soldier, tough, aggressive, and not very bright.

      “Me,” he said. There was truculence in his voice, not very much, but more waiting there if I wanted it.

      “Where were you at eleven fifteen last night?”

      “In number one. With Rollo. That’s my alsatian.”

      “You saw the incident that Corporal Muirfield here has described?”

      “’Course I saw it.”

      “Lie number one, Ferguson. Lie number two and you’ll be returned to your regiment before the day is out.”

      “I’m not lying.” His face was suddenly ugly. “And you can’t talk to me like that, Mister Cavell. You can’t threaten me any more. Don’t think we don’t all know you were sacked from here!”

      I turned to the orderly. “Ask Colonel Weybridge to come here. At once, please.”

      The orderly turned to go, but a big sergeant rose to his feet and stopped him.

      “It’s not necessary, sir. Ferguson’s a fool. It’s bound to come out. He was at the switchboard having a smoke and a cup of cocoa with the gatehouse communications number. I was in charge. Never saw him there, but I knew about it and didn’t worry about it. Ferguson always left Rollo in number one—and that dog’s a killer, sir. It was safe enough.”

      “It wasn’t, but thanks. You’ve been in the habit of doing this for some time, haven’t you, Ferguson?”

      “I haven’t.” He was scowling, sullen. “Last night was the first——”

      “If there was a rank lower than private,” I interrupted wearily, “you’d stay in it till the end of your days. Use what little sense you have. Do you think whoever arranged this decoy move and was standing by with his pliers ready to break in did it unless he knew for certain you wouldn’t be on patrol at that particular time? Probably after Mr. Clandon finished his 11 p.m. rounds visit to the main gate every night you went straight into the gatehouse for your smoke and cocoa. Isn’t that it?”

      He stood staring down at the floor in stubborn silence until the sergeant said sharply, “For God’s sake, Fergie, use your loaf. Everybody else here can see it. So can you.”

      Again silence, but this time a sullen nod of defeat.

      “We’re getting someplace. When you came here you left your dog—Rollo—behind?”

      “Yes, sir.” Ferguson’s days of truculent defiance were over.

      “What’s he like?”

      “He’d tear the throat out of any man alive, from the general downwards,” Ferguson said with satisfaction. “Except me, of course.”

      “He didn’t tear out any throats last night,” I pointed out. “I wonder why?”

      “He must have been got at,” Ferguson said defensively.

      “What do you mean ‘got at’? Did you have a look at him before you turned him into his compound last night?”

      “Look at him? ‘Course not. Why should I? When we saw the cut outer fence we thought whoever done it must have caught sight of Rollo and run for his life. That’s what I would have bloody well done. If——”

      “Fetch СКАЧАТЬ