The Tightrope Men. Desmond Bagley

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       TEN

      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 СКАЧАТЬ