'One chance is all you get from me, Hartnell,' I said in a low voice. 'You've had that chance. Now the treatment. You rotten contemptible liar. Expect me to believe a crazy story like that? Do you think the brilliant mind behind this would have phoned asking you to make a diversion knowing very well that the chances were high that you would at once go to the police, put them and the Army at Mordon on their guard and so ruin all his plans? Do you think this man, in an area where automatic exchanges are not yet installed, would have spoken to you when any operator with time on her hands could have listened in to every word he said? Are you so naive as to imagine that I would be so naive as to believe that? Do you believe this man, with a genius for organisation, would leave everything, the success of all his plans, dependent on the last-minute factor of the strength of your greed? Do you believe he would pay in fivers, which can as often as not be traced and which could also have, if not his prints, then those of the cashier issuing them? Do you expect me to believe that he would offer ?500 for the job when he could get a couple of experts from London to do it for a tenth of that. And, finally, do you think I'd believe your yarn about burying the money in the woods at night — so that come the dawn if you were told to dig them up by the police you would be unable to find them again?' I stood back, taking the gun from his face. 'Or shall we go and look for that money now?'
'Oh, God, it's useless.' He was completely crushed, his voice a moan. 'I'm finished, Cavell, I'm finished. I've been borrowing all over the place and now I'm over two thousand in debt.'
'Cut the sob-story,' I said harshly. 'It doesn't interest me.'
'Tuffnell — the money-lender — was pressing me hard,' he went on dully. He wasn't looking anywhere near me. 'I'm mess secretary at Mordon. I've embezzled over six hundred pounds. Someone — God knows who or how — found out and sent me a note saying that if I didn't co-operate he'd lay the facts before the police. I co- operated.'
I put the gun away. The ring of truth is far from having the bell-like clarity some innocents would believe, but I knew Hartnell was too beaten to prevaricate further. I said, 'You have no clue at all as to the identity of the man sending the note?'
'No. And I swear I don't know anything about the hammer or the pliers or the red mud on the scooter.'
My leg was now hurting so badly that they'd given me a police car and police driver but even so I didn't enjoy the trip across to Dr. MacDonald's house. Time was running out and all I could see was a brick wall. That evening there would appear in all the evening papers a carefully worded account of how two Mordon scientists had been arrested and charged with murder and that the final solution of the theft of the Satan Bug was only hours away, and while it might, we hoped, lull the suspicions of the real killers, it wasn't advancing our cause very much. Blind men in a fog at midnight. And no leads, just no leads at all. Hardanger was going to open an intensive investigation in Mordon to find out who might have had access to the mess accounts: probably, I thought bitterly, only a couple of hundred people or so.
I was met at the door of Dr. MacDonald's house by his housekeeper. She was in her middle thirties, more than passably good looking and gave her name as Mrs. Turpin. Her face was like thunder, the face of the faithful retainer powerless to defend her master's property against ravage and assault. When I showed my false credentials and asked to be allowed in she said bitterly that another prying nosy-parker more or less couldn't do any harm now.
The house appeared to be alive with plain-clothes policemen. I identified myself to the man in charge, a detective-sergeant by the name of Carlisle. 'Found anything interesting yet, Sergeant?'
'Hard to say. Been here over an hour, starting from the top, and we've found nothing that strikes me as suspicious in itself. Dr. MacDonald does seem to do himself pretty well, I must say. And one of my men, Campbell, who'd dead keen on all this art rubbish says that a lot of the pictures, pottery and other junk about the place is worth a fair bit of anyone's money. And you ought to see the dark-room he has in the attic: there's a thousand quid's worth of photographic equipment there if there's a penny's worth.'
'Dark-room? That might be interesting. Never heard that Dr. MacDonald was interested in photography.'
'Lord bless my soul, yes. He's one of the best amateur photographers in the country. He's the president of our photographic club in Alfringham. There's a cabinet through in his study there that's fair loaded with trophies. He makes no secret of that, I can assure you, sir.'
I left him and his men to their search — if they couldn't find anything neither could I — and went upstairs to the dark-room. Carlisle hadn't exaggerated any, Dr. MacDonald did himself as well in the way of cameras as he did in the other material things of life. But I didn't spend much time there, I didn't see how cameras came into the business at all. I made a mental note to bring an expert police photographer down from London to check the equipment in the one in a thousand chance that something might turn up, and then went downstairs to see Mrs. Turpin.
'I'm really most sorry about all this upset, Mrs. Turpin,' I said pleasantly. 'Just pure routine, you know. Must be a pleasure for you to look after a beautiful place like this.'
'If you've got any questions to ask, ask them,' she snapped, 'and none of your smart-alecky beating about the bush.'
That didn't leave much room for finesse. I said, 'How many years have you been with Dr. MacDonald?'
'Four. Ever since he came here. A finer gentleman you wouldn't find anywhere. Why do you ask?'
'He has a great deal of valuable stuff here.' I listed about a dozen items, ranging from the magnificient carpeting to the paintings. 'How long has he had those?'
'I don't have to answer any questions, Mr. Inspector.' The helpful type.
'No,' I admitted. 'You don't. Especially if you wish to make things unpleasant for your employer.'
She glared at me, hesitated, then answered my questions. At least half the stuff MacDonald had brought with him four years ago. The rest he had bought at fairly regular intervals since. Mrs. Turpin was one of those formidable women with a photographic memory for all the more monumental irrelevancies of life, and she could more or less quote the date, hour and the weather conditions at the time of the delivery of each item. I knew I'd be wasting my time even trying to confirm her statements. If Mrs. Turpin said such and such was so and so, then it was and that was all there was to it.
This certainly helped to set MacDonald in the clear. No sudden suspicious influx of wealth in recent weeks or months, he'd been buying on this lavish scale over a period of years. Where he got the wherewithal to buy on this lavish scale I couldn't guess, but it hardly seemed important now. As he'd said himself, as an independent bachelor without relatives, he could afford to live it up.
I moved back into the sitting-room and saw Carlisle coming towards me with a couple of large files in his hands.
'We're giving Dr. MacDonald's study a thorough going-over now, sir. Listing everything, of course, but I thought these might interest you. Seems to be some sort of official correspondence.'
It did interest me, but not in the way I expected. The more I turned up about MacDonald, the more innocuous he seemed. The file contained carbon copies of his letters to and replies from fellow-scientists and various scientific organisations throughout Europe, mainly the World Health Organisation. There was no doubt from these letters that MacDonald was a highly gifted and highly respected chemist and micro-biologist, one of the top men in his own field. Almost half of his letters were addressed to certain affiliations of the, W.H.O., particularly in Paris, Stockholm, Bonn and Rome. Nothing sinister or unpatriotic about that, this would be unclassified stuff and the frequent co-signature of Dr. Baxter on the carbon was guarantee enough of that. Besides, although it was supposed to be a secret, all the scientists in Mordon knew that then, mail was under constant censorship. I glanced through the file again and put it aside as the phone rang.
It was Hardanger and he sounded fairly grim. What he had to say made me feel grim, too. A phone call to Alfringham had stated that if police investigations weren't suspended for twenty-four hours something very unpleasant was going to happen to Pierre Cavell, who, as they would be aware, had disappeared. Proof that the caller knew where Cavell was would be forthcoming if police investigations were not halted by six o'clock that evening.
It wasn't the first part of it that made me feel grim. I said, 'Well, we were expecting something like it. With all the threats I was dropping at the crack of dawn to-day they must have thought that I was making too much progress for their comfort.'
'You flatter yourself, my friend,' Hardanger said in his gravelly voice. 'You're only a pawn, the call wasn't
