that Mr Pilgrim did not tell me.”
“Mr Pilgrim knows what he is doing.” Now that he had them both Fawcett took off the velvet gloves but still remained urbane and polite. “There was no point in burdening you with unnecessary details until we had secured the co-operation of both you gentlemen. The two people in question are a Dr Harper and an equestrienne, Maria. Our people. Very important to our purpose. That, too, I’ll explain later. There are some things I must first discuss urgently with Mr Pilgrim. Tell me, Bruno, why have you agreed to do this? I must warn you that it might be extremely dangerous for you and if you’re caught we’ll have no option but to disown you. Why?” Bruno shrugged. “Who’s to say why? There can be many reasons that a man can’t explain even to himself. Could be gratitude — America took me in when my own country threw me out. There are people there to whom I would like to perform as great a disservice as they did to me. I know there are dangerous and irresponsible men in my old country who would not hesitate to employ this weapon, if it exists. And then you say I am uniquely equipped for this task. In what ways I don’t yet know, but if it is the case how could I let another go in my place? Not only might he fail in getting what you want but he could well be killed in the process. I wouldn’t like to have either of those things on my conscience.” He smiled faintly. “Just say it’s a bit of a challenge.”
“And your real reason?”
Bruno said simply: “Because I hate war.”
“Mmm. Not the answer I expected, but fair enough.” He stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time, your patience and above all your co-operation. I’ll have the cars take you back.”
Wrinfield said: “And yourself? How do you get to Mr Pilgrim’s office?”
“The madame here and I have an understanding of sorts. I’m sure she’ll provide me with some form of transport.” Fawcett had keys in his hand when he approached Pilgrim’s apartment — Pilgrim both worked and slept in the same premises — but he put them away. Pilgrim, most uncharacteristically, had not even locked his door, he hadn’t even closed it properly. Fawcett pushed the door and went inside. The first partly irrational thought that occurred to him was that he could have been just that little bit optimistic when he had assured Wrinfield that Pilgrim knew what he was doing.
Pilgrim was lying on the carpet. Whoever had left him lying there had clearly a sufficiency of ice-picks at home, for he hadn’t even bothered to remove the one he’d left buried to the hilt in the back of Pilgrim’s neck. Death must have been instantaneous, for there wasn’t even a drop of blood to stain his Turnbull and Asser shirt. Fawcett knelt and looked at the face. It was as calmly expressionless as it had habitually been in life. Pilgrim had not only not known what hit him, he hadn’t even known he’d been hit.
Fawcett straightened, crossed to the phone and lifted it.
“Dr Harper, please. Ask him to come here immediately.” Dr Harper wasn’t exactly a caricature or a conceptualized prototype of the kindly healer, but it would have been difficult to visualize him in any other role. There was a certain medical inevitability about him. He was tall, lean, distinguished in appearance, becomingly grey at the temples and wore a pair of pebbled horn-rimmed glasses which lent his gaze a certain piercing quality which might have been illusory, intentional or just habitual. Horn-rimmed pebble glasses are a great help to doctors; the patient can never tell whether he is in robust health or has only weeks to live. His dress was as immaculate as that of the dead man he was thoughtfully examining. He had his black medical bag with him but wasn’t bothering to use it. He said: “So that’s all you know about tonight?” “That’s all.”
“Wrinfield? After all, he was the only one who knew. Before tonight, I mean.”
“He knew no details before tonight. No way. And he’d no opportunity. He was with me.”
“There’s such a thing as an accomplice?”
“No chance. Wait until you see him. His record’s immaculate — don’t you think Pilgrim spent days checking. His patriotism is beyond question, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got a ›God Bless America‹ label sewn on to his undershirt. Besides, do you think he would have gone to the time and trouble of arranging to take his whole damn circus — well, most of it — to Europe if he had intended to do this? I know there’s such a thing as erecting a facade, laying down a smokescreen, dragging red herrings — you name it — but, well, I ask you.” “It’s not likely.”
“But I think we should have him and Bruno up here. Just to let them see what they’re up against. And we’ll have to notify the admiral immediately. Will you do that while I get hold of Barker and Masters?”
“That’s the scrambler there?”
“That’s the scrambler.”
Dr Harper was still on the phone when Barker and Masters arrived, Barker the driver and Masters the grey man who had confronted Bruno on the stage. Fawcett said: “Get Wrinfield and Bruno up here. Tell them it’s desperately urgent but don’t tell them anything about this. Bring them in by the rear tunnel. Be quick!”
Fawcett closed but did not lock the door behind them as Dr Harper hung up. Harper said: “We’re to keep it under wraps. According to the admiral, who is the one man who would know, he had no close relatives so he died of a heart attack. Me and my Hippocratic oath. He’ll be right round.” Fawcett was gloomy. “I thought he might be. He’s going to be very happy about this. Pilgrim was the apple of his eye, and it’s no secret that he was next in line for the admiral’s chair. Well, let’s have up a couple of the boys with their little cans of dusting powder and let them have a look around. Not, of course, that they’ll find anything.”
“You’re so sure?”
“I’m sure. Anyone cool enough to walk away leaving the murder weapon in situ, as it were, is pretty confident in himself. And you notice the way he’s lying, feet to the door, head pointing away?”
“So?”
“The fact that he’s so close to the door is almost sure proof that Pilgrim opened it himself. Would he have turned his back on a murderer? Whoever the killer was, he was a man Pilgrim not only knew but trusted.”
Fawcett had been right. The two experts who had come up with their little box of tricks had turned up nothing. The only places where fingerprints might conceivably have been, on the ice-pick handle and door-knobs were predictably clean. They were just leaving when a man entered without benefit of either permission or knocking.
The admiral looked like everybody’s favourite uncle or a successful farmer or, indeed, what he was, a fleet admiral, albeit retired. Burly, red-faced, with pepper-and-salt hair and radiating an oddly kind authority, he looked about ten years younger than his acknowledged if frequently questioned fifty five. He gazed down at the dead man on the floor, and the more kindly aspect of his character vanished. He turned to Dr Harper.
“Made out the death certificate yet? Coronary, of course.” Dr Harper shook his head. “Then do so at once and have Pilgrim removed to our private mortuary.”
Fawcett said: “If we could leave that for a moment, sir. The mortuary bit, I mean. I have two people coming up here very shortly, the owner of the circus and our latest — ah — recruit. I’m convinced neither of them has anything to do with this — but it would be interesting to see their reactions. Also, to find out if they still want to go through with this.” “What guarantee can you offer that they won’t leave here and head for the nearest telephone? There isn’t a newspaper in the country that wouldn’t give their assistant editor for this story.” “You think that had not occurred to me, sir?” A slightly less than cordial note had crept into Fawcett’s tone. “There is no guarantee. There’s only my judgement.”
“There’s that,” the admiral said pacifically. It was the nearest he could ever bring himself to an apology. “Very well.” He paused and to recover his position said: “They are not, I trust, knocking and entering by the front door?”
“Barker and Masters are bringing them. By the rear tunnel.” As if on cue, Barker and Masters appeared in the doorway, then stepped aside to let Wrinfield and Bruno in. The admiral and Dr Harper, Fawcett knew, were watching their faces as intently as he was. Understandably, neither Wrinfield nor Bruno was watching them: when you find a murdered man lying at your feet your ocular attention does not tend to stray. Predictably, Bruno’s reactions were minimal, the narrowing of the eyes, the tightening of the mouth could have been as much imagined as real, but Wrinfield’s reactions were all that anyone could have wished for: the colour drained from his face, leaving it a dirty grey, he put out a trembling hand against the lintel to steady himself and for a moment he looked as if he might even sway and fall.
Three minutes later, three minutes during which Fawcett had told him what little he knew, a seated Wrinfield, brandy glass in hand, was still shaking. Bruno had declined the offer of a restorative. The admiral had taken the floor. He said to Wrinfield: “Do you have any enemies in the circus?”
“Enemies? In the circus?” Wrinfield was clearly taken aback. “Good God, no. I know it must sound corny to
