The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (3 page)

‘Harry!’

He turned to go in the direction of the hotel but paused as he felt a hand on his arm. ‘Harry Meyrick!’ There was a note of anger in the voice. She was a green-eyed redhead of about thirty and she was flying alarm flags - her lips were compressed and pink spots glowed in her cheeks. ‘I’m not used to being stood up,’ she said. ‘Where were you this morning?’

Momentarily he was nonplussed but remembered in time what the hotel porter had thought about his voice. ‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ he managed to get out. ‘I was in bed.’

‘There’s a thing called a telephone,’ she said angrily. ‘Alexander Graham Bell invented it - remember?’

‘I was knocked out by sleeping pills,’ he protested. With a small portion of his mind he noted that this was probably a true statement. ‘Perhaps I overdid it.’

Her expression changed. ‘You do sound a bit glued-up,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe I’ll forgive you.’ There was a faint American undertone to her English. ‘It will cost you a drink, darling.’

‘In the hotel?’ he suggested.

‘It’s too nice a day to be inside. We’ll go into the
Studenterlunden.
’ She waved her arm past a passing articulated tramcar towards the gay umbrellas in the gardens on the other side of the street.

Denison felt trapped as he escorted her across the street, but he also realized that if he was to learn anything about
Meyrick then this was too good a chance to pass up. He had once been accosted in the street by a woman who obviously knew him but he did not have the faintest idea of who she was. There is a point of no return in that type of conversation after which one cannot, in decency, admit ignorance. On that occasion Denison had fumbled it, had suffered half an hour of devious conversation, and they had parted amicably without him finding out who she was. He still did not know. Grimly he thought that it was good practice for today’s exercise.

As they crossed the street she said, ‘I saw Jack Kidder this morning. He was asking about you.’

‘How is he?’

She laughed. ‘Fine, as always. You know Jack.’

‘Of course,’ said Denison deadpan. ‘Good old Jack.’

They went into the outdoor café and found an empty table with difficulty. Under other circumstances Denison would have found it pleasant to have a drink with a pretty woman in surroundings like this, but his mind was beleaguered by his present problems. They sat down and he put his parcel of maps on the table.

One of them slipped out of the packet and his main problem prodded at it with a well-manicured forefinger. ‘What are these?’

‘Maps,’ said Denison succinctly.

‘Maps of where?’

‘Of the city.’

‘Oslo!’ She seemed amused. ‘Why do you want maps of Oslo? Isn’t it your boast that you know Oslo better than London?’

‘They’re for a friend.’

Denison chalked up a mental note.
Meyrick knows Oslo well; probably a frequent visitor. Steer clear of local conditions or gossip. Might run into more problems like this.

‘Oh!’ She appeared to lose interest.

Denison realized he was faced with a peculiar difficulty. He did not know this woman’s name and, as people do not commonly refer to themselves by name in conversation, he did not see how he was going to get it, short of somehow prying into her handbag and looking for identification.

‘Give me a cigarette, darling,’ she said.

He patted his pockets and found he had left the cigarette case and lighter in the room. Not being a smoker it had not occurred to him to put them in his pocket along with the rest of Meyrick’s personal gear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any with me.’

‘My!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me the great Professor Meyrick has stopped smoking. Now I
will
believe in cancer.’

Professor!

He used the pretext of illness again. ‘The one I tried this morning tasted like straw. Maybe I will stop smoking.’ He held his hand over the table. ‘Look at those nicotine stains. Imagine what my lungs must be like.’

She shook her head in mock sorrow. ‘It’s like pulling down a national monument. To imagine Harry Meyrick without a cigarette is like trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower.’

A Nordic waitress came to the table; she looked rather like Jeanette MacDonald dressed for an appearance in
White Horse Inn.
Denison raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘What will you have?’

‘The usual,’ she said indifferently, delving into her handbag.

He took refuge in a paroxysm of coughing pulling out his handkerchief and only emerging when he heard her giving the order. He waited until the waitress left before putting away the handkerchief. The woman opposite him said, ‘Harry, that’s a really bad cough. I’m not surprised you’re thinking of giving up the cancer sticks. Are you feeling all right, darling? Maybe you’d be better off in bed, after all.’

‘I’m all right,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked solicitously.

‘Perfectly sure.’

‘Spoken like the old Professor Meyrick,’ she said mockingly. ‘Always sure of everything.’

‘Don’t call me Professor,’ he said testily. It was a safe enough thing to say regardless of whether Meyrick was really a professor or whether she was pulling his leg in a heavy-handed manner. The British have never been keen on the over-use of professional titles. And it might provoke her into dropping useful information.

All he got was a light and inconsequential, ‘When on the Continent do as the Continentals do.’

He went on the attack. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘You’re so British, Harry.’ He thought he detected a cutting edge to her voice. ‘But then, of course, you would be.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Oh, come off it. There’s nobody more British than an outsider who has bored his way in. Where were you born, Harry? Somewhere in Mittel Europa?’ She suddenly looked a little ashamed. ‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I’m being bitchy, but you’re behaving a bit oddly, too.’

‘The effect of the pills. Barbiturates have never agreed with me. I have a headache.’

She opened her handbag. ‘I have aspirin.’

The waitress, Valkyrie-like, bore down on them. Denison looked at the bottles on the tray, and said, ‘I doubt if aspirin goes with beer.’ That was the last thing he would have thought of as ‘the usual’; she did not look the beery type.

She shrugged and closed the bag with a click. ‘Please yourself.’

The waitress put down two glasses, two bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes, said something rapid and incomprehensible, and waited expectantly. Denison took out his
wallet and selected a 100-kroner note. Surely two beers and a packet of cigarettes could not cost more than a hundred kroner. My God, he did not even know the value of the currency! This was like walking through a minefield blindfolded.

He was relieved when the waitress made no comment but made change from a leather bag concealed under her apron. He laid the money on the table intending to check it surreptitiously. The redhead said, ‘You’ve no need to buy my cigarettes, Harry.’

He smiled at her. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to pour her beer.

‘You’ve given it up yourself but you’re quite prepared to pay for other people’s poison.’ She laughed. ‘Not a very moral attitude.’

‘I’m not a moral philosopher,’ he said, hoping it was true.

‘No, you’re not,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve always wondered where you stood in that general direction. What would you call yourself, Harry? Atheist? Agnostic? Humanist?’

At last he was getting something of the quality of Meyrick. Those were questions but they were leading questions, and he was quite prepared to discuss philosophy with her - a nice safe subject. ‘Not an atheist,’ he said. ‘It’s always seemed to me that to believe in the non-existence of something is somewhat harder than to believe in its existence. I’d put myself down as an agnostic - one of the “don’t know” majority. And that doesn’t conflict with humanism.’

He fingered the notes and coins on the table, counted them mentally, subtracted the price of two beers based on what he had paid for a beer in the hotel, and arrived at the price of a packet of cigarettes. Roughly, that is. He had an idea that the price of a beer in a luxury hotel would be far higher than in an open-air café.

‘I went to church last Sunday,’ she said pensively. ‘To the English church - you know - the one on Møllergata.’ He
nodded as though he did know. ‘I didn’t get much out of it. I think next time I’ll try the American church.’ She frowned. ‘Where is the American church, Harry?’

He had to say
something
, so he took a chance. ‘Isn’t it near the Embassy?’

Her brow cleared. ‘Of course. Between Bygdøy Alle and Drammens Veien. It’s funny, isn’t it? The American church being practically next door to the British Embassy. You’d expect it to be near the American Embassy.’

He gulped. ‘Yes, you would,’ he said, and forbore to mention that that was what he had meant. Even a quasitheological conversation was strewn with pitfalls. He had to get out of this before he really dropped a clanger.

And an alarming suspicion had just sprung to mind, fully armed and spiky. Whoever had planted him in that hotel room and provided him with money and the means to provide all the necessities of life - and a lot of the luxuries, too - was unlikely to leave him unobserved. Someone would be keeping tabs on him, otherwise the whole operation was a nonsense. Could it be this redhead who apparently had qualms about her immortal soul? What could be better than to plant someone right next to him for closer observation?

She opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. ‘You’re sure you won’t?’

He shook his head. ‘Quite sure.’

‘It must be marvellous to have will power.’

He wanted peace and not this continuous exploration of a maze where every corner turned could be more dangerous than the last. He started to cough again, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘I think you’re right; I’d be better off in bed. Do you mind if I leave you?’

‘Of course not.’ Her voice was filled with concern. ‘Do you want a doctor?’

‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow - I know how these turns take me.’ He stood up and she also rose. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. The hotel is only across the road.’

He picked up the packet and thrust the maps back into it, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. She looked down at his feet. ‘You’ve dropped something,’ she said, and stooped to pick it up. ‘Why, it’s a Spiralen Doll.’

‘A what?’ he asked incautiously. It must have been pulled from his pocket when he took out the handkerchief.

She regarded him oddly. ‘You pointed these out at the Spiralen when we were there last week. You laughed at them and called them tourist junk. Don’t you remember?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just this damned headache.’

She laughed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you carrying one. You didn’t buy this when we were there - where did you get it?’

He told the truth. ‘I found it in the car I hired.’

‘You can’t trust anyone to do a good job these days,’ she said, smiling. ‘Those cars are supposed to be cleaned and checked.’ She held it out. ‘Do you want it?’

‘I may be a bit light-headed,’ he said, ‘but I think I do.’ He took it from her. ‘I’ll be going now.’

‘Have a hot toddy and a good night’s sleep,’ she advised. ‘And ring me as soon as you’re better.’

That would be difficult, to say the least, with neither telephone number nor name. ‘Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be well enough to have dinner. I promise not to stand you up again.’

‘I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Promise,’ he insisted, not wanting to lose her.

‘Promise.’

He put the rope doll into his pocket and left her with a wave, and went out of the garden, across the road and into the hotel, feeling relieved that he was well out of a difficult
situation.
Information
, he thought, as he walked across the hotel lobby;
that’s what I need - I’m hamstrung without it.

He paused at the porter’s desk and the porter looked up with a quick smile. ‘Your key, sir?’ He swung around and unhooked it.

On impulse Denison held out the doll. ‘What’s that?’

The porter’s smile broadened. ‘That’s a Spiralen Doll, sir.’

‘Where does it come from?’

‘From the Spiralen, sir - in Drammen. If you’re interested, I have a pamphlet.’

‘I’m very much interested,’ said Denison.

The porter looked through papers on a shelf and came up with a leaflet printed in blue ink. ‘You must be an engineer, sir.’

Denison did not know what the hell Meyrick was. ‘It’s in my general field of interest,’ he said guardedly, took the key and the leaflet, and walked towards the lifts. He did not notice the man who had been hovering behind him and who regarded him speculatively until the lift door closed.

Once in his room Denison tossed the maps and the leaflet on to the dressing-table and picked up the telephone. ‘I’d like to make a long distance call, please - to England.’ He took out his wallet.

‘What is the number, sir?’

‘There’s a little difficulty about that. I don’t have a number - only an address.’ He opened the wallet with one hand and extracted one of Meyrick’s cards.

The telephonist was dubious. ‘That may take some time, sir.’

‘It doesn’t matter - I’ll be in my room for the rest of the day.’

‘What is the address sir?’

Denison said clearly, ‘Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire, England.’ He repeated it three times to make sure it had got across.

‘And the name?’

Denison opened his mouth and then closed it, having suddenly acquired a dazed look. He would appear to be a damned fool if he gave the name of Meyrick - no one in his right mind rings up himself, especially after having admitted he did not know his own telephone number. He swallowed, and said shortly, ‘The name is not known.’

The telephone sighed in his ear. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

Denison put down the telephone and settled in a chair to find out about the Spiralen. The front of the leaflet was headed:
DRAMMEN
. There was an illustration of a Spiralen Doll which did not look any better for being printed in blue. The leaflet was in four languages.