The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (8 page)

‘It’s not incompatible,’ said Harding. ‘He was probably kept in a mentally depressed state by drugs during the whole week.’

‘Are you talking about brain-washing?’ asked McCready sceptically.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Harding accepted his refilled glass. ‘Whoever did this to Denison had a problem. The ideal would have been to get Denison into such a condition that he thought he
was
Meyrick—but that couldn’t be done.’ Harding paused for consideration. ‘At least, not in a week.’

‘You mean the possibility of such a thing is there?’ asked Carey incredulously.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Harding calmly. ‘It could be done. But this crowd didn’t have the time for that, so they had to go about it another way. As I see it, their problem was to put Denison
in the hotel as Meyrick and to make sure he didn’t fly off the handle. They didn’t want him to take the next plane to London, for instance. So they
treated
him.’ From Harding’s mouth the emphasis was an obscenity.

‘How?’ said Carey.

‘Do you know anything about hypnosis?’

McCready snorted and Harding, staring at him with suddenly flinty eyes, said coldly, ‘No, it is
not
witchcraft, Mr McCready. Denison was kept in a drug-induced hypnogogic state for a long time, and in that period his psyche was deliberately broken down.’ He made a suddenly disarming gesture. ‘I suspect Denison was already neurotically inclined and no doubt there were many ready-made tools to hand—irrational fears, half-healed traumas and so on—to aid in the process.’

‘What do you mean by neurotically inclined?’ asked Carey.

‘It’s hard to say, but I suspect that he was already a disturbed man before this was done to him.’

‘Off his head?’ interjected McCready.

Harding gave him a look of dislike. ‘No more than yourself, Mr McCready,’ he said tartly. ‘But I think something had happened which threw him off balance.’

‘Something did happen,’ said Carey. ‘He lost his job.’ He took a thin sheaf of papers from the file. ‘I didn’t have time to discuss this with you before, but this is what we have on Denison. There’ll be more coming but this is what we’ve got now.’

Harding studied the typed sheets, reading slowly and carefully. He said, ‘I wish I’d seen this before I went in to Denison; it would have saved a lot of trouble.’

‘He was a film director for a small specialist outfit making documentary and advertising films,’ said Carey. ‘Apparently he went off the rails and cost the firm a packet of money. They thought his drinking had got out of hand, so they fired him.’

Harding shook his head. ‘That wasn’t what threw him off balance. The drinking must have been a symptom, not a cause.’ He turned back a page. ‘I see that his wife died three years ago. She must have been quite young. Have you any idea how she died?’

‘Not yet,’ said Carey. ‘But I can find out.’

‘It would be advisable. I wonder if it was about that time he started to drink heavily.’

‘That isn’t the present point at issue,’ said Carey.

Harding’s voice took on an edge. ‘It is for me,’ he said curtly. ‘I have to treat the man.’

Carey’s voice was soothing. ‘I know, Doctor, and you shall have all the relevant information as soon as we get it ourselves. But my present interest is in what was done to Denison and how it was done.’

Harding was placated. ‘Very well. Denison was literally dismantled. All he retained was a name and a location—and the location wasn’t very exact. Giles Denison of Hampstead. They could, of course, have induced complete amnesia, but that wouldn’t do because Denison had to substitute for Meyrick and he would need enough active personality to carry out the role. Why Denison had to act as Meyrick I don’t know.’

‘I have ideas on that,’ said Carey. ‘Go on, Doctor.’

‘At the same time Denison must not retain too much personality, certainly not enough for him to reject the persona that had been thrust upon him. He had to be kept in a sort of limbo. There were some very strong blocks inserted into his mind to the effect that he should not question his origins. In addition, to confuse the issue, he has been given selective false memories. For instance, he distinctly remembers playing a game of golf, but at the same time he knows that he has never played a game of golf in his life. So he is a very confused man and this leads to a paralysis of the will, enough to make him stay in
one place—a hotel in Oslo—while he tries to sort things out.’

McCready stirred restlessly. ‘Is all this possible?’

‘Quite possible. If I draw an imaginary square on the floor of this room I could hypnotize you into avoiding it by a post-hypnotic suggestion. You could spend the rest of your life coming in and out of this room but you would never walk on that imaginary square. More to the point, you would not be aware of the irrationality of your behaviour.’

McCready looked sceptical, and Harding said, ‘I’m willing to give you a demonstration at any time.’

‘No!’ said McCready hurriedly. ‘I believe you.’

Carey smiled grimly. ‘Carry on, Doctor.’

‘The mind is a self-stabilizing organism,’ said Harding. ‘If it wasn’t we’d all go crazy. And to inquire is basic. When Denison did try to delve into his past life he encountered the blocks and was so shocked at the impossibility of what he found in his own mind that he took refuge in a fugue.’ He saw the incomprehension on Carey’s face, and said simply, ‘He fell asleep. A typical hysterical symptom. He did it twice when he was talking to me. I let him sleep for a quarter of an hour each time, and when he woke up he’d forgotten the reason for it—wiped it out of his mind. It’s a selfprotective mechanism against insanity, and I rather think it’s happened to him before.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got this straight,’ said Carey. ‘You’re saying that Denison is half out of his mind and likely to fall asleep—or unconscious—at any time. How do you square that with the fact that he pulled the wool over one of my people’s eyes very successfully, and that he encountered a very tricky situation which might have been the death of him and coped with it very well?’

‘Oh, he’s quite competent,’ said Harding. ‘It’s only when he tries to question his own past that he faces the impossible
and goes into a fugue. Judging by what you told me of the manner in which he was wounded I’d say that he’s more competent than I would have expected under the circumstances.’

‘He’s bloody competent,’ said McCready suddenly, and Carey turned to look at him. ‘I haven’t told you this, but he’s tagged Mrs Hansen.’

‘He’s
what
?’

‘He knows she carries a gun—he told me so. He said he thought I ought to know.’

Harding wore an I-told-you-so expression and Carey’s face was a study in bafflement. ‘Another thing,’ said McCready. ‘Alcoholic or not, he’s on the wagon now. Mrs Hansen said he tried a whisky last night and he gave the impression that he’d swallowed prussic acid.’

‘Interesting,’ said Harding. ‘The man’s mind has been stirred like porridge. It would be remarkable if it has cured his alcoholism. However, I’m afraid the cure is much worse than the complaint. He’ll have to be hospitalized, of course. I can make the arrangements for that.’

Carey stood up. ‘Thank you, Dr Harding.’

Harding also arose. ‘I’d like to see him again tomorrow. What’s going to happen to him now?’

‘I’ll take good care of him,’ said Carey smoothly.

‘You’d better,’ warned Harding. ‘If he doesn’t get skilled attention he’s quite likely to go insane.’ He yawned. ‘Well, I’m off to bed.’

He left the room and Carey sat down again. He picked up the two photographs and brooded over them. McCready said, ‘That’s it, then; the whole thing’s a bust. No Meyrick—no operation.’

Carey did not say anything, and McCready asked, ‘What are you thinking?’

Carey said slowly, ‘I’m thinking that, while we may not have Meyrick, we’ve got a bloody good substitute.’

McCready’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean you want to hang on to him? You heard what Harding just said—the man’s likely to go crazy. It’s not what I’d call ethical.’

‘Don’t talk to me about ethics,’ said Carey harshly. ‘I have a job to do.’ He threw down the photographs. ‘Iredale wants to give Denison his face back, and Harding wants to restore his past. If we let Harding at him tomorrow with his tricky bloody hypnotism then Denison is going to pick up his marbles and go home.’

He frowned and came to a decision. ‘Take him back to the hotel,’ he said abruptly.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ said McCready. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘I know,’ said Carey. ‘But just work this one out while you’re taking Denison back. When the attempt was being made on Denison’s life at the Spiralen who was being attacked—Denison or Meyrick?’

McCready opened his mouth slowly while his mind spun. Carey said, ‘Denison must be watched. The guard on his room stays and I want somebody outside keeping an eye on his window. And I want that whole bloody hotel sewn up tight. Now get cracking.’

McCready dropped Denison off in the garage of the hotel. ‘I won’t come up,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which is today. God, it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning. You get to bed.’

They had both been silent during the short drive. Now Denison said, ‘What was all that about? I understood the first doctor, but the second was a psychiatrist, wasn’t he?’

McCready said, ‘Carey will be seeing you tomorrow. He’ll explain everything.’ He paused, biting his lip. ‘I promise you.’

‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘I’m too tired to argue now. But Carey had better come up with something good.’ He
nodded to McCready and walked towards the stairs. He did not look back, but if he had and if he had been able to interpret the look in McCready’s eyes he might have recognized compassion.

Denison opened the door leading into the hotel lobby and saw suitcases stacked into a pile. There was a peal of laughter from the group of early arrivals, a crowd of young people who adorned the lobby like butterflies. He walked towards the porter’s desk and stood waiting while the overworked night porter did his best to deal with the rush.

At last, Denison caught his eye, and said, Three-sixty, please.’

‘Yes, Mr Meyrick.’ The porter unhooked the key.

Denison did not see the girl who stared at him in surprise, but heard the cool voice behind him saying, ‘Daddy!’ He turned leisurely and was suddenly and horrifyingly aware that the young woman was addressing him.

It was greatly to Denison’s credit that he did not panic. His first impulse was to step back and deny he was Meyrick—that it was a question of mistaken identity. Hard on that decision came the realization that it would not do; the night porter knew his name and was within earshot, and, in any case, a disclaimer in the hotel lobby was sure to create a fuss. He cancelled the impulse.

She was kissing him and he felt his own lips hard and unresponsive. Perhaps it was his lack of reaction that caused her to step back, the smile fading from her face. She said, ‘I was hoping to find you here, but I hardly expected to run into you in the same hotel—and at five in the morning. What are you doing up so early—or so late?’

She was young—not much more than twenty—and had the clear eyes and clear skin of youth. Her eyes were grey and her mouth wide and generous, perhaps too wide for perfect beauty. To the untutored male eye she wore no make-up but perhaps that was a tribute to skill.

He swallowed. ‘I was visiting a friend; the talk tended to go on a bit.’

‘Oh.’ She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her motoring coat and turned her head to look at the harassed porter. ‘It’s going to take hours before I get my room. Can I freshen up in yours? I must look a sight.’

His mouth was dry and, for a moment, he could not speak. She looked at him curiously. ‘You
are
staying here?’ Then she laughed. ‘Of course you are; you have the key in your hand.’

‘I just have to make a telephone call,’ he said, and stepped away slightly, disengaging himself.

‘Why not from the room?’

‘It’s just as easy from down here.’ He walked away to the public telephones, fumbling in his pocket for coins.

The public telephones were not in booths but were surrounded by large transparent plastic hoods which theoretically would keep conversations private. He was aware that the girl had followed him and was standing close by. He took out his wallet, extracted a slip of paper, and dialled the number. The ringing sound buzzed in his ear six times, and then a voice said, ‘Yes?’

He kept his voice low. ‘I want Carey.’

‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’

He raised his voice a little. ‘I want to talk to Carey.’

Doubtfully: ‘I don’t think that’s possible. He’s in bed.’

‘I don’t care if he’s in his coffin. Get him up. This is Denison.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Right!’

In a remarkably short time Carey came on the line. ‘Denison?’

‘It’s trouble. Meyrick’s…’

Carey cut in with a voice like gravel. ‘How did you know to ring this number?’

‘For God’s sake! That can wait.’

‘How did you know?’ insisted Carey.

‘There was a telephone in the room where I saw the doctors,’ said Denison. ‘I took the number off that.’

‘Oh!’ said Carey. Then, with grudging respect, ‘Harding said you were competent; now I believe him. All right; what’s your problem?’

‘Meyrick’s daughter has just pitched up at the hotel.’

The telephone blasted in his ear.
‘What!’

‘What the hell am I to do?’ said Denison desperately. ‘I don’t even know her bloody name.’

‘Jesus H. Christ!’ said Carey. ‘Wait a minute.’ There was a confused murmur and then Carey said, ‘Her name is Lyn—L-Y-N.’

‘Do you know anything else about her?’

‘How the devil would I?’ demanded Carey. ‘Not off the top of my head.’

‘Damn you!’ said Denison violently. ‘I have to talk to this girl. I must know something about her. She’s my
daughter.
’

‘Is she there now?’

Denison looked sideways through the plastic hood. ‘She’s standing within ten feet of me. I’m in the hotel lobby and I don’t know how soundproof this canopy is. She wants to come to my room.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Carey. ‘Hold on.’

‘Make it quick.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl walking towards him. He put his head around the edge of the hood, and said, ‘I won’t be a minute, Lyn. Is there anything you want to take up to the room?’

‘Oh, yes; my little travelling bag. I’ll go and get it.’

He watched her walk across the lobby with a bouncing stride, and felt the sweat break out on his forehead. Carey came back on the line. ‘Margaret Lyn Meyrick—but she prefers Lyn—Meyrick’s daughter by his first wife.’

Denison digested that, and said quickly, ‘Is her mother still alive?’

‘Yes—divorced and remarried.’

‘Name?’

‘Patricia Joan Metford—her husband is John Howard Metford; he’s something in the City.’

‘What about Meyrick’s present wife?’

‘There isn’t one. Also divorced three years ago. Her name was Janet Meyrick, née Austin.’

‘About the girl—what does she do? Her work? Her hobbies?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Carey. ‘All this stuff is from Meyrick’s dossier. We didn’t delve into the daughter.’

‘You’d better get something fast,’ said Denison. ‘Look, Carey; I don’t know why I’m doing this for you. My impulse right now is to blow the whole thing.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said Carey quickly. ‘I’ll get as much information on the Meyrick girl as I can and I’ll let you have it as soon as possible.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll send it in a sealed envelope by special messenger; she doesn’t have to know what’s on the sheet of paper you’re reading. And if things get too tough I’ll find a way of separating her from you. But, Denison—don’t blow your cover, whatever you do.’

There was a pleading quality in Carey’s voice and Carey, in Denison’s brief experience of him, was not a man who was used to pleading. Denison thought it a good opportunity to turn the screw. ‘I’ve been given the fast run around by you ever since this…this indecent thing was done to me. Now I want an explanation—a full explanation—and it had better be good.’ He was aware that his voice had risen and that he was in danger of becoming hysterical.

‘You’ll get your explanation today,’ promised Carey. ‘Now do your best to handle that girl.’

‘I don’t know if I can. It’s one thing fooling a stranger and another to try it on a member of Meyrick’s family.’

‘We may be lucky,’ said Carey. ‘I don’t think they were too close. I think she was brought up by her mother.’

Denison turned to face the lobby. ‘I’ll have to go now—the girl’s coming.’ He put down the telephone and heard a faint, squawking noise just before the connection
was broken. It sounded as though Carey had said, ‘Good luck!’

He walked away from the telephone as she approached. ‘All finished.’

She fell into step with him. ‘You looked as if you were having an argument.’

‘Did I?’

‘I know you’re an argumentative type, but I wondered who you’d found to argue with at five o’clock in the morning in the middle of Oslo.’

They stopped in front of the lifts and Denison pressed the button. ‘Where have you just come from?’

‘Bergen. I hired a car and drove over. Most of yesterday and all night.’ She sighed. ‘I feel a bit pooped.’

He kept his voice neutral. ‘Travelling alone?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled, and said, ‘Wondering about a boyfriend?’

He nodded towards the thinning group in the lobby. ‘I just thought you were with that lot.’ The lift arrived and they stepped inside. ‘No wonder you’re tired if you did all that driving. What it is to be young.’

‘Right now I feel as old as Methuselah,’ she said glumly. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. I’ll feel better after breakfast, I dare say.’

He risked a probe. ‘How old are you, Lyn? I tend to lose track.’

‘Yes, you do, don’t you? You even forgot my twenty-first—or did you forget?’ There was an unexpected bitterness in her voice. ‘Any father who could do that…’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s my birthday next week.’

‘That’s all right.’ There was an undercurrent of antagonism Denison did not understand. He hesitated, and said, ‘Anyway, you’re old enough to stop calling me Daddy. What’s wrong with Harry?’

She looked at him in surprise and then impulsively squeezed his hand.

They had arrived at the room door and he unlocked it. ‘Bedroom straight ahead—bathroom to the left.’

She walked ahead of him into the bedroom and put down the travelling bag. ‘The bathroom for me,’ she said. ‘I want to wash off some of the grime.’ She opened the bag, picked out a couple of small articles, and disappeared into the bathroom.

He heard the sound of water as she turned on a tap and then he picked up the telephone. ‘This is room three-sixty. If there are any messages for Meyrick—or anything at all—I want to know immediately.’ He put down the telephone and looked contemplatively at the travelling bag.

The bathroom noises continued so he crossed the room quickly and looked into the bag. It was more neatly packed than he had expected which made it easier to search. He saw the blue cover of a British passport and took it out and turned the pages. It was Lyn Meyrick’s birthday on July 21, and she would be twenty-two. Her occupation was given as teacher.

He put the passport back and took out a book of traveller’s cheques. As he flicked through them he whistled softly; the Meyrick family did not believe in stinting themselves. There was a wallet fitted with acetate envelopes which contained credit cards and photographs. He had no time to examine these in detail because he thought she might come out of the bathroom at any moment.

He thrust back the wallet and zipped open a small interior pocket in the bag. It contained the key for a rented car and a bunch of smaller keys. As he zipped it closed he heard all sound cease in the bathroom and, when she emerged, he was standing by the armchair taking off his jacket.

‘That’s much better,’ she said. She had taken off the motoring coat and, in lime green sweater and stretch pants,
she looked very trim. ‘When is the earliest I can order breakfast?’

He checked his watch. ‘Not much before half past six, I think. Perhaps the night porter can rustle up sandwiches and coffee.’

She frowned and sat on the bed. ‘No, I’ll wait and have a proper breakfast.’ Blinking her eyes, she said, ‘I still feel as though I’m driving.’

‘You shouldn’t push so hard.’

‘That isn’t what you told me the last time we met.’

Denison did not know what to make of that, so he said neutrally. ‘No.’ The silence lengthened. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.

‘She’s all right,’ said Lyn indifferently. ‘But, my God, he’s such a bore.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he just sits in an office and makes money. Oh, I know you’re rich, but you made money by making
things.
He just makes money.’

Denison presumed that ‘he’ was John Howard Metford who was ‘something in the City’. ‘Metford isn’t such a bad chap,’ he said.

‘He’s a bore,’ she said definitely. ‘And it isn’t what you said about him last time.’

Denison decided against making gratuitous judgements. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

‘I got it out of Andrews,’ she said. ‘When he told me you were in Scandinavia I knew you’d be here or in Helsinki.’ She seemed suddenly nervous. ‘Now I’m not sure I should have come.’

Denison realized he was standing over her. He sat in the armchair and, perhaps in response, she stretched out on the bed. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘You can’t be serious when you ask that.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘I still remember the flaming row we had two years
ago—and when you didn’t remember my twenty-first birthday I knew
you
hadn’t forgotten. But, of course, you didn’t forget my birthday—you never forget anything.’

He was getting into deep water. ‘Two years is a long time,’ he said platitudinously. He would have to learn how to speak like a politician—saying a lot and meaning nothing.

‘You’ve changed,’ she said. ‘You’re…you’re milder.’

That would never do. ‘I can still be acid when I want to be.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m just becoming older and, maybe, wiser.’

‘You always were wise,’ said Lyn. ‘If only you weren’t so bloody right
all
the time. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something to your face. I was disappointed when I found you weren’t in England, so I rushed over here.’ She hesitated. ‘Give me a cigarette.’

‘I’ve stopped smoking.’

She stared at him. ‘You
have
changed.’

‘Temporarily,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to open a drawer in the dressing-table. He took out the gold cigarette case and the lighter and offered her a cigarette. ‘I’ve had a bad head cold.’

She took a cigarette and he lit it. ‘That never stopped you before.’ She drew on the cigarette nervously and blew a plume of smoke. ‘I suppose you’re surprised I’m not smoking a joint.’

Denison suspected that he was encountering something of which hitherto he had only heard—the generation gap. He said, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Lyn. What’s on your mind?’

‘Direct and to the point as usual. All right—I’ve taken my degree.’

She looked at him expectantly and he was aware that she had dropped a bombshell. How he was supposed to react to it he did not know, but the damned thing had better be defused carefully. However, taking a degree was usually a matter for congratulation, so he said, ‘That’s good news, Lyn.’

She regarded him warily. ‘You mean it?’

‘It’s the best news I’ve heard for a long time.’

She seemed relieved. ‘Mother thought it was silly. She said that with all the money I’m going to have why should I worry about working—especially with a lot of snottynosed East End kids. You know what she’s like. And the Bore didn’t care one way or another.’ For a moment she sounded pathetic. ‘Do you really mean it?’

‘Of course I do.’ He found he was really glad for her and that put sincerity into his voice.

‘Oh, Daddy; I’m so glad!’ She scrambled off the bed and went to her bag. ‘Look what it says in here. I had to get a new passport, anyway.’ She opened the passport and displayed it ‘Occupation—teacher!’ she said proudly.

He looked up. ‘Was it a good degree?’

She made a wry face. ‘Middling-good.’ There was no smile on her face now. ‘I suppose you think a Meyrick should have passed with honours.’

Mentally he damned Meyrick who, apparently, set a superhuman standard. This girl was set on a hair trigger and his slightest word could cause an explosion in which somebody would get hurt—probably Lyn. ‘I’m very glad you’ve got your degree,’ he said evenly. ‘Where are you going to teach?’