The Mind Readers (13 page)

‘Who is that?'

‘It's me, Dearest.' It was not his favourite form of address but he had no choice in the matter.

‘Who? No, don't tell me, let me guess!' Incredible! he thought. A voice like that made nonsense of the whole romantic subterfuge.

‘All right,' he said dutifully. ‘But I'm hurt.'

‘Hurt?' That was the operative word. Now she should have identified him.

‘Hurt as hell!' he assented.

‘Mephy! Don't be such a rude boy!' She was so supremely arch that he wondered if the script was of her own devising. ‘Aren't you late! I'm in bed, you know.'

‘Lucky you! I haven't had a moment till now. Listen to my excuse.' Identification being complete he settled down to the message. If she were good at it, and he thought she might be, this was far and away the safest and most flexible of all telephone codes, but until one knew one's colleague one could not be too subtle. He started in clear.

‘We had unexpected visitors; three from the seaside.'

‘I know you did!' Apparently she was determined to sound like a teasing headmistress. ‘You'll never guess who rang Elsie just now and told us all the gossip. Fred did. But perhaps you don't know him?'

So Corkran was “Elsie” still, he noted.

‘Of course I know Fred!' he said and tried her out. ‘But I knew old Matthew better.'

‘His brother?' She was on the ball at once. ‘I remember him. He used to write poetry.' Matthew Arnold—Fred Arnold. No cross-word expert could have been neater. ‘Our news about Fred is that he's suddenly got attached to Elsie,' she went on. ‘He used to have all his time monopolised by his firm, they thought so highly of him. But this morning he heard he's got a bit of a holiday at last and he's told Elsie he's all for
her
! She's very pleased. She likes him but he's not a regular boy friend yet. He'll make a spare, she says.'

‘Third grade?'

‘Fifth more likely!' she said, laughing.

‘Congratulations!' He meant it. She was very careful and remarkably clear. He forgave her for her voice. He had now been told that Fred Arnold, the barman, was a minor colleague of his own, beginning operations only that morning, and accepted on the recommendation of the firm of Godley who had been employing him as a ‘personal observer' for some time. Security was following its usual procedure and trusting the man as little as possible to begin with, but they thought he might prove useful. He had already reported on his trip to London this evening, telephoning presumably on his way to the market immediately after leaving the rectory.

‘Well now,' Campion said, giving her time to get over the compliment. ‘Did you hear about our clever young man who was taken ill and brought to London?'

‘The American? Poor boy! It wasn't serious though, was it?'

‘No, but it was unexpected and not what we thought at first, so of course we were worried. I shall satisfy myself and see he's all right.'

‘Elsie said she thought you would. Of course, she didn't mention you to Fred.'

‘Well, she wouldn't, would she? Did she know the old sinner brought a certain married lady up with him?'

‘My dear man! Fred couldn't stop talking about her, she'd frightened him absolutely stiff. Elsie needed all her sense of humour!'

‘Wonderful sense of humour Elsie's got!' he said drily. ‘The lady is a great talker, you know.'

‘You're telling me!' The voice could produce an off-white accent but could not lose its essential severity. ‘Elsie always says she's mental. Her husband is such a good worker but if she doesn't stop talking balderdash they'll lose their “council house” down there.'

‘But Elsie doesn't believe all the lady's fairy stories, does she?'

‘Good Heavens no!' She was genuinely amused. ‘The woman is always expecting her husband to leave her and the family. Talking of families, Fred said you'd found some wonderful new children's toys for Christmas. Very up-to-date I gather. When do we get some?'

‘Damn! I was hoping to surprise you!' He was startled and covered it. ‘How did Fred know about them?'

‘Don't be so jealous! Fred overheard that young mother talking to her American husband when he was ill. She was telling him the new toys weren't quite right yet but that the children were trying to get them to work. Fred didn't hear any more, he said.'

‘He's right. I've seen them. They're not much good as they are. We gave them to the top electrical expert to see what he could do with them. He wanted to take them home so we let him.'

‘You couldn't do anything else. They'd be bound to go to him to be mended in the end.'

‘That's what we thought. He was fascinated by them. He hadn't seen them before, you see. I was surprised, I thought his present firm had made them.'

He realised that he had shaken her. The interval before she spoke was appreciable and that was against the rules of the game, only complete evenness of exchange kept the conversation dull and quiet.

‘Fancy!' she said at last, and added almost immediately. ‘You're wrong, you know. They must have originated there.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘I do. They are the only people who do that sort of work. On the mechanical side, I mean.'

‘I wondered if these novelties were imported.'

‘Oh, I really shouldn't think so. I haven't heard of anyone manufacturing anything of the sort anywhere else. After all, we've been trying to get something on these lines for our little nephews for quite a time now. We'd have been told.'

‘Never mind,' he said. ‘We live and learn!' The cliché was a recognised rest sign and having delivered his message he changed the subject.

‘You know there was a spot of legal bother? It's been settled out of court. I heard this evening. Did Elsie put her oar in?'

‘Well, she doesn't like tales out of school, if that's what you mean.'

It was and he laughed to tell her so.

‘I must say goodnight,' he said. ‘Things are very quiet. If you hear of anything coming my way, let me know.'

‘Oh, I will. There's been a rumour that there were some people who had your outfit in mind and it's been confirmed at last, so you may be approached any time now. The name is Fungi.'

‘I'll remember. Are they those contractors who collect pairs of little things at railway stations?'

‘Oh, no, I don't think they'd ever do that. These people are not very big and they're British—I'm trying to get you their address. No luck so far.'

‘Well, if I should hear anything interesting I'll let you know. Will you be home tomorrow night if I ring?'

‘No. I shall be at my other sister's, the one at Welbeck. Goodnight, Mephy.'

‘Goodnight, Dearest.'

As he hung up he reflected on her last piece of information. The existence of an espionage organisation in touch with the work being done at Godley's had been confirmed. They were nothing directly to do with the people who had inspired the attempt on the children, but were thought to be one of the small networks which had become so common of late in large cities. The nickname Fungi had been given to these because they resembled patches of dry rot, their ever-growing tentacles streaming out very quickly from a parent eye. These rings came and went and were often used for a specific job and then disbanded, so that they were very difficult to seek out and destroy. Any agent who showed special aptitude remained on the books and could be pounced on at any given moment to form the nucleus of a new ring.

It was a filthy business, as chill and stinking as dry rot itself. Individuals were usually bound to the parent stem by blackmailing holds but only the few who were natural traitors, the instinctive children of decay, became the spores from whom each little patch of disruption sprang.

Campion came out of the kiosk very satisfied with Dearest. As soon as her tape was typed out, the information, both given and received, would be there perfectly clear for her to put into formal language for the record. Meantime, no one who had picked up an isolated sentence or so of their spoken conversation would have been tempted to listen. There had been no identifying names, no intimacies and nothing in the least entertaining. The non sequiturs would not have been discernible unless one had listened carefully, by which time the main thread, if ever noticed, must have been lost forever. The secret lay in the pace. When conducted properly the stream flowed on steadily and soporifically in a flood of common-places like the droning of a couple of bees.

He walked down towards the main street which ran across the mouth of the cul-de-sac, his mind busy with the practical side of the position. The children were said to be safe now that the attempt had failed so openly. He thought they probably were, at least for the moment.

Much more worrying was the question of the mind behind their experiments with the devices. Who was the puppet master? Until Mayo's convincing disclaimer he had assumed that it must be Martin working with Mayo, which indeed was why he had been so anxious to avoid questioning the youngsters himself until he was sure. Now, presumably, it was Martin plus someone unknown.

As he reached the wide thoroughfare which, in the daytime, was a steady mass of crawling traffic, Mr Campion was thinking how remarkably few unknowns had appeared in the story so far. Fred Arnold was almost the only stranger and he had been explained almost as soon as he had appeared. It had just occurred to him that the horizon was almost suspiciously empty when he saw the white cat. It was the same cat. He had no doubt of it for he saw the disfiguring tail tip, as distinctive as a label. It came bounding across the glassy roadway, paused to look up at him, arched its beautiful back and leapt away again.

He assumed it had followed him, coming for a walk as cats do, not at heel like a dog but keeping at discreet distances on either side. He was surprised he had not noticed it before. If it was like any other cat he had ever known it ought to have crossed his own path a dozen times whilst working out its own erratic but roughly parallel routes. He was about to call to it when it rushed on down the path away from him and as he turned to look after it he saw something that startled him.

The cat was not his own escort; it had a master. In the distance, walking quickly in the direction of the West End, was a single figure. All he could see of him was that it was a man, tall, thin and well muffled. The harsh sodium light had taken every shred of colour out of his clothes and smoothed out every crease and contour. Campion stood watching until he disappeared. It was nothing, just an odd incident. Yet someone had been in the square for most of the evening and someone had walked behind him to the cul-de-sac and someone was now going home at a considerable pace. The white cat was going with him.

MR CAMPION SLEPT
later than usual and awoke to find Amanda standing before him, holding a cup of tea.

‘Drink this,' she said, adding darkly, ‘it may well be the nicest thing of the day!'

They were in the suite which had once belonged to Avril's only daughter, one of the star designers in the famous old dress house of Papendeik. Much of the original furnishing remained and Campion sat up now in a gay four-poster, slenderly elegant and hung with demurely patterned grey and white linen. Amanda was elegant herself in a formal housecoat tailored in billiard-table cloth, and she sat down on the end of the bed, grinning at him.

‘Did they wake you?'

‘Who?' It was particularly good tea and he marvelled afresh at her effortless efficiency. ‘Nothing woke me but the desire to see you again.'

‘Martin and Helena quarrelling.' Her triangular smile had appeared for a moment but her eyes were anxious. ‘They forgot how thin these old floors are. I wondered if I ought to whistle or let them have it out.'

‘Of course, they're upstairs, aren't they? He probably feels lousy but I thought last night how fond she was of him.'

‘She is. This isn't a fight to the death, little more than an Oh-my-God-and-bang-the-door, but they keep mentioning us and they're probably coming down, so I thought you'd better be prepared to meet the impact.'

‘How wise I was to let you marry me! I'm not too bright this morning. I've been thinking about Edward's little contribution to world knowledge all night. Where is he?'

‘Having breakfast with poor Uncle Hubert.'

‘Oh dear. What a “do” that was. What possessed the old boy?'

She leaned forward and spoke earnestly.

‘You think Martin is working with somebody on the side and they've tried those devices out on the children because the boys are so good at it?'

He avoided her eyes. ‘I feel Mayo could be hell to work with,' he murmured. ‘Obstinate and in some ways utterly thick-headed. The professor is probably the key. He's a great brain and they are capable of anything.'

Amanda lay back against the bedpost in a graceful emerald festoon. ‘Mrs Mayo told me that her husband didn't trust his own team,' she admitted. ‘But then she told me rather a lot. I feel Martin is utterly loyal; he's that kind of boy. He doesn't notice that Mayo is jealous of him even; the idea would strike him as absurd. I'm sure he isn't behind this.'

‘I'd like to agree with you, my love.' Mr Campion was sincere. ‘But I don't see anybody else, do you?'

‘We'll tackle Martin,' she declared and added, as a knock sounded on the sitting-room door, ‘instantly, I'm afraid.'

Martin came in alone. He was unshaven and in a dressing gown but he looked much better. He was a little embarrassed and extremely apologetic.

‘I'm so sorry about intruding like this,' he began, ‘but I'm half out of my mind with curiosity. Helena tells me that these damn things I missed were strapped on
a pulse
! Is that really true?'