“Is that all you want?” The General was heavily ironic.
“I think it essential, sir.”
“Is it? How about this excellent alibi he provided — the pictures of the transit of Jupiter or whatever it was — that could prove his presence at home down to a second, more or less. Don’t you believe it?”
“I believe those pictures would show exactly when they were taken. I don’t necessarily believe that Chessingham was there when they were taken. He’s not only a fine scientist but an uncommonly clever lad with his hands. He built his own camera, radio and TV set. He built his own reflector telescope even hand-grinding the lenses. It would be no great trick for Chessingham to rig up a mechanism to take pictures automatically at pre-selected intervals. Or someone could have done it for him while he was elsewhere. Or the photographs themselves could have been taken elsewhere with a corresponding time allowance made for longitude differences so as to give the same effect. And Chessingham’s far too intelligent a bird not to have spotted right away that those photographs would have provided an alibi — yet he pretended that it only occurred to him while I was talking to him. He’d have thought it would have been too obvious and suspicious if it had all been cut and dried in advance.”
“You wouldn’t trust St. Peter himself, would you, Cavell?”
“I might. If there were sufficient independent witnesses to testify to any alibi he might have, that is. Giving anyone even the faintest shadow of the benefit of the doubt is the one luxury I can’t afford. You know that, sir. And Chessingham isn’t getting that shadow. Nor is Hartnell.”
“Hmm.” He peered at me under the tufted grey of his eyebrows and said inconsequentially, “Easton Derry vanished because he played it too close to the cuff. I wonder how much you are holding back from me, Cavell?”
“What makes you say that, sir?”
“God knows, I’m a fool to ask you. As if you’d tell me anyway.” He poured a whisky for himself but placed it on the mantelshelf without tasting it. “What’s behind all this, my boy?”
“Blackmail. Of one kind or another. Our friend with the Satan Bug and botulinus virus in his pants pocket has the finest blackmail weapon in history. He’s probably after money — very large sums of money. If the Government want back the bugs, it’ll cost them a fortune. Additional blackmail is that if the Government don’t come across hell sell the bugs to a foreign power. At least, that’s what I hope. What I’m afraid of is that we’re dealing with not a criminal but a crackpot mind. Don’t tell me that a crackpot couldn’t have organised all this — some crackpots are brilliant. If it is a crackpot it’ll be one of the ‘ Mankind must abolish war or war will abolish Mankind’ brigade. In this case the threat would be on a smaller scale — you know ‘ Britain must abolish Mordon or I’ll abolish Britain.* That sort of thing. Probably a letter in the post right now to one of the big national dailies telling them he has the viruses and what he intends doing with them.”
The General picked up his whisky glass and stared down into it with all the rapt attention of a soothsayer looking for an answer in his crystal ball. “What makes you think that? About the letter, I mean?”
“He’d have to, sir. Pressure is the essence of blackmail. Our friend with the viruses must have the publicity. A terrified population — and how right they would be to be terrified — would bring such terrific pressure to bear that the Government would have to accede to any demands made upon them or go out of office at once.”
“Where were you between five minutes to ten and ten o’clock to-night?” he asked abruptly:
“Where was I——” I looked at him, long hard stare
for long hard stare, then went on slowly, “In the Waggoner’s Rest in Alfringham. Speaking to Mary, Hardanger and a plain-clothes constable by the name of Johnson.”
“I’m getting old or senile or both.” The General shook his head irritably, then lifted a sheet of paper from the mantelshelf and handed it to me. “You’d better read this, Pierre.” The “Pierre” made it very bad indeed: and it was very very bad indeed. It couldn’t have been worse. A Reuter’s dispatch sheet, the message in typed capitals.
“Mankind must abolish war or war will abolish mankind” the typescript began. “It is now in my power to abolish the most dreadful form of war this world has ever known or ever will know — bacteriological warfare. I have in my possession eight ampoules of botulinus toxin which I took from the Mordon Research Establishment, near Alfringham, Wiltshire, twenty-four hours ago. I regret that two men were killed last night, but have no deep sorrow: what are two lives when the lives of mankind are at stake?
“The contents of any of those ampoules, suitably dispersed could destroy all life in Britain. 1 shall fight fire with fire and destroy evil by forces of evil.
“Mordon must cease to exist. That stronghold of the anti-Christ must be utterly razed so that no stone be left standing. I order that all experiments in Mordon cease forthwith and that the buildings in which this evil work is carried out be dynamited and bull-dozed to rubble.
“You will broadcast acknowledgement and compliance on the B.B.C. news at 9 a.m. to-morrow morning.
“If I am disregarded I shall be compelled to take steps the effects of which I dare not contemplate. But those steps I shall take. It is the wish of One who is greater than all that war upon earth shall cease for ever and I am His chosen instrument.
“Mankind must be saved from Mankind.”
I read through it again and laid the sheet down. This was the real McCoy — no one outside Mordon knew that eight ampoules had been stolen. The General said, “Well? Well?”
“A nut,” I said. “Completely off his trolley. Mind you, he has a rather nifty line of prose.”
“Good God, Cavell!” The General’s face was set in hard lines, cold, grey eyes angry. “A communication like that and all you can do is — is to make feeble—–”
“What do you want me to do, sir? Get out the sackcloth and ashes? Sure, it’s terrible — but we were expecting it — or something like it. If ever there was a time to use our heads and not our hearts — well, this is the time.”
“You’re right.” The voice was a sigh. “Of course you’re right. And damnably accurate in your forecast!”
“This came by phone call from Alfringham? Between five to ten and ten o’clock to-night?”
, “Sorry about that too. I’m even ready to suspect myself. The message came to Reuter’s in London. Dictated at slow speed. Reuter’s thought it a hoax but telephoned Alfringham just in case. The news of the theft and murders hasn’t been officially released yet — typical .army stupidity for half of Wiltshire knew about the murders hours ago and so does Fleet Street. All Reuter’s got was a denial but the reaction • to their questions convinced them that they were on to something very hot indeed. For two hours, believe it or not, they argued back and forth as to whether or not this item should be released to the Press. The decision not to communicate came from the very top. They notified Scotland Yard, who notified me. By that time it was well after midnight. This is the original copy. A crackpot, you think?”
“A screw or two loose but all the rest of his mental machinery is working just fine. He knows he has to have publicity to generate sufficient terror to bring pressure to bear, and to generate even more terror he gives the impression that he doesn’t know three of the eight ampoules in his possession contain the Satan Bug. If the public really thought he had the Satan Bug and might use it in mistake they’d scream for him to be given anything on earth just so long as he returned it”
“He may not know it is the Satan Bug.” I’d never seen the General like this before, hesitant and uncertain under the grimly worried mask. “We can’t assume he does.”
“I can. He knows. Whoever it is, he knows. You’re going to keep this out of the papers?”
“It’ll buy us time. He must have publicity, as you say.”
“How about the actual crime itself? The break-in, the murders?”
“It’ll be in every paper in the country to-morrow — it’s already on the streets. Local Wiltshire correspondents got the tip-off early this evening. After that there was nothing we could do about it.”
“The reaction of the populace should be interesting.” I finished my whisky and rose. “I’ll be getting back, sir.”