“And?”
“I’m fairly sure it was Cecil Winter who had that bet with Stanley Silk.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’m as sure as I can be that Cecil would not try to kill Stanley.”
“In that case, I can assure you he will have nothing to fear from us.”
Brant was conscious that, as he used these words—sincere as he was—they sounded trite even to him. He noted with some pleasure, however, that Cynthia appeared to accept them at their face value, although he would have been prepared to swear that such would not have been the case twelve hours earlier.
Masters was surprised by the neatness and pleasant aspect of Winter’s office. It was about as big as the study bedroom which had been alloted to him. An electric fire added to the warmth of the central heating, but that wasn’t what provided the welcoming air. The glass top of the desk shone, the woodwork gleamed cosily; print curtains at the window gave a splash of colour and two vases of daffodils brought the living sunshine in. This was no man’s room—there was a woman’s touch here.
Winter, scrawny and brown, was wearing grey trousers and an old sports jacket. The pockets bulged with whatever it was he carried on his person. His lab coat, clean for the new week and heavily starched, hung on a coat-hanger on a chromium stand.
As the group leader took his seat behind the desk, Masters noticed that the claw-like nails, which continued the contours of the long, loose-skinned fingers, were dotted with chalky deposits, and wondered as to the cause. Incipient rheumatism or arthritis? Or just senility heralding its approach?
The voice was high-pitched. “You’re a curious man, Mr Masters. I suppose you could go out of here and write a complete inventory of this office.”
Masters was flicked on the raw by the tone and the content of the accusation. Chiefly because it was said without humour, but additionally because in the first place he’d merely been admiring the room and, furthermore, he disliked the insinuation that he was so lacking in good manners as to be more inquisitive in such matters than good manners normally allow.
“I doubt it. I was wondering how the Centre managed to find such gems among cleaning staff—ones that would polish and garnish with flowers.…” As he said this, the thought struck him that cleaners in the Centre would need to be vetted and supervised pretty closely. The innumerable facets of security in such a place must be a headache for Toinquet.
“We rely entirely on retired service men,” said Crome. “They’re amazingly good. Of course, they’re not badly off, in that they’re already in receipt of service pensions, then they have their pay here which, thank heaven, is supplemented appreciably by the X factor which is compounded not only of unsocial hours payments, but also of danger money. There is, of course, little risk here, but you know what bureaucracy and trades unionism is. Cleaners at Porton, who may catch a bug, get it, so everybody everywhere in the same grade gets it. I believe we have quite an army of them—certainly more than twenty.”
“Lucky you! Flowers in rooms …”
Winter coughed. “Excuse me, but the flowers are by courtesy of my deputy, Doctor Clay. She shares this office and tends to pamper me in the process of pandering to her own tastes.”
Masters nodded understandingly. “I thought there was a woman’s touch about it.” At the same time he wondered about the juxtaposition of White Devil words like pamper and pander. Was Winter a precise man when it came to words? Did he, subconsciously, intend to convey that Doctor Clay over-indulged him as a means of gratifying her own clandestine amours?
“What were you anxious to question me about, Director?” asked Winter, virtually ignoring Masters.
Crome turned to the Yard man. “The ball is in your court, Superintendent.”
“Thank you. Doctor Winter, I realise my visit to the Centre may be distasteful to you and, indeed, to everybody here. Nobody likes policemen on the premises, particularly when they are investigating the cause of the deaths of colleagues and all that that implies. However, I should be grateful for whatever co-operation you can afford me, so that my stay here can be cut to the minimum.”
“Success being the key to your length of stay?”
“I hope so. Though I should like you to believe me when I say I would rather uncover a mare’s nest than a murderer.”
“If you say so. But I can’t believe feathers for caps are so easily come by that you would gladly forego one.”
“Cecil, please!” said Crome.
“I rejoice in my feathers as much as any brave,” said Masters urbanely. “Can you please tell me whether, within your working brief, there are any alternative lines of investigation?”
“I don’t understand that question.”
Masters mentally cursed Winter. The last thing he wanted was to become involved in a high-powered scientific discussion because he would then be at a loss. But it seemed as if the leader of Group Six was not prepared to fight anywhere but on his own ground.
“As I understand it, Doctor, the scientists in this group under your leadership are researching ways and means of shielding tactical nuclear reactors. Without wishing to know any of the details of your work, I wondered if you could tell me whether there are several theories as to how this may ultimately be achieved.”
“Of course there are,” snapped Winter. “The Director does not blinker us. And if there were only one way, there would be no need for researching the project. We would have the answer at our fingertips.”
“In that case, would you mind telling me whether each of your colleagues regards the various alternatives as tenable, or are there separate schools of thought among you, each school devoted strongly to its own theory?”
Winter didn’t answer. Crome turned to Masters. “There’s a directness about you that even I find frightening.”
“Why, sir? Have I put my finger on a sore point?”
“No, you haven’t,” said Winter adamantly. “But you are attempting to stir up dissension.”
“In what way, Doctor? I have asked a question. If you are not prepared to answer it …”
“I know that one. You will draw your own conclusions.” Winter turned to Crome. “I must ask you, Director, if, during your conversation with the Superintendent, you have indicated to him that there is a slight clash of opinion within the group on our varying approaches to the current objective?”
“Cecil,” said Crome, “you know me better than that. I consider it my duty to help Mr Masters as much as lies within my power, but that does not include pin-pointing areas of professional dissension or suggesting that differences of approach in a laboratory are carried over into life outside. Three men have died. In suspicious circumstances. Mr Masters knows that such deaths are usually the result of hatred, envy or jealousy. As all these men were employed within this group, he naturally looks within the group for signs of these emotions. I don’t have to prompt him. He knows his job.”
“You are here with him.”
“For various reasons. The first, obviously, because the final responsibility for whatever goes on in the Centre is mine. I also feel that my presence at interviews such as this is a protection for my colleagues as well as a help to the police.”
“Very well.” Winter turned to Masters. “There are various differences of opinion here. Our main effort has been concentrated on determining whether deuterium oxide has the necessary density in practical amounts to provide the protection needed. However, there are other suggestions. For instance, one point of view, based on the simple principle of the inverse square law …”
“Double the distance, quarter the force? Treble the distance, one-ninth of the force?” asked Masters.
Crome chuckled. Winter scowled.
“Using this principle, it has been postulated there is a possibility of capturing slowed-down particles by means of a magnetic field. To condense them, in fact, to produce energy. I won’t go into the technical details of the Pinch Theory …”
“I think I can envisage—as a layman�
�what you are suggesting,” said Masters. “Would I be right in saying that as the particles have mass they are therefore subject to the normal laws of gravity and so could be attracted by a magnetic field?”
This time Crome laughed. “As you so rightly disclaimed—a layman’s view. But it comes close. The normal laws of gravity as you call them—as Newton expounded them—unfortunately do not apply in their entirety in the field of particle physics. If they did, our problem might be easier. We could collect the particles like iron filings on a schoolboy’s magnet. But, within reason, you’re close.”
Even Winter thawed a little. “I won’t bother you with talk of laser beams for fusing, plasma, spherical magnetic fields round voids, magnetic bottles and so on. Suffice it to say there is a theory, with sub-theories, based on this approach.”
“Any others?” asked Masters, slightly gratified to find Winter yielding and anxious to make the most of this moment.
“Oh, yes.” There was a little pause before Winter continued. “There’s what I call the ultra-violet school. As you appear to have some grasp of physics, you will not be unaware that the earth is daily bombarded with just those particles and rays we are seeking to contain. Fortunately for us, the atmosphere stops the dangerous ultra-violet light from scorching us up. Quite simply, the thought is that if the atmosphere can create a barrier to stop the emanations from the source of all the world’s energy, namely the sun, why should not we be able to recreate an atmosphere in miniature to serve the same purpose vis-à-vis the emanations from a small reactor.”
“Are those the sum of the theories, Doctor Winter?”
“How many do you suppose one small unit can sustain?”
“May I ask which theory you favour personally?”
Winter said drily: “I thought I’d already told you that our major effort has been concentrated on the deuterium oxide project.”
“So you did. But the others have your blessing?”
“In my small way, Superintendent, I must needs be a diplomat. Whilst ensuring that the energy of my group is not wantonly dissipated in hare-brained schemes, I must offer support, when needed, to alternative approaches which I personally may not view with particular favour.’
“I understand, Doctor. I think that disposes of the professional questions I wish to ask you for the moment.”
“Surely there is the final one?”
“You mean I should ask you which of your colleagues supports which theory?”
“That would seem to be the object of the questioning so far.”
“Would you be prepared to tell me?”
“No. But I hoped you would have asked.”
“Doctor Winter, whenever possible I try to avoid getting egg on my face—unnecessarily, that is.”
“Cecil,” said Crome, “there’s a shrewdness here as great as any we may pride ourselves in possessing in the Centre. Can we please get on with the business in hand?”
Winter spread his thin hands. “I am here. Director.”
Masters stepped in quickly. “You must have expected me to ask you some questions about the climbing and walking club. This time I won’t disappoint you.”
“Very well. What do you wish to know?”
“When I first heard of it, I was a little surprised that you should have a flourishing club of about two hundred members.”
“It is gratifying, but don’t be misled by numbers. By far the greater proportion is made up of walkers and these, in their turn, vary between the genuine fell and hill enthusiasts and the fine afternoon strollers.”
“I appreciate that. Yet you manage to take a coach-load off every week-end summer and winter alike.”
“Except for a week or two around Christmastime, yes.”
“That argues enthusiasm.”
“Does it? About twelve and a half per cent of the club at any one time? We fill those coaches up regularly with non-members who go along for the ride.”
“If you are disappointed in the turn-outs, why not cut the number of trips?”
“Economics. We get the coach very cheaply because we book it for every week-end. Unit cost would soon soar were we to cut the number of hirings.”
“Economics are that important?”
“Did you ever encounter an organisation where they weren’t?”
“No. But there is a question of degree.”
“To be sure. As a profession, government scientists are not well paid. Many of us, in places like this, are faced with frequent moves, temporary hirings and so on. All come expensive. Also, climbing gear is expensive. It has been my aim here to popularise the sport and to make it as inexpensive as possible. To this end we have attempted to supply all the necessary gear—other than personal clothing—that we can.” He looked at Masters as though expecting some reaction. Masters could not resist the urge to show that his own thought processes were no less nimble than his.
“Very wise. I assume that you have bought, say, two dozen sets of equipment. These should suffice for the greatest number that ever goes climbing at any one time and it saves sixty or seventy mountaineers from buying and maintaining gear.”
Winter smiled frostily. “You’ve even got the number of sets right. It is indeed two dozen. Now, how have we managed this?”
Crome looked across at Masters expressively. Winter now had the bit between his teeth and on this favourite topic it appeared he would be as verbose as formerly he had been taciturn. Masters guessed Crome would like to cut the flow short, but he, Masters, was prepared to listen all day if necessary—for the simple reason that the more people talked, the more they gave away.
“You mean, how have you managed to afford the gear?”
“Yes. The Centre was, initially, given the usual meagre grant for social and welfare purposes that all government domiciliary institutions are afforded at their inception. How far do you imagine a mere three hundred and fifty pounds would go in providing such items as a piano, billiards table, television set and the like—to say nothing of maintaining them, once bought?”
“It wouldn’t scratch the surface.”
“Quite right. We managed a television and a table-tennis table, I believe, did we not, Director?”
Crome nodded.
“Of course,” went on Winter, “we have a mess contribution and there are bar profits. Out of these, the Director has very kindly alloted us small sums, as indeed he has to all the clubs and societies in the Centre. This has enabled us, by clever buying, to equip ourselves with light-weight frames, rucksacks, a tent or two and so forth. Some of it has come from government surplus sales at very low prices, the rest from ordinary trade outlets. The result has been that our club membership fee has been kept down to the very modest sum of two pounds fifty a year—a great consideration in maintaining and increasing membership.”
Winter was obviously expecting surprised congratulations for management ability. Masters, seeking for some remark not too banal, said: “You’re doing a marvellous job, Doctor Winter, and I notice that you’ve been very modest in not mentioning the fact that if the club owns the equipment, somebody—presumably you—has the unenviable task of maintaining it, issuing it, collecting it in, chasing up forgetful members and so on.”
“You see a problem in its entirety,” said Winter. “I like that. But you were mistaken when you presumed that I acted as the club’s quartermaster. Doctor Clay does that for us. The Director has very kindly allowed us to use a small storeroom in this building.” He got to his feet. “You must see how extremely well Doctor Clay looks after our assets. Just along the passage from here.”
He opened the door and led the way. Inside a dozen paces he reached a solid, green door and switched on the light inside. The little room was, in fact, a dark room, with slatted shelving round the walls. Here the climbing equipment had been laid out in sets, each piece numbered in white paint. Rucksack number three was ranged with light-weight carrier three, water-bottle three, even enamel mug number three.
“There you are,” said
Winter. “A place for everything, and everything in its place. When you consider that many of these sets were in use over the week-end, you will appreciate how admirable is Doctor Clay’s work on our behalf.”
“All back, apparently, except set number six,” said Masters, gazing at an empty space on the shelf.
Winter’s tone dropped. “I imagine that was the set being used by poor Mailer. We shall probably get it back when the police and hospital authorities return his effects.”
They left the little room. In the corridor outside, Masters said to Winter: “Thank you very much, Doctor. I don’t think I need take up any more of your time at the moment. I hope I shall see you again in the mess, perhaps.”
Winter lived up to his reputation of being ‘a nice old stick’ sufficiently to smile toothily and to wish Masters luck.
As Crome and Masters left the complex, the Superintendent was assessing the recent interview and, more importantly, Winter’s attitude. Crome seemed to appreciate this and remained silent.
Nowhere in the conversation had Winter given Masters any hint that the Group Six building held any secrets other than those directly connected with the work carried on there. Winter’s attitude—a bit anti at first—could be accepted for what it appeared to be on the surface. Any man who has had three of his colleagues killed is going to be a little suspicious of everybody thereafter—including the investigating police. Nerves, being what they are, sometimes cause even the best-tempered and co-operative of men to appear hostile until soothed by diplomacy. Winter had thawed eventually, presumably when he realised that Masters was prepared to conduct his enquiries in a fairly civilised manner, without notebooks, cautions, diverse interrogation techniques and all the other hoorah methods so often credited to the police.
“Got it all sussed out? I believe that’s the phrase, isn’t it?” asked Crome after a while. Masters noted that the Director seemed somewhat happier than earlier on. Their time together seemed to have served to put him more at his ease: to cause him to adopt a slightly jocular tone. Was he, too, relieved to discover that police methods were not necessarily compounded of ringing bells, flashing lights and recorded interviews? Or, and Masters felt a pang of guilt about this, had he himself somehow given Crome a wrong impression concerning the conduct of this case? Had anything he had said led the Director to believe that the investigation would not be pressed home to the full? If so, Crome would have another shock coming to him. Of course, there was just the possibility that the Director, having seen and heard how Masters worked, was now convinced that he was a match—and more than a match—for the Yard team; presupposing Crome was the guilty party.
Dread and Water Page 10
