Slow Burner

by William Haggard

  ‘He’s spending tomorrow at Colton?’ Mortimer asked sharply. ‘With Doctor Nichol?’

  Colonel Russell looked at him curiously. ‘We were talking about Sir Jeremy last night,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We were, sir.’

  ‘Could we go back to that? Could I ask you a question? You needn’t answer it.’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘You weren’t entirely satisfied—with my analysis, I mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t.’

  ‘And you are . . . well, let us say that you are taking certain precautions? Precautions not directly concerned with protecting Doctor Nichol from another attack from the quarter I was considering?’

  ‘I am, sir. Though in the circumstances they are naturally not as thorough as they might be.’

  ‘I don’t disapprove—I can’t disapprove. For it’s at least evident that Sir Jeremy’s relations with Nichol will hardly have improved in the last hour . . . It’s that you are interested in, I take it—Sir Jeremy’s relations with Nichol?’ Mortimer nodded.

  ‘And you are worried?’ Russell inquired.

  ‘I’m frightened to death,’ Major Mortimer said simply.

  Chapter 9

  Sir Jeremy had seemed in very good form at Colton; he had appeared to be enjoying himself. The establishment had always interested him—fascinated him, he said—and the Crash Room was one of his favourites. Today it was rather more impressive than usual. In their enormous protective clothing the emergency crew looked like spacemen out of a boys’ comic, and when, with a touch of exhibitionism, one of them had put on his helmet he had looked inhuman, as apart as a goldfish in a bowl. ‘Good gracious,’ Sir Jeremy said, ‘they don’t live in those clothes, do they? Not ordinarily. I mean?’

  Of the little group which had been showing him round it was William Nichol who replied. ‘No,’ he explained, ‘not usually. Ordinarily we reckon we can get a Crash Crew away in fifty seconds.’ He pointed to a hole in the floor. Through it ran a thin brass pole. It ended beside a vehicle on the floor below. The engine was running quietly. ‘Ordinarily,’ Nichol repeated, ‘we allow fifty seconds . . . Change into special clothing; down the pole; start the engine; and away. But when we’re taking Slow Burner anywhere it hasn’t been before we try to cut it a bit. You never know.’

  ‘Indeed? It’s more dangerous then?’

  ‘Not in theory. We make every possible arrangement at the delivery end, take every conceivable precaution. We drill the factory people responsible, and drill them again. But we never feel happy for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I see,’ Sir Jeremy said reflectively.

  ‘It’s worth it, we think. The slightest mishandling, the slightest break in insulation . . .’ William Nichol shrugged.

  ‘I see,’ Sir Jeremy said again.

  ‘Would you care to see it loaded?’

  ‘I should be delighted.’

  The group of men walked into another room. It was divided by a partition, clearly very thick, and made of some material which Sir Jeremy did not recognize. At eye level was the smallest of windows. On the far side was mystery and on the near two technicians in white overalls. They sat before a battery of controls. Between the two divisions of the room was something like a moving staircase, but running horizontally, along the floor. The door in the partition through which it passed was obviously very complicated. Upon the moving band stood something remarkably like a smallish barrel of beer. It was open at the upper end.

  William Nichol waved at it. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘The container. It will go into your car quite easily.’

  Sir Jeremy approached it with respect. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Nichol said.

  ‘It doesn’t look very robust.’

  ‘It isn’t particularly—not mechanically, that is. It doesn’t have to be. Naturally we shall pack it into the boot of your car with something to protect it from banging about, but that isn’t what we really have to guard against. What we’re interested in is the insulation. Look again. That container would displace perhaps two cubic feet. What is going into it I would put at about a cubic inch. The rest is insulation.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘It is. And a very necessary one. Look inside.’

  Sir Jeremy peered into the canister. ‘Good gracious,’ he said again, ‘it is extremely deceptive. There’s almost no space at all inside. It’s—it’s a pea in a barrel.’

  Nichol laughed. ‘Which I will not attempt to improve upon,’ he said.

  ‘And is all that insulation very strong?’

  ‘As insulation, yes. Extremely.’

  ‘But not structurally?’

  ‘No—nothing more than is needed. We don’t play football with these things, you know.’

  ‘Ah,’ Sir Jeremy said thoughtfully. He seemed to be satisfied.

  One of the technicians caught Nichol’s eye. He turned to Sir Jeremy. ‘Would you care to see the loading?’ he asked again.

  ‘It would be fascinating.’

  ‘Then come to the window.’

  Sir Jeremy walked to the window in the partition, and Nichol made a sign to the seated technicians. One of them turned a switch and the canister began to move along the floor. The door in the partition opened to receive it. Beyond it was a reception chamber recessed into the partition. A second door at its far end was still closed. .

  The canister, still on its moving band, stopped just short of it. The first technician consulted a row of lights. ‘Ready,’ he said. The second pulled a lever and the door in the partition closed silently. The first technician consulted his lights again. ‘Safe,’ he announced. Sir Jeremy, through the window, saw the inner door open. The canister began to move forward again. It stopped in the centre of the danger room. For a moment nothing happened. Then, with the terrifying deliberation of the machine, an arm swung slowly out from the wall. It hovered for a moment above the canister, adjusting itself meticulously. Finally it seemed satisfied. The tiny jaws at the end of the boom opened. Something fell precisely into the canister.

  Sir Jeremy sighed. He was sensitive to beauty, and this was beautiful. He went on watching as the arm retreated again to the wall. Almost at once another, swinging in the opposite direction, began its solemn arc. It was heavier, for it bore a heavier weight. At its end was quite a complicated machine. Above the canister it danced its tiny, its ceremonial dance of adjustment. It lowered upon the canister a substantial lid. Sir Jeremy could see the insulation on its lower side. The lid had fallen upon the open canister with utter precision. The machine at the end of the arm began to turn it, to screw it down. It gave it four whole turns and a half turn again. The arm swung back to the wall.

  The telephone upon the technicians’ table rang abruptly. The senior lifted the receiver. He listened. ‘Right,’ he said finally. He touched his controls and the canister began to move again towards the watching men. The inner door opened and there was a moment’s pause, a checking of controls. It shut. Another pause, another check before the door in the main partition opened. The canister slid out again and stopped.

  Sir Jeremy shivered but not with fear.

  But Nichol was entirely matter of fact. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Now let’s put it in the car.’

  ‘You—you can pick it up?’

  ‘Certainly. I intend to. It’s as safe as houses.’

  But the technicians were before him. They carried the canister, by handles upon its sides, to Sir Jeremy’s car. The boot was already lined with packing, and more stood ready in a heap. The canister went in easily, and the technicians began to cover its top and sides. Sir Jeremy insisted on helping. Nichol thought that he was fussing, being a little officious, but he said nothing. Finally Sir Jeremy stood back. But he was apparently unsatisfied. He approached the boot once more. He took his hand from his pocket, thrusting it deep into the packing. Presently he removed it. He stepped back again.

  ‘It seems to be all right,’ he announced.

  He shut the lid of the
boot firmly. ‘Let us go to lunch,’ he suggested. ‘I find I’m extremely hungry.’

  Charles Russell, that Saturday, had had to force himself to leave London. His instinct had been to stay—and worry. He was a little ashamed of it, but it had been strong; he had been obliged to meet and defeat it consciously. He had, he assured himself, done everything possible. Which, he thought sourly, beyond making sure that Parton, if he left Colton, would be adequately followed, was precisely nothing. He told himself again that he was on risk until Monday. Monday—it seemed a frighteningly long way away. Nor would he have claimed to be at ease about William Nichol. Precautions, he thought, the routine, the obvious precautions, were all very well, but with people like Them you could never feel comfortable. The trouble was the familiar one that the initiative lay with the other side—secret, ruthless and entirely unpredictable. You couldn’t move a man about in the middle of a platoon of police, particularly not William Nichol, nor ask him to go into hiding on the mere possibility that somebody had tried to murder him and might try again. Charles Russell sighed. He was extremely worried so . . . so it would be absurd to stay in London to do it. He could worry on a golf course as easily as in his flat, and perhaps, for a moment or two, he wouldn’t worry. But about that he wasn’t optimistic. He would tell the office where he was going, Mortimer was utterly reliable, Mortimer could be with him in an hour . . .

  Major Mortimer, a little before lunch, had found him playing the old eighteenth at Sunningdale. Mortimer had driven from London urgently; he had stumped a considerable part of the two courses and by now he was in something of a lather; but he knew better than to interrupt. Russell’s partner had hit a creditable drive—longer, Mortimer thought regretfully, and straighter, than he had ever hit himself. But Russell played in very good company; he would tell you that he wasn’t any good and, pressed to reconcile this statement with a handicap of two, would explain that that was his summer handicap, something he could sometimes play to after a fortnight’s practice. The fact remained that, not so long ago, he had been playing in the Amateur.

  Now he was considering his shot to the green. He was as deliberate as ever. He returned to his caddie the iron which he had offered him; he took one bigger, for he was a sensible man, perfectly conscious that he wasn’t as long as he used to be. Mortimer waited, impatience and envy competing. The club went back smoothly, a fraction inside the line. Mortimer watched very carefully; he was a hooker himself, and he knew that if Russell, striking like that, let his hands go, hit from the top or lost his left side . . . There was the unmistakable sound of an almost new golf ball perfectly hit. The ball went away in a noble, an arrogant arc; it fell just short of the green; clawed almost humanly; and ran past the pin five yards. ‘Oh lovely shot,’ Major Mortimer said.

  Russell turned round. ‘Good morning, Mortimer,’ he said. He didn’t seem particularly surprised. ‘Evidently you want me,’ he added.

  ‘Very badly, sir.’

  ‘I shan’t be a moment. Let us hole out, though. We’ve two for a half and the match.’

  Russell’s partner putted dead and Russell excused himself quickly. They walked to the clubhouse and went with drinks into a room upstairs. Russell sat down. ‘Of course you’ve come to tell me that Parton is away,’ he said. His manner was tautly resigned.

  ‘He could be leaving at this moment, I’m afraid, but . . .’

  ‘Then something has happened to Nichol again. You’re telling me . . .’

  ‘No, sir, not that we have heard of. Not yet, that is.’

  Colonel Russell looked incredulous. ‘Then what on earth?’ he began.

  ‘It’s Sir Jeremy, sir.’

  Russell held up a hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, no, no. Not Sir Jeremy. Not here. Not at Sunningdale.’ He was aware, suddenly, of Mortimer’s expression, and his own changed. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said simply. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Sir Jeremy was talking this morning to Professor Wasserman. Wasserman called rather early—before Sir Jeremy left for Colton. I didn’t like what Sir Jeremy said. Not a bit.’

  ‘How do you know what he said?’

  Major Mortimer dropped his eyes; he was evidently embarrassed. ‘I put a mike in his flat,’ he said reluctantly.

  Charles Russell had a gin and bitters half-way to his mouth; he did not spill any, but he put the glass back on the table very carefully. ‘You did what?’ he inquired.

  ‘I put a microphone in Sir Jeremy’s flat.’ Mortimer repeated. ‘Percival-Smith did it actually, but of course he acted on my instructions.’

  Charles Russell recovered his gin. Very formally he raised it. ‘Major Mortimer,’ he said, ‘your health. You are a very brave man.’

  Mortimer flushed. ‘Oh I don’t know,’ he said vaguely. ‘I have a little money of my own,’ he added in explanation.

  Russell began to laugh; he caught Mortimer’s expression again and checked himself. ‘I am behaving very badly,’ he said. ‘I didn’t intend a discourtesy . . . What did you hear on this deplorable, this admirable machine of yours?’

  ‘I heard Professor Wasserman and Sir Jeremy talking. Wasserman, it seems, is favourably disposed towards Sir Jeremy—sympathetic, I should say, rather than friendly. It appears he has supported him in the Development Commission from time to time, and now he feels that Sir Jeremy’s position is impossible; he feels there’s bound to be serious trouble about this business at Dipley and that Sir Jeremy, inevitably, will draw the short straw. Whatever happens. So he was advising Sir Jeremy to resign. Now. At once. Before he was invited to.’

  Russell whistled. ‘And how did Sir Jeremy take that?’ he asked.

  ‘Surprisingly. He didn’t seem upset. I expected him to pack the Herr Professor about his business, but he took it with—with urbanity. He said he had no intention of resigning; he said he wasn’t at the end of his resources by any means.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  ‘He did. I didn’t like the way he said it. And he said something else and I liked it even less. It’s a little difficult to put it to somebody who didn’t hear it, but when Wasserman was leaving he said, casually you understand, that Sir Jeremy wasn’t to worry too much. He said that this business of the Slow Burner wasn’t a matter on which to kill oneself.’ Mortimer hesitated. ‘Sir Jeremy’s answer,’ he said at length, ‘was that it wasn’t himself he was thinking of killing. It sounded like Sir Jeremy’s idea of a joke: Wasserman took it as such, I think, but . . .’

  Charles Russell finished his drink deliberately. ‘Mortimer,’ he said at last, ‘you have accepted as a working hypothesis something which I do not. You have accepted that Sir Jeremy Bates has made one attempt to murder Doctor Nichol, and you appear to be accepting that he is considering another. Two really startling assumptions, Mortimer, on evidence quite inconclusive. I don’t accept either but—but I will discuss them with you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And I am in your hands. You are giving the orders.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  Russell nodded briefly.

  ‘Then I would like to go to Colton—now. You will remember that Sir Jeremy is spending the day there. I don’t suppose anything can happen at Colton itself—our man is on notice, and I have taken it upon myself to send another to Oxford to the factory they’re visiting. But it’s the car journey between the two I don’t like.’

  Colonel Russell considered this carefully. ‘You are telling me,’ he said finally, ‘that Sir Jeremy is . . . has completely broken down.’

  ‘Whatever words you choose. A psychiatrist would say as much in a great many more.’

  ‘And madmen commit murders,’ Russell said slowly. ‘They sometimes try twice . . . Who will be in this car?” he asked.

  ‘Sir Jeremy and Doctor Nichol. And Sir Jeremy’s driver, I suppose.’

  ‘Mrs Parton,’ Russell said sharply. ‘And Nichol himself. With Sir Jeremy . . . who, according to Mortimer, is crazy.’ He came to an evident decision. ‘Mortimer,’ he said, ‘I don’t
believe a word of this—I won’t believe it. But I’m coming with you to Colton.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘We’ll ring the Executive first and tell them our movements.’ Russell rose, walking to the telephone. He spoke shortly, and the two men strode quickly to the car park. ‘Race you to Reading,’ Russell suggested unexpectedly.

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  They climbed into their cars. Mortimer’s had been made in Northern Italy, a tiny thing with lovely lines and an air of urgency. Russell’s was very much bigger, English, as unnoticeable as money could make it and as superbly engineered. They drove from the car park; turned right on to the main road; and almost immediately right again. Along the by-road Mortimer went ahead—he was decidedly the faster on corners. But, on to a main road again, Russell was at once on his heels. They blared through Bracknell and Wokingham, outrageously scattering the Saturday shoppers. In the melee of Reading Mortimer was lucky at a traffic light. Russell stopped dead as the amber disappeared; he was surprised to discover that he was swearing. Away again, he made a mile or two, not seriously disturbed. In a little, he knew, he would be clear of traffic, and then Mortimer and that can of his, that sardine tin . . . Charles Russell was driving as, a younger man, he had driven in competitions, braking before the comer; placing the splendid car upon a hairline; accelerating around them. The beautiful machine murmured a sophisticated approval.

  Behind him Russell was aware of a familiar sound. He looked in his driving mirror: it was a police car gonging him. He smiled boyishly; he knew that make of car and he knew its capabilities. It was fast, he thought, but you couldn’t hold it. Give them ten more on the clock and they’d capsize. He felt about the possibility quite amiable. Gently he pressed the accelerator and the needle of the speedometer swept upwards; round; and scandalously downwards again. Charles Russell looked again in his mirror. The patrol car had disappeared.