A Dandy in Aspic

by Derek Marlowe

  The second train arrived at the small Wadhurst station at ten forty and Eberlin got out. He was the only passenger who did. He looked up and down the empty platform and inquired about a taxi.

  The Stationmaster smiled and walked away. What does one make of that? He stood gazing at an incredible collection of framed awards on the wall, certifying that this was the best-kept station in the Southern Region for seven consecutive years except 1957. Slipped up that year, Wadhurst. Can’t afford to slack where flowers are concerned. The stationmaster didn’t return, so Eberlin walked out onto the gravel driveway outside and decided to walk. He had worked out that Selvers was about a mile from the station, mostly uphill, but it was a fine day and a pretty town, so walking would not be too disastrous. He strolled casually down the drive, past a row of coal bunkers and then up a steep hill toward the core of the town. He had just reached the top, sweating slightly, when a voice behind him said quietly, “Sir?”

  He turned and saw a small, dark-haired man in a chauffeur’s uniform, smiling up at him. Behind the man was parked a black Zodiac with the two inside doors open, the lower corners touching the banked grass verge of the road.

  “I thought I might have missed you, sir.”

  Eberlin didn’t answer at first, unsure, and prompted the chauffeur to screw up his eyes and inquire:

  “You are Mr. Eberlin are you not, sir?”

  “Yes,” replied Eberlin finally, looking down at the station below him. “Yes I am.”

  The frown faded and the chauffeur smiled and gestured to the car. Eberlin nodded and walked back to the Zodiac and sat in the leather back seat as the chauffeur closed the door and sat in front and swung the car into the center of the road and up over the crest of the hill.

  They both sat in silence. The car turned right at the center of the town–a village really–and down and up a long road, flanked by impressive bourgeois villas, and then down, out of the residential area and into the green, undulating farmland, past two converted oast houses and then turning left suddenly at a blue and white cottage and along a narrow lane, the car lurching on poor springs over shifting gravel. Ahead Eberlin could see an old clock tower, reading ten fifty-five, that suddenly emerged from a thick copse in the valley below and invisible to the main road. That must be Selvers. In two minutes the car was plunging down and entering under a red-brick archway and into a small quadrangle and parking neatly between a maroon Rolls Royce and a gray Jaguar Mark 10. Poised in one corner, wheels askance, trunk open, top down, open like an unwrapped parcel, stood a steel-blue Jensen with a dented fender. Gatiss was here. Eberlin climbed slowly out of the Zodiac.

  It was very quiet except for the sounds of birds and the lazy far-distant stutter of a tractor, and he looked around. The building surrounding him looked like an old baronial manor or a small exclusive school for the rich. He could see that it was completely cut off from neighbouring farms and bungalows, lying as it was, nestled snug in a dip in the Sussex Downs, and guarded, no doubt, at night by dogs. But not, this morning, it was rather pleasant and he admired the leaded windows and the tall ornate chimney stacks. The chauffeur was suddenly walking away from him and he was left alone in the flower-bordered quadrangle.

  There was a click and a small door opened in a corner of the square, and two men in dark suits appeared in the sunlight, screwing up their eyes against the light and talking rapidly to each other in high voices. They both saw Eberlin at the same time and stopped, silent, then the taller of the two smiled and walked toward him across the gravel, hand outstretched, thirty yards away. He was shouting Hello Hello at him, then reaching him, shaking Eberlin’s hand and saying, “So glad you could make it,” as if he were welcoming him to a cocktail party or a hunt, and as if, no matter how polite, there had been any option.

  “My name is Lake and that is Keats. If you just follow me, we’ll take you to the rooms. Did you have a good journey? You’ve never been to Selvers before, have you? Isn’t it a lovely day? Those are freak narcissi, by the way. They should come out in spring, as you know, but they don’t. Rather unusual, don’t you think? Mind the grass since it’s newly seeded just there. What a beautiful day. What a beautiful day.”

  Into the sudden darkness of the interior of the building and along a broad, oak-paneled corridor hung with dull portraits of forgotten ancestors, Eberlin followed the two men chattering to each other ahead of him, and occasionally glancing back at him with a smile and a comment. They reached, finally, a long ground-floor room and entered. It was a billiards room of sumptuous opulence, decorated in pale pink and gold and lit by streaks of blinding sunlight. Dominating it was a white marble, female nude, standing bent forward clutching at frozen, fallen draperies, head on an angle, Grecian-profiled, cold bottom thrust into the air, stomach creased. A broken finger and a damaged toe. She looked with wistful apathy at the expanse of green-baized table at her feet. Eberlin entered the room cautiously and was puzzled to find it empty. He stood by the blackened, hollow fireplace and turned toward his guides. The two men hovered at the door, making no attempt to enter, and Lake said: “Drinks over there in that brown thing. Ought to be some Cinzano left if you like Cinzano. Glasses there, too. No ice, I’m afraid. Cigarettes in box and–what else? Cigarettes in box. Oh–try to avoid playing billiards if you can possibly help it, because it’s not, well, desired. Read a book if you like. Gibbons is there, I know. And some others. Do you like Thackeray? See you later.”

  The door was slammed and then reopened, and Lake put his head in again.

  “Oh, by the way, the statue’s name is Daphne. Greek and all that. Don’t you think she’s awfully passé?”

  And the head disappeared as the door shut again and Eberlin heard the two men walking away, talking rapidly to each other once more for a moment. Then there was silence. He had been left alone.

  One hour and thirty-five minutes later he was sent for.

  * * *

  Eberlin stared at Lake’s fist. It was poised over the heavy door waiting for a reply from within. They were standing in a small anteroom and had been for ten minutes. Lake had been unnaturally quiet throughout, for which Eberlin was fully thankful since he had begun to shake slightly and was feeling decidedly nervous. Moreover, it was now almost one and he hadn’t eaten a scrap of food all day. The door was opened by Heston-Stevas, who smiled self-consciously at Eberlin and stood aside to allow him to enter. Lake, like an irritating usher, stopped Eberlin at the door with a gesture and stepped into the center of the room with a smile.

  “Mr. Eberlin, gentlemen,” he announced and turned back and waved him in with an impatient flick of his hand. Heston-Stevas closed the door behind them and Eberlin, steadying his nerves, paused to study the occupants of the room. The thick curtains had been closed so that the eight or nine men seated around a large table were in semidarkness, as if they were forcing mushrooms or taking part in an obscure séance. Lake took his arm and led him to the head of the table.

  “You probably know all here, Mr. Eberlin, if only by name. Mr. Quince, Mr. Brogue, Sir Alistair Pond, Mr. Frazer, Colonel Flowers, and at the far end, Lieutenant Ridley and Mr. Moon. Oh, and over there are Mr. Heston-Stevas and Mr. Copperfield.”

  There were imperceptible nods and grunts and scrutiny, then Lake said:

  “Please sit down here, Mr. Eberlin. In the witness box, so to speak. Or is it the dock? Ha ha. Would you like a drink or did you have one downstairs?”

  “A very large, very strong whisky would be warmly welcome,” replied Eberlin with an attempt at a grin.

  “I’ll see what there is,” Lake said without humor, and left the room. Eberlin sat stiffly in the chair, adjusting his eyes to the gloom, attempting to pick out any telltale expression on the still, impassive blur of faces. He noticed that Gatiss wasn’t there, and was somewhat relieved. Copperfield, the perfect foil, broke the silence.

  “Did you have a good journey, Eberlin?”

  Eberlin looked around and picked out the speaker by the glint of glasses and fatness
of the belly.

  “Pleasant, Copperfield. Pleasant. A train journey.”

  “Pity about your car being in Casualty. So useful aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Eberlin replied, “however I–”

  “You’ve wrecked your car?”

  The voice was unfamiliar and bit across the dialogue with searing attack. It had come from Pond, a thin bony man with piercing eyes, on Eberlin’s left, who was not asking any idle question. This isn’t a tea party, Eberlin thought, not in anyway at all. The question was repeated.

  “I asked if you had wrecked your car.”

  “Not exactly wrecked–”

  “Speak up, we can’t hear you.”

  “Not exactly wrecked. I was involved in a slight accident while driving through France.”

  “What do you mean slight? Is the car with you?”

  “No, but–”

  “It had to be serviced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it was not slight. Please be accurate, Mr. Eberlin. What happened to your car?”

  “The front was smashed in.”

  “You mean the hood?”

  “Yes …”

  “A head-on crash?”

  “No. I swerved to avoid another car and deliberately drove into a tree. A poplar, I think, but can’t be sure. It was a question of expediency.”

  “Expediency? You deny that it was your own fault?”

  “Not exactly, but I could not have avoided the situation. I felt at the time that I did the correct thing.”

  “And now?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you think you did the right thing now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your whisky, Mr. Eberlin.”

  Eberlin looked up and saw Lake holding a small glass of whisky. He took it gratefully. He felt all eyes watching him as he controlled himself to sip the Scotch slowly. Colonel Flowers leaned forward and asked casually:

  “What type of automobile do you drive, sir?”

  “Maserati Mistrale, Colonel.”

  “But that’s not an English car is it?”

  “Italian,” Copperfield said suddenly from across the room. “It’s an Italian sports car. Very fast. People race them at meetings.”

  “I see,” said Colonel Flowers thoughtfully, and then, turning back to Eberlin, “Do you race yours, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you drive fast, sir?”

  “Yes, but then I consider myself an excellent driver, Colonel.”

  There was a pause and then Eberlin said distinctly and with careful pronunciation:

  “I am quite sure that you have taken every effort to study my file, so could not have failed to have noticed the K109 Report I completed regarding the accident. The facts are all there, gentlemen. But may I suggest that if this barely visible cabal has been assembled solely to discuss my driving qualities, I would be very happy to take each one of you for a short spin and so demonstrate my capabilities at no extra charge.”

  There was a silence and heads glanced at each other and then: “Have you finished your whisky so soon, Eberlin?” declared

  Copperfield, stepping forward on his own cue. Eberlin lit a cigarette with a table lighter. Frazer, sitting opposite him, spoke for the first time.

  “No, we didn’t ask you here to discuss motoring. On the contrary, if you’ll be patient just a little longer, we will tell you all you wish to know. Ridley.”

  He nodded to Ridley who pressed a button at his elbow, and a rectangular screen lit up on the wall behind Frazer’s head. On the large screen was projected the face of a young man, dark hair falling over the right temple, full-mouthed and staring out at the onlookers with surprise through clear, wide-spaced eyes.

  “Sidney Nightingale,” said Ridley and pressed another button. The screen was wiped clean and a second face appeared, this one obviously taken candidly, for the owner was slightly out of focus and was turning, mouth open, to talk to someone now cropped out of the slide. The face was of a man of about forty, eyes lined heavily, and, Eberlin suspected and knew, usually behind spectacles, a large nose slightly bulbous at the end and underlined by a thin moustache.

  “Esau Pretty,” stated Ridley.

  The face was wiped off to make room for a third. Here was a different man altogether, a more mature man with cunning but intelligent eyes, thinning hair, and a heavy mole on the right cheek. One could see the top of a striped shirt and a Guards tie.

  “Ernest Lee Gulliver.”

  The lights were turned on, dazzling the occupants of the room.

  Then turned off again.

  “You no doubt recognize the men?” asked Frazer. “Yes,” replied Eberlin.

  “And know of course that they are all dead. That in fact they were all killed.”

  “Of course Mr. Eberlin does. A fact like that is hardly likely to escape his–meticulous attention.”

  Eberlin turned quickly to see the speaker, and saw, with a jolt, that it was Emmanuel Gatiss, who was now sitting straight-backed in a chair against the far wall, arms folded and smiling steadily at him.

  “Good afternoon, Eberlin.”

  “Good afternoon,” replied Eberlin and turned away.

  “You know Mr. Gatiss of course,” declared Lake. “Mr. Gatiss has just returned from Germany.”

  It was becoming hot in the room and sweat was forming on the men’s faces, except for those of Gatiss and Brogue. Eberlin studied Brogue, sitting quietly in profile to him, puffing at a cigar with that ridiculous holder of his. The Negro sensed the observation and glanced out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. He was a man who had learned to keep his place among superiors. There was a strained atmosphere hanging like a catch net from the ceiling, that seemed to affect everybody, for they had become restless and fidgety and Copperfield had even gone so far as to unbutton the top button of his shirt. Leaning over to stub out a cigarette, Eberlin glanced back at Gatiss and found him gazing in his direction with intent scrutiny, a smile on his face of such hidden profundity that in contrast the Mona Lisa was guffawing.

  “You are aware no doubt of the details of Hesperides?” Frazer was saying, and Eberlin looked up and across the table in overt concentration.

  “Yes, sir. As far as my department itself was aware.”

  “Quite. But I think your T301 files covered almost everything.”

  “If I may interrupt, sir,” Quince interrupted with an ingratiating whimper, “the actual operation itself is really not the meat of our program. It is Top Security and well, there are unauthorized persons present who–”

  “I am well aware of that, Quince,” snapped Frazer. “I am well aware of that.”

  He stood up and walked, stoop-backed, toward one of the large windows and drew back a curtain so that the stark daylight highlighted him in the corner of the room. He took out a pipe and lit it in careful concentration, then turned to the room.

  “I would like all but Eberlin, Quince and Colonel Flowers –and of course Gatiss–to leave the room.”

  Imediately, Lake hurried to the door and ushered the others out into the anteroom. Gatiss didn’t move but remained seated against the far wall in shadow. After the door had been shut and the sounds of departure had faded, Frazer straightened his back, said “Now then” very clearly and distinctly, and walked back to the table.

  “Would anyone care for a drink? Eberlin? Would you like a drink?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “Another whisky, surely?”

  “That would be fine, sir.”

  “Anyone else?”

  There was no other demand.

  “Quince–get Eberlin a whisky will you? And make it a large sensible one this time. And one for me, too. No point in ignoring Ministry expenses.”

  There was a slight murmur of polite amusement. Frazer smiled and coughed and tapped the pipe forcefully on the polished veneer of the table.

  “Now then, Eberlin, I’m sorry to have kept you hanging about so long in the
dark, but you are no doubt well aware that we all have thought very hard before asking you to come to Selvers. I’m not going to go into the whys and wherefores of why you were selected. The very fact that you are before us now should be sufficient. I have long admired your efficiency and, may I say, devotion in your work. Now, as Quince has said, the actual operation Hesperides is not the core of the matter. That is of a parallel nature. What is the core of the matter, is that the success of Hesperides has been severely impeded. Not once but three times. So, in my book, what is required first, before we can reliably send out a successor to Nightingale, is the elimination of that impediment, All right so far?”