The Doomsday Carrier

by Victor Canning

  She handed the note to Rimster and after he had read it asked flatly, “Do you want me to open this and show you, too?” She held up George’s letter.

  “George is Freemantle, your fiance?”

  “Was.”

  “No, I don’t want to read it. But if you make any answer then I shall have to see that. I’ve told you that any letters you send out must be censored.”

  Jean shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I shan’t be replying to it. And I understand perfectly that I’m considered unreliable. An unstable, unreliable female who might let the cat out of the bag.”

  “That’s your description. But you are a security risk. You could say something quite innocently and someone with a little help on the side might put two and two together, plus a little guesswork, and then Charlie’s potential danger to the public might be uncovered. It’s a very long shot—but that’s my job. To see that nobody gets a chance of sniping.” He handed back Boyson’s note to her and then, with a note of easy friendliness, went on, “There’s no reason to get a dagger out for me. You of all people should understand what the lobby is like against the kind of work you’ve been doing. If the public ever knew the truth about Charlie—even though we picked him up today, or long before he becomes a real danger—then the balloon would go up. That your kind of work is done is accepted and people push it to the back of their minds. But let them find out that it’s done carelessly, without proper precautions—and the lid would blow off. Think of it their way—the whole of the South of England, and that’s only for a start, put at deadly risk because a woman faints with the emotional stress of finding her fiance in bed with another woman. The press and the public wouldn’t spare anyone. Heads would roll right up to the inner Cabinet level. Charlie could spread plague, but the public would spread mayhem through the government, the Ministry of Defence and institutions like Fadledean.” He grinned suddenly. “No fairy story. The gods for their own good reasons might be working for Charlie. But let’s hope not. As for now, I’ll have the car round in a few minutes. The police have just reported that a small boy spotted Charlie the day before yesterday near the river south of Salisbury.”

  As he walked away she had a sense of having been chastened, could acknowledge to some extent that it had been deserved, and, not for the first time, she was aware that working at Fadledean forced one to shut one’s mind to the fears and claims of the outside world.

  She opened George’s letter. It was typically George. Bouncy, not over-contrite, the whole thing had been of no real importance. For the first time since he had known her he had been caught off balance . . . a few gins too many at lunch and this old girl friend turning up and bingo. But not again, not anything like that would happen. He loved her and wanted only her. After all—if it had been the other way round . . . Forgiveness, understanding, nothing could touch the real core of the bond between them. And where the hell was she and what was she playing at because he just had to see her?

  His pleas and justifications left her untouched, except that she wondered if it had been the other way round what in truth his reactions would have been?

  * * * *

  Horace Pringle, forty, married with three children, was the proprietor of a small shop in Ringwood where he sold cameras, films, photographic equipment and had a small trade in pictureframing. In addition he was fairly constantly in demand to attend weddings, christenings and other events to take photographs. He was a short, plumpish, dark-haired man of Welsh extraction who had a nice sense of humour, was devoted to his family and loved to drink beer, sometimes immoderately; though he had no high opinion of the stuff which the multiple brewers turned out these days and often said so emphatically. In his early days he had worked for a while as a press photographer in Fleet Street. Younger and single then, they were days he looked back to nostalgically. Weddings bored him stiff, though no one would have guessed it from the jocular, cajoling manner which he employed in order to get the best photographs he could for his clients . . . Now, could we just have the bride by herself? That’s it, love. Just a bit farther forward and the bouquet a little higher. . . That’s it. There’s lovely you look. He was on his way to a wedding now at Stockbridge on the Winchester road the other side of Salisbury.

  As he approached Salisbury he came up to the tail of a string of vehicles following a big container lorry. He could see that there would be no chance of overtaking any of them yet, so he settled in at the end of the queue without impatience. He had plenty of time to make the wedding.

  Immediately in front of him was a lorry with a canvas top. With an observant eye that fussed over untidy details of a dress or a veil which might mar a picture, he noticed that the cording which laced up the canvas flaps at the back had drawn loose at the bottom so that now and again the canvas flapped like a slack idle sail. The thought made him think of boats and he began to whistle gently A Life on the Ocean Wave. As he came down the slope to the river bridge over the Avon on the outskirts of Salisbury and followed the lorry through the roundabout he thought for a moment that he saw something move behind the loosely corded gap. Without giving it much thought he followed the lorry and the traffic on to the ring road round the town which would take him on to the Winchester road. Half-way along the road repairs were being made and there was a set of temporary traffic lights. The line of traffic halted as the light went red against it. Horace drew up close behind the lorry. As he did so he saw a pair of hands tug at the edges of the canvas flaps pulling them free from their cording into a triangular opening. A head pushed through the gap and Horace found himself looking straight at the face of Charlie.

  For a moment or two he just stared, unbelieving. Then as Charlie drew back his big lips, showing his teeth in a wide grimace, Horace came to life, the Horace of the old Fleet Street days, the Horace who, even now, sometimes picked up the odd shot which the agencies would take. A few quid extra was always a few quid extra. And, since he kept up with the news and had heard about Charlie, his left hand reached out automatically for his camera which rested on the seat at his side. He leaned out of his window and took six quick shots of Charlie, varying the angles and getting part of the traffic queue and the nearby houses in them before Charlie’s head withdrew and the traffic began to move as the lights changed. Horace followed the van, thinking . . . well, boy, there’s a bit of luck for you, now. He followed the lorry up to the next roundabout, hoping that the vehicle would take the Winchester road. Who knows? He might get a few more shots. The more the merrier. He might be lucky and some editor would want a fill-in or a minor lead story. When he got to Stockbridge he’d phone old Jones at the agency and have a word.

  At the roundabout the traffic slowed and stopped, waiting to filter around, and here Charlie appeared again, pushing through the canvas gap and partly lifting it so that his head and half his body were visible. He stared solemnly back at Horace and chewed contentedly at a carrot in one hand, while he held a fine lettuce in the other. Whether anyone else had seen the animal Horace didn’t know and didn’t care. He leant out of his window and took some more shots. Charlie, seeing him, raised an arm, waved the lettuce, and then solemnly rubbed his head with it, his dark eyes sparkling, his lips pouting forward as he hoo-hooed with contentment. Horace heard someone shout from away to his right but, before he could turn to see from whom the call came, the lorry moved into the roundabout. Horace, aware of a horn blowing impatiently behind, quickly followed and was delighted to see that the lorry was taking the Winchester road. He saw too that Charlie had disappeared from sight. And that was the last that Horace saw of Charlie who had withdrawn to eat his fill of strawberries and gooseberries.

  Some miles outside Salisbury the main road split, the right-hand fork going to Winchester, while the other went left-handed towards Andover and Basingstoke to pick up the main London road. Hanging on behind the lorry, Horace had hoped that it would keep on the Winchester road. When he saw by its indicator that it was going to swing off to Andover he was tempted to follow, but the weddin
g waiting ahead kept him on his own road. Charlie was only a chance few quid . . . but a wedding was a wedding and his bread and butter. He drove on to Stockbridge. In the long main street, and having time in hand, he went to a call box and telephoned his old Fleet Street friend Jonesey, as Welsh as himself, and who would place the story for him if he could.

  When he explained about Charlie to Jonesey and of the local search going on for him his friend said, “I don’t know. Sounds more like local stuff. But no harm in giving it a try up here first. Might work. Charlie the wanted chimp riding through the town right under everyone’s nose—making a monkey out of the police. What time you free of that wedding?”

  “Some time after one o’clock.”

  “Tell you what to do. Take the film into Winchester after the wedding and put it on a London train. Phone me and I’ll have it picked up. Somebody might go for it. What about telling the police down there?”

  “Why should I? Let ’em read all about it tomorrow morning —I hope.”

  “Okay, your business. Do what I can. Give my regards to your missus.”

  Meanwhile on the Andover road, a little while after Horace had parted company with Charlie, a motor-cyclist overtook the lorry, pulled in ahead of it and flagged it down, persisting until the driver stopped.

  The motor-cyclist trotted back to the driver and said, “You know you got a monkey thing in the back of your truck?”

  “What you talking about?”

  “About a chimp thing. Like them on telly what advertises tea or something.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “I tell you you have. Come and look.”

  The driver got down and walked around to the back of the lorry with the motor-cyclist. As they did so Charlie who had eaten his fill dropped to the ground from the tailboard and ambled on to the grass verge. When he saw the two men approaching he moved away from them.

  “What did I tell you,” said the motor-cyclist.

  Ignoring him the driver shouted at Charlie, “Hey, you! What you doing up in my truck?”

  Charlie moved further away, sat down and called waa-waa loudly.

  The motor-cyclist said, “Eh, are they dangerous?”

  The driver said, “I don’t care what they are—they ain’t supposed to ride in my truck not with —” He broke off and went to the canvas flap and pulled it aside. One look was enough for him. He turned quickly and moving towards Charlie shouted angrily, “Hey, you little bugger, what the hell you been up to!”

  Charlie, who knew anger in the human voice when he heard it, seeing the man coming for him, turned and swung up into the road hedge, forced his way through a tangle of briars and small thorns and dropped to the field on the other side. Without looking back and whimpering softly to himself through thinly pouted lips Charlie loped away quickly on all fours.

  The two men watched him through the hedge tangle and the driver said almost accusingly to the other, “Where’d he come from then? And how’d he get in my truck?”

  “How do I know? I only spotted him as I come up with you. What you got in the truck then?”

  “Not as much as I bloody well did have. Fair old mess he’s made of my carrots and strawberries.”

  “Think we ought to tell the police?”

  “You ever been to report anything to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Well don’t then—unless you want to be kept sitting on your arse for hours while some old sergeant writes it all down as though it’s the first time he’s ever had a pen in his hand. That’s not for me. I got to get to London.”

  “But where’d he come from?”

  “How do I know—or care? Way this country is these days you never know what’s going to happen. Last week I give a lift to a bloke who turned out a real nutter. Said for a fiver he’d tell me the exact date the world was going to end, dead straight he did. Now this week a bloody monkey crawls out of me fruit. Anyway, thanks for stopping me. Some people’d drive by without a word if the back of the truck was on fire.”

  * * * *

  The police constable on the desk at Salisbury who was doing his spell of duty on the line which had been reserved for Charlie calls said, “Very well, madam, we’ll look into it. Thank you for calling.”

  He put the receiver down and sighed. Amongst the genuine calls on this kind of lark there were all the cranky ones. Lonely people mostly who just wanted to talk to someone . . . he could take those easily enough. But the practical jokers were the ones who got his goat. This old girl had said that from the window of her cottage on the narrow road which ran not far from the Avon she had that morning through field glasses seen a naked man chasing a chimpanzee along the river bank. When asked why she was looking through field glasses she said she always did, every morning, because being crippled with arthritis it was the only way she could do any bird-watching. Also her cat had disappeared. Did the constable think the chimpanzee might have caught and eaten it? If it had been left to him he would never have passed the message on. You could tell jokers and the eccentrics just by the way they talked. Still, the orders were everything, but everything, must be passed to C.I.D.

  He was reaching for the internal telephone to the detective branch when the bell went on the outside telephone again.

  “Salisbury police station, here.”

  A man’s voice said, “That the number for Charlie the chimp?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Good.” The man laughed. “Well, you’ll never believe this. Real rich it was. I’d have called you sooner only I was late for work and then I had to wait for the tea break to get to the phone. Course, none of the blokes here would believe me. Thought I was pulling their legs, like I do sometimes. Well, you got to liven things up a bit standing all day over a lathe, ain’t you?”

  The constable sighed gently. He knew the type. Put up to it for a gag by his mates, no doubt. He said, “Have you seen this animal, sir?”

  “I’ll say.” The voice was rich with barely held laughter. “There he was in the back of a lorry on the ring road . . . you know, up by the roundabout where the Winchester road goes off. Standing up in the back of the lorry, bold as brass, laughin’ all over his face, and guess what?”

  “Look, sir. May I just have the facts. But first of all would you give me your name and address for reference, please?” A joker, he was sure, and if he got a name and address they would be false.

  “It don’t matter who I am. I can’t help you any more nor this. There was this Charlie chimp at the back of the lorry and he had a bunch of carrots in one hand and a lettuce in the other and a great big smile over his face. Laugh . . . I tell you it was the funniest thing I seen in years. Nearly fell off me bike I did. Went off up the Winchester road did the lorry. If I hadn’t been late for work I’d have tagged along a bit just for the fun, but my place was the other way. Well, there it is. Don’t suppose it’s much help to you, but I done my duty like by phoning.”

  The man rang off before the constable could say more. Not that there was much he wanted to say. Eccentrics and practical jokers. The world was full of them. However, he dutifully passed both the messages along to the C.I.D. Within the next hour he had two more calls; from a woman who said she was sure that Charlie was in her attic because there was an awful rumpus going on there and she was afraid to go in (when the patrol car got there it was to find nothing in the attic but piles of old newspapers and broken furniture and the good lady heavily fuddled with gin-drinking) and the other from a man who said in an affected voice, “This is the chairman of the Society for the Protection of Higher Primates. A chimpanzee has as much right to live free and unfettered in this country as any of the stinking riff-raff of coloured immigrants we’ve let in. And, what is more, I personally prefer chimpanzees—many of whom I’ve numbered among my best friends—to some of the apes in blue uniform who go about interfering with the normal lives of hard-drinking citizens like myself.” The constable decided not to pass this message on. The world was full of humo
rists, the sad, the lonely, the mad and the bad. The sooner Charlie was put behind bars the better . . . Nice, though, if you’d lived behind bars most of your time like Charlie, to be out and free for a while in the lovely summertime.

  * * * *

  By dusk that evening Charlie was some miles north of the spot where he had left the lorry. The country he had covered was a mixture of downland and wide stretches of arable and pasture land with only a few minor roads or lanes cutting across it. Well-fed, he was not worried about eating, and he had drunk twice, once from a cattle trough and the other time from a small dew pond. During the fiercer heat of the afternoon he had slept for some hours on some sacks in an old cart shed, lying in the shade. Now and again he had heard the sound of helicopters going over and once, waking from his sleep, he had watched a patrol of six soldiers spread out into line along the edges of a distant plantation of young larches and then move in and beat their way through it. Far beyond the plantation he could see the rise of a main road over a gentle hill-slope and the flashing of the sun on the windscreens of the cars which sped along it. As the air cooled and the shadows lengthened he left the hut and ambled away northwards.

  He moved down now into a wide bowl of rough land, dotted with gorse and thorn growths, and idly made his way along its gentle slope, grunting and talking to himself. A hare got up from a clump of grass ahead of him and he squatted on his rump and watched it go bounding and zigzagging down into the bottom of the bowl to disappear into the thick scrub. Away to his left a kestrel hung in the air, wings quivering, and then dropped to the ground to take a vole. Charlie pulled a long grass stalk and began to chew it, shaking his head as a persistent fly buzzed around his ears. On the far side of the bowl the land rose to a prominent knoll which was crowned by a tall, thick growth of beech trees. The knoll was in fact the site of an old hill fortress dating back to the Iron Age, a fortress which was being excavated by archaeologists during the summer season. From where he sat Charlie could see the movement of people around its outer grass ramparts and with some of them were dogs which they were exercising, for Danebury Hill was a well-known spot for tourists and local people to visit. Charlie, who had no real fear of human beings, might well have been moved to get up and make his way to the hill. But the sight of the dogs probably stayed him. In the past he had twice been bitten by dogs and he always gave them a wide berth. He sat where he was, relishing the growing coolness of the evening which was dying to a moonless night. A helicopter came over from behind and passed almost directly over him, flying at five hundred feet. Neither pilot nor observer saw him for they had finished searching their allotted area some way south and were heading back now for the landing ground at the Army Aviation Centre field on the other side of Danebury Hill, their thoughts on a bath, a change to cool clothes and long drinks in the mess.