Only The Ruthless Can Play

by John Burke

  A voice she knew but couldn’t identify said: ‘Miss Rogers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dr Schroeder here.’

  ‘Oh. Dr Schroeder.’ She could find nothing else to say to him, late on Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Can you tell me where Mr Dampier is?’

  His accent, which she never noticed when they met, was thick and almost comic on the telephone. It made the question sound ridiculous.

  ‘Mr Dampier?’ she said. ‘I suppose he’s at home.’

  ‘No,’ said Dr Schroeder reproachfully, as though she were somehow to blame, somehow negligent, ‘he is not at home. I have tried several times. Mrs Dampier has not seen him. It took me a great deal of trouble to find your number.’

  ‘Not seen him?’ said Jessica. ‘You mean he’s left? I mean, he’s gone to the hotel … ‘

  ‘No,’ said Dr Schroeder reproachfully, as though she be able to tell us where he was.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘That is a pity.’

  Jessica said: ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘It is very strange. Very strange.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I think I must tell you that there has been a burglary at Belby.’

  Jessica could think of nothing to say. Then she was afraid that her silence would be misinterpreted. She ought at least to express surprise.

  ‘What have they taken?’ she ventured. ‘A few centrifuges?’

  Schroeder breathed disapproval. ‘Documents have been taken from our confidential files. The cabinets were opened by someone who knew his way around. It was no ordinary burglary.’

  Sickeningly Jessica thought of David. He was so determined to find evidence of his father’s murder and of the reasons for it. But David had been on the train with those of them who came back to London. And he didn’t know his way around Belby all that well.

  Schroeder said: ‘You are sure you have no idea where Mr Dampier is?’

  ‘None,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Mr Partridge is on his way to London. He will speak to members of the Course tomorrow morning. I am following by the early morning train. I shall be here until midnight in case some word comes through. If Mr Dampier gets in touch with you, will you please let me know?’

  ‘I’ll get him to ring you.’

  ‘Please do. And so that there is no mistake, will you also telephone to let us know?’

  ‘Will that be necessary?’ asked Jessica stiffly. ‘If Mr Dampier rings you ‘

  ‘Just to be sure,’ said Schroeder, ‘let us also hear from you.’

  Jessica rang off. The newspapers lay scattered between the bedroom and the sitting room. She picked up one of them and carried it into the lavatory. But it was impossible to concentrate on garish headlines when the truth was so much more garish. The truth … whatever that might be.

  Perhaps she ought to go in to the hotel this evening. News might come through there. Dampier might appear there. She could imagine how his lip would curl when he heard of the panic there had been, and how gleefully he would attack Schroeder if he learnt that there had been even the faintest implication of his being involved.

  Someone, Schroeder had said, who knew his way around …

  The telephone began to ring again. Jessica hurried out to lift the receiver before it stopped. She forced herself to give her number calmly, and waited to see who it would be, what news there would be.

  There was silence, but she knew that there was somebody at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Yes?’

  Still there was only the faint singing along the line and the sound of what must be breathing.

  ‘Who is it?’ she said. She was going to speak David’s name, then Mr Dampier’s — but was suddenly afraid to name anyone at all, not knowing what it might lead to.

  At the other end the receiver was gently replaced.

  Jessica turned away from the phone. It could have been some crank. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Now and then you got the husky voices asking for a fictitious Mary or Eleanor or Susie, and then the sad little obscenities; and occasionally, as now, only the menacing silence. The silence was worse than the smut: even when you knew the poor creature would never come closer to you than that distant telephone, you felt needled by that unspoken lust, and scared of the pressure building up within that perverted mind and body.

  Again the ringing started. Jessica snatched up the receiver and said:

  ‘Now look here … ’

  ‘Miss Rogers?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jessica. ‘Oh, yes. Who is that?’

  ‘Margery Dampier here.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Dampier.’

  ‘Is my husband there?’

  Jessica had met Dampier’s wife twice. She was a shrewish yet somehow harmless little creature, with a face that must once have been sharply pretty but was now merely bony. At the moment she sounded as though she would like to bite.

  Jessica said, ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Dr Schroeder has already been on to me,’ said Jessica. ‘I believe he’s already spoken to you.’

  ‘Yes, he has. Miss Rogers, what is happening? He wouldn’t tell me anything. My husband hasn’t been home, and they say he’s not at the hotel, and you don’t know where he is — and they sound very odd at Belby. Miss Rogers, it’s very upsetting.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ Jessica tried to sound comforting. ‘But there’ll be some simple explanation. Mr Dampier must have made some arrangement to call in on friends on his way back to London, or something like that.’

  ‘Without telling me? Without telling you?’

  ‘He must have forgotten. He has a lot of things on his mind.’

  ‘Has he?’ said Mrs Dampier quickly. ‘What things?’

  ‘Oh, work, of course. You’ve probably heard how upset we all were about the accident at Belby.’

  ‘I read about it in the papers.’

  Jessica sidestepped the obvious implication here. She said: ‘I’m sure everything is all right, Mrs Dampier. I expect Mr Dampier will be getting in touch with you any minute now. And’ — remembering Schroeder’s appeal — ‘I’d be awfully grateful if you’d let me know when he does show up. I’d like to have a word with him.’

  ‘And he’s not with you?’ Mrs Dampier made a last attempt.

  ‘No,’ said Jessica, ‘he’s not with me.’

  Having replaced the receiver once more she wasted no time. She began to pack her bag. She might just as well be at the hotel as here. There was going to be no peace at home this evening.

  The next time a bell rang she moved instinctively towards the telephone. There was a lull, the bell rang again, and she realised that it came from the front door.

  It might be Andrew back. She felt a rush of hope, cancelled out by immediate resentment. She didn’t want it to be Andrew. If he had come ten minutes later, she would have been out of the flat. Let it not be Andrew.

  She went to the door.

  Eleven

  First thing on Monday morning Partridge was driven to the Intersyn building in a Bentley supplied for his use by Head Office Transport Section (Senior Executives, Grade I, Metropolitan Area, chargeable A/c 224/Dir/Lond.). He was joined on the Directors’ floor by two of his London colleagues, talked decisively to them for five minutes, and then joined Dr Schroeder ten floors down. Together he and Schroeder went into the room where the Course members were assembled like a class of delinquents due for a dressing-down.

  Andrew waited for Jessica to come in. He had heard odd rumours about Dampier and Belby and hoped he could get a private word with Jess during the morning.

  She did not appear. Schroeder closed the door deferentially behind Partridge, and there was still no sign of Jessica.

  Partridge stood a few inches from the edge of the lecturer’s usual table. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shoved his head forward. He was a skilled inquisitor, sure of his own power, and he intended to have a co
nfession.

  He said: ‘Everybody here?’

  ‘Mr Dampier has not yet shown up,’ said Schroeder, ‘and Miss Rogers seems to be late.’

  ‘Anybody else missing?’

  Heads turned. Gerald Hornbrook said quietly: ‘Young Marsh doesn’t appear to be with us this morning.’

  Partridge glared at the wall clock. One felt that David Marsh would be made to stand in the corner when he arrived. Miss Rogers, as a member of the staff, would presumably merit a severe reprimand.

  They were probably in bed together, thought Andrew sourly. They must have overslept. Perhaps they were having a late breakfast and giggling about the constructions that might be put on their absence. He wondered how long it had taken after he left Jess yesterday — how long before she telephoned Marsh, or before he telephoned her. From one man to another … as quickly as that. He was well rid of her.

  Had she cried when he left? Had she been wretched? How bad had it been for her?

  Andrew pushed the unwelcome thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on what Partridge was saying.

  ‘I can’t waste time waiting. I’ll begin. The police will be here shortly and I want to talk to you before they arrive. We agreed that they should come at eleven o’clock. They will want to ask you questions. Each one of you will be interrogated. I want you to be quite frank with the police. We trust that none of you has anything to hide. But if he has, I think it would be best to let me know about it now.’ There was a buzz of curiosity from those who had not yet heard the rumours. The others tried to look knowing. Partridge said: ‘On Saturday night or the small hours of Sunday morning a burglar ransacked confidential files in the offices at Belby. It was someone who must have had a good working knowledge of the plant and the various buildings. Whatever he was looking for, he had a good idea of where it would be. It may have been one of our own staff up there, but we think this unlikely. The police have found a number of fingerprints which may belong to normal users of the files or to someone else. In due course they will probably want to check on these.’

  What, thought Andrew: no existing records? Even Intersyn hadn’t got that far … yet.

  ‘In addition’ — Partridge slowed and looked even more brutal — ‘the police are not happy about the circumstances in which Philip Western met his death. The plastic in which Western was embedded is being chipped away by various processes, and quite apart from the distortion of the body from heat and pressure there are marks which seem to indicate violence. It’s not for me to make any pronouncements on this at the moment — but if this fits in any way with the theft of the papers, I’ll find out about it. I promise you that: I’ll find out. If any of you has any help to offer, no matter how small, I’d like to hear from him.’

  His eyes picked out the Course members one by one, saying: Confess … repent … talk … tell me.

  There was a stricken silence.

  Schroeder broke it. ‘None of you can help Mr Partridge at all?’

  Andrew tried to imagine any one of them putting up his hand and saying, ‘Please, sir, it was me, I’m sorry.’

  Partridge eased himself back a few steps and perched on the edge of the table. It was an informal posture but he looked as dangerous as ever.

  Andrew said: ‘You believe there’s some connection between Western’s death and this burglary, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You have no definite accusation to make against any of us?’

  ‘If I had, I’d make it. I’ve got one or two ideas, but they don’t make sense. They don’t fit. I want to find a way of making them fit.’

  Andrew said: ‘If I might make a suggestion … ’

  ‘I want information,’ said Partridge, ‘not suggestions.’

  It would be politic to stop right there. But Andrew was suddenly impatient. You would get nowhere on this Course or in anything else to do with the Company if you didn’t assert yourself. He said:

  ‘We might get information by using some of the techniques we’ve learnt on this Course.’

  Schroeder chuckled in a startling falsetto, anticipating what Andrew was about to say. Partridge scowled. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘We’ve tackled complicated problems in brainstorm sessions,’ said Andrew. ‘Provided with a few basic facts, we have had to shape them into a pattern. We’ve had to give them coherence. While we’re waiting for the police, why not do the same thing? Let’s see what facts we’ve got, and analyse them. If we can prepare a comprehensive marketing campaign in a matter of hours, surely we can solve the mystery of a theft and a possible murder if we put our minds to it? Such highly skilled minds,’ he added provocatively.

  Partridge stared at him. Andrew waited for the blow to fall. Then Partridge said:

  ‘Bloody good idea.’

  Schroeder nodded sycophantically, but there was also a genuine scientific enthusiasm in his face.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Partridge. He slid away from the table and indicated that Andrew should take his place. ‘You’re in charge. We don’t have a great deal of time. Get cracking.’

  Andrew went out before the class. He had no chance to regret his brashness. Already they were waiting attentively for him to begin.

  Schroeder made for a vacant chair. As he sat down he said: ‘Of course, by taking charge like this, Mr Flint may be diverting suspicion from himself. He is in a position to organise the discussion exactly as he wants it. As soon as it approaches dangerous territory he can divert it.’

  Andrew hit back fast. ‘I’ll rely on you to keep it right on course, Dr Schroeder. Tell me as soon as you see me wavering. And have you any theories of your own about the theft — or about the murder?’

  ‘Murder,’ said Schroeder reflectively. ‘There are basically only two kinds of murder. There’s the impulsive one, usually carried out with the aid of a bread knife or the nearest heavy object. And there’s the calculated type. The latter is rare. It is even more rare that it should be carried out by anyone as a result of a fit of anger. Once the anger has gone, the impulse to kill has gone — with most of us, anyway. To plan a murder requires a particular kind of fanatical patience — a ruthlessness, an ability to convince oneself that the removal of a certain obstacle to one’s comfort or even to one’s career is not merely justifiable but is a good thing for mankind in general.’

  ‘Generalisations aside,’ said Andrew, ‘what do you think about this particular case? Where were you, Dr Schroeder, when Philip Western died? Your office is only a few yards away from the spot, I seem to remember.’

  ‘I was not in my office. I was in the Control Room at the time.’

  ‘You have witnesses for that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Schroeder: ‘two assistants — and Miss Rogers, who had come to see me about some timetable changes favoured by Mr Dampier.’

  ‘Neither Miss Rogers nor Mr Dampier is here to confirm this.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Schroeder, unperturbed. ‘But the two assistants at Belby have not vanished. I can give you their names if you wish.’

  ‘And the theft?’

  ‘The theft was carried out at night. I was not on duty. Nobody goes to the records section at night, as a rule.’

  ‘But if you had wanted to go there and find something, you’d have known where to look for it? You have the necessary keys?’

  ‘I have the keys that are necessary for my own job.’

  ‘And you know where others are kept?’

  ‘In an emergency, I would know where to find them,’ Schroeder agreed.

  ‘And other people at Belby would also know?’

  Partridge intervened. ‘Only three or four members of the executive are allowed access to all the keys,’ he said. ‘But plenty of others know where they are. A burglar who knew exactly where to look and who knew what times staff came on and off duty, and where they were likely to be at any given time, could help himself to any documents he wanted. But few of them would be intelligible to anyone outside our own organisation.’

>   ‘Nevertheless,’ said Andrew, ‘someone who was disloyal — maybe someone who was dissatisfied with his job or his prospect of promotion — might be able to pass some useful information to a competitor if it was made worth his while?’

  ‘It could be done. But it could be done a lot more tidily, without drawing attention to it. There was a hell of a mess in the office — drawers tipped over, paper all over the place, cupboards ransacked and left in a shambles. Whoever this was, he didn’t cover his tracks.’

  ‘And you don’t know yet what he has taken?’ said Andrew. ‘Or … do you?’

  ‘One or two items are definitely missing. We’re waiting until the whole lot has been tidied up before we can be sure of others.’

  ‘Anything of value?’

  Partridge hesitated, then said: ‘Nothing. Nothing of any real significance — so far as we can tell.’

  ‘An interesting point,’ said Schroeder, ‘is that one man who frequently boasted of knowing the place inside out and of being able to circumvent all our security precautions is not here today. He ought to be here.’

  Everyone in the room sat very still.

  Andrew said: ‘All right. Where was Mr Dampier at the time of the theft?’

  ‘That is what we would like to know. He was supposed to have come back to London, but nobody has seen him. His wife does not know where he is: he was not at home during the weekend. He did not go to the hotel. And his secretary denied all knowledge of him.’

  ‘His secretary?’ Andrew wondered when they had been in touch with Jessica; whether they were keeping her out of the room for some sly reason of their own.

  ‘I spoke to her myself yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘And where is she now?’ demanded Partridge irascibly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Schroeder.

  Andrew was tempted to display his superior knowledge by telling them where Jess was. If she wasn’t being kept incommunicado at their orders, there was surely little doubt of where she was — or, at least, who she was with.

  Instead, he went on: ‘And where was Mr Dampier at the time of Western’s death?’