Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  `Cashier's counter is right over there, sir.'

  I waited for my bill and paid it, went and had a cup of coffee and a hot pastrami sandwich at the casino snack counter, and then went up to my room. I hesitated before going in but when I finally summoned up the courage it was empty. There weren't any message lights on the phone either. Presumably they thought I'd have got the message now, loud and clear. And so I had.

  When I'd showered and put on some clean clothes, I sat on the bed and tried to phone Alsa, but there was an hour and a half's delay on calls to Gothenburg. I then tried to telephone Spinetti but he was out. His girl didn't know when he'd be back. She knew nothing about me, nothing about the arrangements and sure wasn't interested. Nor, by that time,

  was I. I used my cable card to send a message to London. There was no point in phoning because I was telling not asking, and not even Scown would change my mind for me. After that I slung my goods in a bag, and winced as I remembered the tape recorder I'd left in the boat. Not that Scown would mind; it wasn't his machine. But my possessions were certainly getting scattered.

  I waited out front until a cab arrived, my suitcase ostentatiously at my feet to proclaim to the world at large and watching eyes in particular that I was in fact departing, then rode out to the airport.

  At the United Airlines desk, I inquired whether any seats• remained on the three o'clock flight for Chicago.

  Ì'll see, sir. What name?'

  `Sellers.'

  Òne moment, please.' The clerk looked at his list. 'Sellers is the name?'

  `Yes.'

  Àlready a reservation for you, sir.' He wore that patient look given to idiots by people paid to be polite. •

  `Thanks.' I handed him my ticket and my credit card and waited while the new ticket was made out. Then I handed over my suitcase, went along to the departure gate waiting room, and sat watching the other intending passengers in a furtive kind of way to see if I could discover which of them was doing the same to me.

  I suppose somebody must have been there, but I didn't spot him. I didn't spot him in Chicago, either, which was hardly surprising because O'Hare International Airport's a big place and by that time three restorative Scotches were cutting down my powers of concentration a little. I added a fourth in the soothing coolth of the Four Seasons bar while I waited for the British Airways Chicago-Montreal-London flight to be called. There was still an hour's delay for Gothenburg and I hadn't an hour. I've taken that flight before. At Montreal it fills up with parcel-laden, misty-eyed grandmothers heading back to Bristol or Bury St Edmunds, but the Chicago-Montreal leg isn't exactly jammed. This time there were six of us scattered thinly around the cabin of the VC10. The captain, as captains will with an almost empty aircraft, gave a performance demonstration, taking it up like an express lift then levelling off to hot-rod through the airways, while the cabin staff kept the passengers amused. There were three stewardesses and a steward between the six of us, so the service was excellent and less starchy than usual. While I sipped my Bell's and water, a pretty blonde girl with shiny, much-brushed hair, chatted me up a bit, went away and came back.

  `There's another journalist aboard,' she announced, all helpful. I responded. politely. 'Oh?' He could be one of the drunks from El Vino's and I'd be back in El Vino's soon enough, thank you. It's a bar in Fleet Street. In El Vino's nil veritas. Not much, anyway, and not often.

  `Would you like to meet him, sir?' They maintain certain standards, these girls; people must be properly introduced. When there's time, anyway.

  `What's his name?' I asked cautiously.

  `Mr Elliot, sir. He's American.'

  I said, 'I'm sorry to be finicky, but does he look the reminiscent type? I don't want ten hours of past triumphs.'

  She smiled. A nice smile. 'He seems rather quiet, sir. He works for the National Geographic.'

  She nodded towards the back of a head six rows nearer the nose. Another girl was talking to him. Presumably sounding him out about me.

  `Well . .

  I hesitated.

  She giggled. 'We're picking up a hundred and thirty war brides' mothers in Montreal. Not one much under seventy-five.'

  `That settles it. I'll join him. Will you bring a pair of Bells, please.'

  We were properly introduced, hand-shaking, smiling politely and sizing one another up in the usual kind of way. He was pleasant enough, a tall, rangy, bespectacled man, fogyish, lantern-jawed, with dark thinning hair and a worry line or two on his forehead. We didn't talk a great deal, just the usual mild arguments about who'd pay as glasses were replenished; the kind of argument that amounts really to keeping score. We had dinner after take-off from Dorval, Montreal, not talking much because it would have been difficult to make ourselves heard above all the grandmotherly pride and the negotiations about exchanging seats and who was to look at whose snapshots first. Then, smiling at the noise and each other, we tilted the seats back and slept until we flew out of. darkness into brilliant dawn sunlight above the clouds. When we woke up, we looked at each other sympathetically, both dry-mouthed from the whisky and I persuaded the shiny-haired girl to bring orange juice.

  `Where are you going?' I asked after a while. The long day stretched ahead and he must be going somewhere. `Lapland.'

  Ìf I recall,' I said, 'National Geographic has done Lapland before.'

  He grinned. 'Three hundred and eighty-two times. But it's a lot of territory. You?'

  `Back to base.'

  `Where've you been?'

  I hesitated, then told him about Las Vegas. Not all of it; just that I'd been threatened and decided safety lay in flight.

  He raised his eyebrows. 'You must have crossed. somebody. The Mob's pretty sensitive.'

  Tut you're not surprised?'

  `Not any more. Times have changed. You know, we've got a thing called Trick or Treat. The kids play jokes on people, knock on doors and run away. Kind of a sacred custom,'

  right? People hand out candy and apples. Well, a little girl I know got an apple 'with a razor blade inside. Nothing surprises me any more. You were right to leave. Tell your boss I said so.'

  `Hope he'll believe it.'

  He laughed. 'Yeah. They never do. Who d'you work for?'

  So we talked shop, gently and companionably, as the VC10 started its slow run in from somewhere over Northern Ireland, then shared a cab into London from Heathrow. I went direct to the News building and up to Scown's office. Neither of his secretaries was there, but their coats were and voices could be heard faintly through the teak door. I put my suitcase down and sat down to wait. About ten minutes later the editor, Rowlands, came out looking worried, with the shreds of that day's paper in mournful hands. Not that that was in any way remarkable. Three hundred people sweated sixteen hours to put it together; Scown tore it apart in ten minutes of choice phraseology. Then the operation began again, six days a week. Rowlands glanced at me, shrugged, and gave a thin grin as he went by. But Scown must have seen me through the doorway, because a moment later Secretary Two appeared. 'Mr Scown would like to see you now, Mr Sellers.

  '

  I swallowed and rose. Just a few hours earlier I'd been cringing, exhausted and terrified, in the Valley of Fire. My emotions, as I entered Scown's office were not dissimilar. The two secretaries exited slickly past me, getting out of range. The stiff quiff of white hair with the wave in it bristled up from his forehead and the cold blue eyes looked me over. `Well?'

  I told him. Briefly. He likes short sentences, Scown does. Then I waited for the blast. He said, 'Money up the spout. Good story lost.'

  I blinked. It was like being tapped with a feather when you're expecting to be hit by a bus. There'd be more to come.

  Surprisingly there wasn't. He said, 'Silly cow!" `Susannah. Yes, she is.'

  `Not her, you bloody idiot. Alison Hay.'

  Alsa! That phone call. Damn! I said, 'Why? What's she done?'

  He looked up at me for a moment and there was something in his eyes I hadn't seen befor
e. He said, 'Christ only knows. She's vanished,'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Òff the face of the bloody earth,' Scown said. He was staring at me angrily, but the anger wasn't for me.

  My whole body seemed to tighten, then shrivel.. Alsa? Vanished? Where?',I demanded.

  `She was in Gothenburg,' Scown was a Scot but the accent was usually neutral. At moments of stress he reverted a bit, and he was reverting now; the o of Gothenburg was contemptuously emphasized.

  `When?'

  `Night before last.' That was when she'd phoned me.

  Scown knew what he was telling me, and what I was feeling. Alsa was something special in several people's lives, including both of ours. Her father had been Scown's only real friend and Scown had worked him into an early grave by way of gratitude. But long before that Joe had plucked me off the Yorkshire Post and opened his kingdom and his home to me. Like his daughter, Joe Hay had been the special kind, with heavy emphasis on the word kind. Though there wasn't much humanity left in Scown, what trace there was had been directed at Alsa since Joe's death. But he had weird ways of showing it, like sending her to Russia.

  `What happened?'

  `She phoned me. When she got in from Moscow. She .was okay then. Night before, last, fairly late, she rang the local police.'

  `Why?'

  `She said . . He paused. 'It's bloody stupid. She told them she was in danger. Asked for help. When they got to her hotel, she'd gone. No message. Nothing.'

  Ànd nothing since?'

  No.' He exhaled hard through his nose in exasperation, nostrils widening. 'Not a bloody word.'

  `What do the police say?'

  `What do they ever say? Bugger all!'

  It was rare to see Scown looking and feeling helpless.

  Another time I might have enjoyed the sight; now, somehow, it underscored the nastiness. 'Who's over there?' `Nobody.'

  `Why not, for God's sake?'

  `Because the police said no. That's why.'

  Ànd you're supine? You just say "yes, inspector."' `Don't bloody well talk to me like that!'

  I stared at him, astonished that I'd done so already. All right then, I'd go on. I said, Àlsa Hay. Joe's daughter. And some copper says keep off and you do! Jesus Christ!'

  Scown was angry now, too. Those pale blue eyes were very hard. He said, 'That's how it is.'

  Not for long.' I turned and headed for the door. `Where d'you think you're going?'

  I said, 'Gothenburg,' over my shoulder and kept walking. He said 'No!' The familiar monosyllable with the familiar sound, like a steel shutter dropping. At the door I turned angrily. 'There are two secretaries out there,' I said. 'One of them can type out my resignation.'

  `Come here.' He sat behind his big desk like a not too-quiescent volcano. The habit of obedience to Scown was strong, but this time not strong enough. I didn't reply, just reached for the door handle.

  Behind me Scown said, 'We're warned off.'

  That stopped me. I turned to face him.

  `By whom?'

  He stood up suddenly, prowled over to the big floor-toceiling picture window, and stared coldly at the dome of St Paul's. 'Official circles.'

  I set off back across the carpet. 'Which ones?'

  `Big ones.'

  Ànd you're —'

  Ì'm doing as I'm bloody well told. I don't like it either.' Òtherwise you don't get your knighthood!'

  He swung round at me, furious, but for once I got in first I said. 'The resignation stands. You do what you like. If you think you're bound, you're bound. But you don't bind me. Not where Alsa's concerned.'

  Àccepted!' He was boiling. But he was also Scown. was outside dictating the letter of resignation to Secretary One when the door opened again and he said mildly, 'Come back in, John. You'd better know.'

  I followed him and waited.

  He said, 'She told me something on the phone. When she

  left Moscow there was some kind of panic. They stopped her and searched her stuff. Very polite and proper, she said.' I went suddenly cold. 'She was carrying something?' He shook his head.

  `She thought it was just funny. She'd got a pile of pictures and a lot of them were transparencies. The Russians said they thought she'd picked up the front cover of one of their magazines by mistake.'

  Ànd had she?'

  `She said not.'

  Òfficial circles,' I said angrily, 'means MI6 or somebody, doesn't it? You let them use her?'

  He didn't reply. Instead he walked to the wall, slid back a teak panel, opened a safe and took out two bundles. He always has a pile of tip-off money to hand. 'Here's five hundred. Let me know.'

  There wasn't much information to be had, but I got what there was. She'd been staying at a hotel called the Scanda, and the printers were an outfit called Strom Brothers who apparently did good-quality work reasonably cheaply. Scown was trying them out on this to see whether it worked out good and cheap; if it did he planned to switch one of the women's magazines there, because Sweden was relatively free of labour troubles and he'

  d been strike-bound twice in a year.

  After that I went back to my flat to collect a clean shirt or two and ring SAS. The next flight was a nonstop, just before five, which would do nicely, and it left me time to nip round to the bank the Daily News used and turn some of Scown's five hundred into kroner.

  I landed in Gothenburg around six-thirty and took a cab to the Scanda, a straightforward modern rectangle of the type that adds nothing to the character of any city and very little to the pleasure of the visitor. I registered, went to my room, and sat down to think, which wasn't easy; I'd spent too many hours in aeroplanes for my head to be full of ideas, or indeed of anything but clogged cotton wool.

  The first problem was that Scown had been warned off and I didn't know whether the Swedes knew that. If they did, there'd be no help. On the other hand, there had to be some sensible basis for the questions I was going to ask. I decided, in the end, that the best place to begin was with the hotel staff. If there was a clamp on them, it would show fast enough.

  I went downstairs and into the square sideshoot that passes, in hotels like the Scanda, for a lounge, and ordered some coffee. The girl who brought it looked at me in a worried kind of way when I mentioned Alsa's name, and said that I should talk to the manager. The proffered kroner were accepted but unproductive. Simple enough; the staff weren't talking and my problem was clear: it was no good being unofficial. I went to reception and asked to see the manager.

  His name was Pederson and he was as neutrally modern as his hotel: a medium-sized Swede, the darker side of fair, with the kind of bland, smooth public face which kept his difficulties decently out of sight.

  `How may I help you, Mr Sellers?' He'd come to the counter. I said, 'Do you mind if we use your office?'

  Ìs it necessary?'

  Ì want to talk about Miss Hay, Alison Hay.'

  Àh. Of course. This way, please.' He had my registration slip in his hand and glanced at it quickly. I'd left the Business or Profession space blank. He sat me in an angular chair upholstered in. French

  mustard, then sat formally behind his desk, instead of taking my chair's partner. `May I ask who you are?'

  Ì'm a friend of Miss Hay's.'

  À journalist?'

  Às it happens, yes. But I'm not here as a journalist.' `You have some authorization?' he asked carefully. `Do I need any?'

  He shrugged. Ìt helps. Always it helps.' Then he smiled. `We are a slightly bureaucratic people, Mr Sellers.'

  So I showed him my passport, my Cable and Wireless card, _ my Press card and my Diner's Card. The Diner's Card seemed to impress him most. At least I existed and was credit worthy.

  He handed them back to me politely. 'I know so little. Miss Hay had a booking for ten days. She slept here one night. On the following night she apparently telephoned the police, said she was in grave danger and asked for immediate protection. The police sent a car without delay. When it arrived, she had gone.'
<
br />   `The phone call,' I asked. Was it made from the hotel?' Òh, yes.'

  `You're sure?'

  `Certainly. It was put through the hotel operator.' Àt what time?'

  Àt five minutes past eleven, I believe. The list can be checked if it is important.'

  `She didn't tell you she was in danger?'

  'No.'

  'Or any of the staff?'

  `What about her room. May I see it?'

  Ì'm sorry.' He shrugged again, but with a touch of irritation. 'The room is locked. Instructions from the police, you understand. If you get their permission, then naturally .

  .

  I said, Was there any commotion?'

  `No.'

  `What about her things. Were they disturbed?'

  `By the police, inevitably. They spent much time in the room.'

  `But there was no sign of a struggle?'

  He sighed a little. 'These are questions you must ask the police, Mr Sellers. I am simply the manager of a hotel. We prefer — '

  `Not to get involved?'

  `Naturally. No hotel likes these affairs. If I can help, naturally I will. But I have told you all that I know. I really think you should talk to the police now.'

  I nodded. 'I will, Mr Pederson. Thanks.'

  He showed me out with the same neutral courtesy, trying to mask his distaste for the whole business, but it showed all the same.

  Òne more thing,' I said. 'She tried to phone me that night. I'd like to know what time that was.'

  Òf course. I will ask the telephonist.'

  I learned that Alsa had made, or tried to make, three phone calls that night. The first was to London, to the Daily News, but not presumably to Scown or he'd have mentioned it. The second was to me, the third to the police. It seemed likely she'd rung London to find out where I was, tried to reach me and finally, nearly three hours later, she'd called the police. What had happened in those three hours?

  I'd have to get on to the police. I went up to my room intending to ring them but changed my mind and decided to go in person. d was putting on a raincoat when the phone rang. An Inspector Schmid was downstairs and would like to see me. I told them to send him up, removed my mac and waited. Pederson had clearly called the police the moment I'd gone.