by Jack Gerson
'Damn it, woman, I'm supposed to be psychic. I'm supposed to be a "sensitive". Everything in me says I have to see a man in London. Now, will you come with me?'
'Tom, I've got a pile of work! Tests unfinished, two new programmes to outline from the biophysical viewpoint, reports from investigations in Dumbarton to correlate, and God knows what else...' Her voice faltered breathlessly for a moment, then she went on, with a change of tone. 'All right, damn it, I'll come with you though I don't know why!'
An hour later Crane was sitting in Anne's living room, a second coffee in his hand and an irritable female biophysicist in front of him.
'I must be mad,' Anne protested. 'I don't know what made me agree to go with you...'
'Sit down and listen,' Crane said, putting as much authority in his voice as he could summon.
After another lesser protest she finally sat down and he related to her in detail all that Qliphant had said on the telephone. When he had finished there was another brief silence.
Finally Anne frowned and looked up at him.
'You believe him?' she asked.
'I hadn't thought about it until last night. But it could be possible, I suppose.'
Anne took a deep breath. 'It could be.'
Crane returned her look. 'You know something. Tell me.'
'I'm honestly not sure. Julia was in charge of a special computer in London. Everything the Department learned in every investigation was fed into that computer.'
'So?'
'So the computer is the single most valuable piece of machinery in Department Seven. If we want any information, any previous case history, any... discovery, we have to ask our section head... here in Edinburgh, that's Martin-dale... for permission to put through a request for computer information. Before we can get what we want then the request must be OK'd by Scott-Erskine. Or one of his top people in London.'
'Sounds like a reasonable procedure.'
'Yes, but you see it means very few people have access to the full computer material. Even Martindale has only a limited access. Certain areas of the computer are top secret.'
Crane scratched his head, puzzled. 'What are you trying to. tell me?'
'Don't you see, Tom, if Drexel or anyone was looking for a way into the mind of that computer, Julia was one way.'
'But Drexel had no interest in Department Seven or its computer files.'
'We don't know that for sure, do we?'
'You mean, if Drexel was after information collected by the Department, he might have gone for Julia..?'
'It's possible. Not long ago... oh, a few months before you joined us there was a tightening up in all requests for information submitted to the computer. They said at the time it was to lessen the burden on the computer operators. Too many trivial requests.'
'Sounds reasonable.'
'But there weren't too many requests. God, Tom, we're all professionals at our own trade in this game. None of us would call on the computer unless the information we needed was vital to whatever project we were on at the time. I was annoyed and I said so to Roy. He was very cagey but he told me not to worry about it. If I needed information, just ask. He said something about there being a mild panic at the possibility of information being leaked. In London, that is. And it was information held in the computer.'
'You're not trying to say Julia was involved in the leakage?' Crane felt indignation rising within him.
'No, I'm not. I spoke to Julia briefly when I was in London on a flying visit. She was as puzzled as I was.'
'Then what are you saying?'
Anne took a mouthful of coffee and stared thoughtfully at him.
'I don't know, Tom. It was just... just that Julia said something... she said, if they didn't find out soon whether there was a leakage of information, she would find out herself. And she had the way to do it.'
'How?'
'She said... she said, she would ask the computer!'
Crane took out a cigarette, lit it and sat back. He shrugged almost hopelessly.
'I don't know a damn thing about computers but... could she do that?'
'That computer is like a sophisticated brain,' Anne replied. 'And Julia knew every turn, every convolution, every piece of circuitry in that brain. Whether she could do it or not, I don't know. And if she could I don't know whether she tried or not.'
Anne rose to her feet. 'You're right,' she went on. 'We're going to London now. Your car or mine?'
They took Crane's car.
Three hours later, on the motorway, Crane said, 'You're not worried about Martindale and going to Orkney?'
Anne was lying back in the seat next to him, eyes half-shut. 'Not if what, your friend says is true. But when we get to London I think we should see Scott-Erskine.'
'Why?'
'He'll confirm as to whether or not there was a leakage of information.'
'But will he? After all we're just the workers. Maybe he won't want the hired help to know what's going on.'
Anne stirred restlessly in her seat. 'Tom, I sometimes think you don't trust anybody in Department Seven.'
'Present company excepted,' he assured her. 'Actually, I feel nobody in Department Seven trusts me.'
'Present company excepted, I hope,' she replied with a small smile. 'Anyway when you get to know him you'll find Scott-Erskine is rather a nice man.'
Crane gave a mock shudder. 'Heaven protect me from "nice" men. I suppose you'll say the same about Martin-dale?'
Yes. Roy's all right. I sometimes think he fancies me.
And he considers all other males in the Department as a threat.'
'Are they?'
She laughed aloud. 'Maybe. I'm a single girl, after all. On the loose. The perfect professional predatory female. Trouble is I'm too busy to do anything about it.'
She was silent for a moment, and then went on more seriously. 'He did propose to me once.' 'You turned him down?'
'I said I wasn't ready for marriage.' She laughed again. 'That's a joke. Ready? I'm practically past it.'
'Don't sell yourself short, Anne,' Crane said quietly. She gave him a quizzical, sidelong glance but said nothing.
'What happened to Mrs Martindale?' he went on. 'She left him. Years ago. He doesn't talk about it. I think she ran off with someone. Anyway it's made him highly suspicious.' 'Even of me?'
Anne frowned. 'You don't come into it. At least not until your wounds are healed. And when your wife was someone like Julia the wounds never really heal.'
It was Crane's turn to be silent. It was true, he thought, he would never really get over Julia's death. Or would he? Emotionally he had felt empty since her death and yet in growing to rely on Anne, he wondered if something else was happening to him. He was fond of Anne, he could admit that to himself, but in his mind she was still Julia's best friend, a pal, a nice concerned woman; the concern relating to him and his sorrow. And yet, if he was honest with himself there was a growing attraction within him for this pleasant, efficient girl with the sad dark eyes.
He tried to dismiss the thought. They were going to London to see Oliphant and find out the truth of Julia's death. That was all that was important now. Anything else was in the future.
If there was a future. Oliphant's elephantine figure came back into his mind and suddenly he felt cold, very cold, ice in his veins. Something was wrong. And it was to do with Oliphant.
Oliphant. Coldness. And fear.
He knew then he was afraid of what he would find in London.
ELEVEN
Scott-Erskine stared at them from behind his desk.
'I'm not sure I approve of your coming to London,' he said.
Crane had not wanted to come to Scott-Erskine's office but Anne had insisted. If there was any truth in the story of leakages of information, Scott-Erskine would know. But whether he would tell them or not was another matter.
He did tell them.
'For your ears only,' he stated, as if reading from some civil service manual. 'We had reason to believe informa
tion gathered by the Department was being leaked to other parties. We couldn't be sure of this and all we could do was tighten up procedures regarding the computer.'
'Who are the other parties?' Crane inquired.
Scott-Erskine stirred restlessly behind his desk. His fingers flicked impatiently along the edge of the desk as if he was dispersing particles of dust.
'If we knew that, our task might have been simpler. We simply gathered from information picked up by Intelligence people that some of our more interesting findings had leaked to certain people both in this country and overseas.'
'What kind of findings?' Crane asked. Anne frowned across the room at him.
Scott-Erskine hesitated.
Crane went on. 'We do work for you, remember? We are part of Department Seven...'
'Certain matters need top-secret clearance. Neither of you are quite in that category,' the older man replied pedantically. 'However I can tell you this. Some early experiments in ESP and psycho-kinesis were considered major breakthroughs. We found that with some subjects we were able to control and direct their psychic abilities.' Anne broke in. We haven't heard about this.' 'Our Cambridge unit made these breakthroughs. We are hoping that in time other units would achieve the same results with certain sensitives,' Scott-Erskine explained with a fleeting glance in Crane's direction. 'You see, if we can control and direct the abilities of "sensitives" we open up a vast area of possibility. Spying and espionage practice as we know it becomes outdated. If we can direct the powers of a psychic to a certain destination no country could ever be sure its military and political secrets would be safe.'
The severity of his expression changed. He smiled a tight smile and gave an awkward shrug.
'Of course this is all in the future. We're only at the edge of a vast undiscovered country,' he continued. 'And there are other areas where we are finding interesting examples of the power of the mind. But certainly some of our results seemed to be getting out. We investigated everyone involved, including the subjects, the sensitives. Everyone was cleared of any suspicion of passing information. That left us with the possibility that someone was getting at all the data stored in the computer.'
He stopped and turned to stare directly at Crane.
'Your wife was cleared of all suspicion,' he uttered the words with conviction. 'But that left us with the thought that one of our top people with full access to the computer was actually a traitor. We've never found any proof that this was so. Of course it's possible that someone else has conducted their own experiments and come to similar results. But I doubt this.'
Scott-Erskine suddenly stood up. 'Go and see your friend Oliphant, Tom. If Julia was killed because she had found something relating to her work on the computer, I'd like to know about it.'
Scott-Erskine's rise to his feet had been an indication that their interview was over. Anne shot Crane a look as if to say, I told you so, he's a nice understanding man. Crane replied with an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.
Walking them to the door of his office, Scott-Erskine faced them.
'I'll cover up for you with Roy Martindale. Tell him I asked you to come down to see me. But in future any assignment you are put on should be adhered to.'
Crane felt a mild indignation. 'I didn't know when I was recruited into the Department that it would be like joining the army.'
The older man patted his shoulder with an avuncular gesture.
"Not in the least like that, Tom. But in an organisation one has to do what one is told. Otherwise you'd get administrative anarchy. And that would make for great untidiness. Let me know how you get on.'
They drove from Scott-Erskine's office in Whitehall to Crane's flat.
'There are two very comfortable bedrooms lying empty. And yours has a good lock on the inside,' he assured Anne with a degree of flippancy he hadn't used since Julia's death.
'I trust you,' she replied in similar vein adding impishly, Damn it, I wish I didn't.'
An hour later over the remains of salt beef sandwiches, latkes and various supporting items purchased at a late-night delicatessen they sat in Crane's living room in a silence Anne attributed to Crane's being back again in the home he had shared for so long with Julia.
Crane finally broke the silence.
'I can take it now.'
'What?' she asked, knowing the answer.
Tieing here. In my flat. In Julia's flat.'
He produced the remains of a bottle of malt whisky and poured two drinks.
'There's a Jewish toast seems appropriate just now,' he said. 'L'chayim! To life!'
Anne smiled and they drank. She could feel now that, almost visibly, Tom Crane was casting aside his mourning, his proximity to death. He was coming back.
He seemed to pick up her thoughts. 'I'm feeling like living again but I haven't forgotten one thing. Drexel.'
He went over to the telephone, lifted the receiver, and gave a slight, deprecating smile. 'I didn't have the phone cut off. Couldn't bear to. Seemed almost as final as... as the funeral.'
He dialled a number and muttered ah explanation. 'I'm trying Oliphant. We'll go and see him tomorrow morning.'
Anne leant hack in the deep comfortable armchair, tumbler of whisky in one hand and the other caressing the side of the glass. She could hear the ringing out of the telephone on the other end of the line. Then it stopped as the distant receiver was lifted.
'Hello! Oliphant, this is Tom Crane.'
There was no sound at the end of the line. Then without warning, Crane stiffened, his body becoming tense, his face paled.
'What's the matter, Tom?' Anne asked, suddenly afraid.
'I... I don't know,' he replied, his left hand coming up to his face and making as if to brush away some unseen irritation. 'I just saw something then. I'm still seeing it.'
Anne was on her feet. 'What is it?' She crossed to his side.
Crane swayed slightly and she caught his hand. It was ice-cold.
'It's very dark,' he said. 'At the other end of the line. Dark and cold and yet there's a growing heat.'
Taking the phone from his hand Anne spoke down the receiver.
'Hello, Mr Oliphant?' Her voice was trembling. 'I'm speaking for Tom Crane.'
The initial silence was deep and without even the occasional crackle from the telephone line. Then Anne became aware of another sound, a sliding, shuffling suggestion of a sound.
'Hello!' she demanded again. 'Is there anyone there?'
'He's there all right,' Crane said, his eyes staring into nothingness. 'I can see him there.'
The sound at the other end of the line changed. Now Anne could hear breathing, deep, long, desperate breaths; those of a man struggling to fill his lungs with air against some unknown obstacle.
'Please say something, Mr Oliphant!' Anne demanded and instantly knew how ridiculous the demand was. The breathing was changing to a frantic gasping sound. She looked up at Crane standing staring as before. Then she looked back at the receiver and, making a decision, she slammed the receiver back on to its holder.
Crane reacted at once. His head jerked up and the glazed look vanished from his eyes.
'For God's sake!' he gasped. 'What happened?'
'You were receiving an image, Tom. I've seen psychics receiving before. What was it?'
Crane shook his head as if to clear it. 'I don't know. I dialled Oliphant's number and then I heard someone lift the receiver and then everything went black. No, I didn't black out. It was like darkness and things in the darkness, crawling creeping things...'
He faltered, rubbed his eyes and took a pull from his tumbler of whisky.
'Anne,' he went on. 'Whatever was there was burning hot.'
'I heard breathing,' Anne said.
'An attempt to breathe. An effort to breathe.' He stared at her, wide-eyed. 'And heat. Great heat.'
'Afire?'
'No!' he was emphatic. 'No fire. Heat without fire. I don't understand.'
Anne made a decision.
The cool night air had its effect on Crane. The vagueness vanished. Behind the wheel of the car he was back to normal but filled with curiosity.
'I did receive something. I wasn't expecting it, or ready for it. I must admit it frightened me,' he explained and smiled wryly. 'Must have sounded like a kid talking about crawling creeping things.'
'You sounded terrified.'
Crane looked thoughtful. 'It was like soft but solid shapes in blackness, slithering about. There! I'm away again.'
They drove through the dead night-city of London and into Floodgate and the East End. Crane had Oliphant's address in his diary and although he had never been there before he drove unerringly to the right street.
The tenement was of nineteen-thirties vintage with all the concomitant architectural ghastliness of the period. Stucco peeled to show red brick and the entry led to small terraces on each storey, the doors to the flats lining the terraces. Oliphant lived two storeys up and his front door needed painting badly.
Anne rang the bell and they could hear the chiming of it echoing from somewhere behind the door. They waited. Nothing happened. Anne rang the bell again. Still nothing. She frowned and was about to ring again when Crane leaned forward and pushed the door. It swung open.
'Wasn't properly closed,' he said.
'I just hope we aren't going through another experience like the room in Fellgate where we found the Christie woman,' Anne replied as they stepped into a tiny dark hall.
Crane said nothing more. He groped in the darkness and found a light switch. He switched it on. Nothing. A dead bulb. In the dim light from the open door he saw the outline of two doors. He opened the one to his right, again found a light switch and this time flooded a small square room with light. It was a bedroom and contained, indeed only had room for, a large bed. The bed was unmade, and not too clean. Bedraggled sheets were entwined with greying blankets and both formed ridges and small hillocks over the surface of the bed.
'Tom!' Anne whispered from the hall. 'There's a light coming from under the other door.'
Crane came back into the hall and moved towards the other door. As he reached it his nose was assailed by an unpleasant odour, a combination of dampness, decay and human sweat. He choked back a feeling of nausea, as he heard Anne, behind him, draw a quick breath.
