Operation Destruct

by Christopher Nicole

  “You have got to be joking,” Jonathan said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t joke about murder, Mr. Anders,” Sergeant Miller said grimly. “That was a telephone call from the Station. They want me back there right away. And you, sir.”

  “Great screaming carrion crows,” Clark said. “But you can’t really suppose Jon had anything to do with it? We were with him all afternoon.”

  “Is that so? Then you’ll be the American gentleman, Mr. Bridges? I think you’d better come down to the Station as well, sir.” He raised his hand. “And it would be wisest if nobody said anything more until we get there.”

  Clark gazed at Jonathan, an expression of bewildered frustration on his face. But Jonathan had already come to a decision. There was only one possible way to play this particular game, now; it was like watching the other chap building up a massive attack which, once ready, would be unstoppable. “We’d better do as the sergeant says, Clark.”

  “But listen, I have those seats you wanted, and it’s ten after seven already. We have to be there by eight.”

  “I’m sure the sergeant won’t keep us long when we’ve explained everything. You and Helen follow us in your car. You’ve no objection, Mr. Miller?”

  The sergeant hesitated. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in that, Mr. Anders. You’ll stay close behind us, mind, Mr. Bridges.”

  “Of all the things to happen,” said Mrs. Constant. “Whatever am I going to tell the rest of my guests?”

  “I’d tell them nothing at all, if I were you,” said the sergeant. “And you’d better give me the key to Mr. Anders’ room, for the time being.” He went down the steps.

  Helen peered at them from the window of the Mini. “Whatever’s happening?”

  “I’m afraid our date is going to be slightly delayed.” Jonathan squeezed her hand. “Clark will explain.” He got into the police car beside the sergeant. “They really were with me every moment until I got back to Oceanview.”

  “Oh, I believe that, Mr. Anders.” The sergeant turned out of the yard. “And they were with you out at the wreck this afternoon, too, you said. Old friends of yours, are they?”

  “I told you, we met on the plane this morning. They’re journalists.”

  “And what exactly are you?”

  Jonathan sighed. “Shouldn’t you be cautioning me, about now?” He watched the road unfolding itself in front of them. They were passing a succession of bungalows, each a blaze of lights. It was suppertime in Guernsey. But this surely meant the roads would be less busy than usual, and thanks to the low cloud and the drizzling rain the night was already very dark. He tried to visualize the road into town, to decide where it would be at its emptiest, its street lamps fewest.

  “I’ll caution you at the Station, Mr. Anders. But I thought you wanted this opportunity to have an informal chat. Might do us both a bit of good. You don’t look a violent sort of chap to me. Now that American, well . . .” He glanced in his driving mirror to make sure the Bridges’ car was behind them, slowed. “Shall I tell you how I see things? Of course that wreck aroused a lot of interest. Because she’s Russian. So we had a dozen reporters here on Friday. It was still too rough for them to risk diving, but they crawled all over the place, took photographs, made themselves a nuisance down at the Station. They wanted to get into the morgue, film the dead men, talk to the Russian Embassy chap who’s in town. But it was only a storm in a teacup. She was a trawler who managed to get herself off course, and in these waters once you do that your number is up. Heck, we get a big ship on those reefs at least once a year. So those reporters all pulled out last night. But what happens this morning? You arrive, and your friend Alex arrives, and your other friends the Bridges arrive, like a lot of vultures, if you’ll excuse the simile.”

  “It’s very apt.”

  “And you’re no reporter, Mr. Anders. Neither are your friends, in my opinion. You haven’t been near the Police Station or the morgue. You just wanted to dive. That’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think—that four people arriving in Guernsey on the same day should head straight for the wreck?”

  “I met the Bridges on the plane,” Jonathan repeated. “And you’ve no evidence that Alex arrived today.”

  “Nobody remembers seeing him around before today. This is a small island.”

  “He was staying with Enwright, I should think.”

  “Maybe he was. Maybe Enwright would be able to put everything right, Mr. Anders. But he hasn’t been able to, has he? He hasn’t been allowed to.”

  “I think it would help matters if you told me what happened to him.” Jonathan put his right hand in his jacket pocket, wrapped his fingers round the pencil flashlight. He wondered if it would stand up to what he intended. “At least tell me where he was found.”

  “You mean you don’t remember?”

  “I mean I don’t know.”

  “Have it your own way. Ted Enwright was shot through the back of the head, at a very close range, with what I’m told was a small-caliber automatic pistol or revolver. My boys aren’t experts who can identify a gun offhand from a look at the wound. We don’t have many shootings in Guernsey. We don’t have many pistols, as a matter of fact. When we find the murder weapon it won’t take us long to unearth the owner. Enwright was sitting at the wheel of his van when he was shot, obviously by someone concealed in the back. But we’re pretty sure the fellow was there at Enwright’s invitation. And as if we needed anything more, the van was parked on a headland overlooking Perelle Bay. In other words, he drove away from the bay at full speed, with you and that American couple in pursuit, and was back again in half an hour. Having accumulated someone, or maybe been overtaken by someone, who made him go back. And that someone killed him, Mr. Anders.”

  Jonathan’s mind filled with a picture of Anna Cantelna crouching in the back of the van, her pistol in her hand, talking reassuringly to Enwright the whole time, in that soft, half whisper of hers, choosing her moment to lean forward and press the barrel against the back of Enwright’s skull, no doubt calm and thoughtful, and even compassionate, determined to complete her unpleasant but necessary task with a single shot. He wondered if she had already made up her mind to eliminate Enwright when she had sat at the desk writing that note, with those careful, precise strokes of the pen, or if the decision had not been taken until they met. He wondered why it had become necessary at all? Probably because Enwright had lost his head completely and threatened to blow the whole affair. But whatever the reason, she had made an instantaneous decision and carried it out without hesitation. And what had she done then? Returned to the road and hailed a passing car and asked for a lift to the airport. A pretty woman whose car had broken down. She would have made someone’s evening.

  In every possible way she was years ahead of him. But understanding this only made him the more determined to catch up with her. If he didn’t, he thought he might as well hand Craufurd his resignation right there on the spot.

  “Gets to you, don’t it?” remarked Sergeant Miller.

  They passed a last bungalow, and the road was suddenly empty, bordered by a six-foot-high granite wall. In front of them, at the foot of a gentle hill, were more lights. Those were the outskirts of St. Peter Port. It had to be now or it would be never.

  “I feel sick,” Jonathan said. “Could you stop for a moment?”

  “Eh?” The sergeant rolled down his window to signal that he was stopping. “You serious?”

  Jonathan listened to the squealing of brakes as Clark pulled in behind them. He tightened his grip on the pencil torch, took his hand from his pocket, made as if to open his door, and turned, throwing his fist forward with every ounce of his weight.

  *

  The punch took Sergeant Miller on the very point of the jaw. Jonathan’s fingers crumpled beneath the impact, flattening on the flashlight; the jolt traveled up his arm and made his right shoulder nearly as painful as his left. The sergeant’s head went backward, struck the door; his eyes opened very wide and the
n slumped shut, and without a word he subsided behind the wheel.

  “Why’d we stop?” Clark Bridges thrust his head through the window. “What happened to him, for Pete’s sake?”

  “I hit him.” Jonathan took the sergeant’s handkerchief from his pocket, forced the unconscious jaws apart, crammed the handkerchief in, secured it with the policeman’s tie. He was becoming an expert. From chess master to master criminal in one easy lesson. He took off his own tie to secure Miller’s wrists. “I’ll need another.”

  “I figured you had something up your sleeve,” Clark said. “But this is a bit much. You can’t go around slugging policemen whenever you feel like it.” There was a note of admiration in his voice.

  “He was going to book us on suspicion of a joint murder. Or at least hold us down at the Station for a while.”

  Clark took off his tie, and Jonathan strapped the sergeant’s ankles together. “And you don’t think you may have given him just a little bit more evidence against us?”

  Helen got out of the Mini and came over. “Whatever’s happening? Oh, my God! Jonathan?”

  “If you two really intend to help me, you have to play my way. There’s only one thing matters now, and that’s Anna Cantelna.”

  “But I don’t see what you hope to achieve,” Helen cried. “She took off maybe an hour ago. She could have gone anywhere. And now we’re really in Dutch.”

  “There’s a car coming,” Clark hissed.

  Headlights filled the road at the top of the hill. “Quick!” Jonathan snapped. He pushed Miller well down in the seat, took out the sergeant’s notebook, handed it to Clark. Helen ran back to the Mini, leaned against the door, looked disconsolate. Clark stood with his back to the road, wrote busily in the book. The approaching car slowed, then accelerated again and disappeared.

  “Ay, ay-ay,” Helen said. “Why’d you do that, Clark?”

  “I don’t know. Why’d you?”

  “Well, having done it, you may as well help me get him out,” Jonathan said.

  “Just one moment, old son,” Clark said. “Helen’s right, you know. Forgetting about your girl friend for the moment, it takes an hour to fly to London, even supposing we still catch that plane. I’d say it’s even money that after this little caper there’s going to be a posse waiting for us when we land.”

  “We won’t take off at all if we just stand here chattering,” Jonathan said. “Give me a shoulder.”

  Clark hesitated, glanced at his sister, then sighed and thrust his shoulder under Jonathan’s thigh. He straightened without any apparent effort, lifting Jonathan easily to the top of the wall. Jonathan straddled the granite, looked down on a vacant lot, smothered in grass and weeds, backing a property some two hundred yards away.

  “This is just fine. Hand the sergeant up, will you.”

  Helen and Clark gazed at each other.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Jonathan said. “An old English saying.”

  “I suppose he’s right,” Helen said. She pulled the sergeant from the car, and Clark lifted the big man up, again without any effort. Between the three of them they draped him over the wall, and then slowly, muscles straining, Jonathan lowered him on the other side. After what seemed an eternity his feet touched the ground, and Jonathan let him go. The sergeant slid down the wall, sat on the ground, and fell over.

  Jonathan jumped down on the road side. “By tomorrow morning at the latest he’ll have got himself free.”

  “I still don’t see . . .” Clark said.

  “Just stay close behind me.” Jonathan got behind the wheel of the police car.

  “And we’d better hurry,” Helen said. “It’s twenty past.”

  Jonathan put the Austin into gear, eased it down the street, swung at the first side road, and headed back out of town, toward the airport. He would have preferred to dump the police car in the other direction, but there simply wasn’t enough time. To miss the flight after all this would be absurd.

  The radio on the dashboard crackled. “Desk calling Car Three. Desk calling Car Three. Come in, sergeant.”

  Jonathan drove as fast as he dared, watching the lights of the Mini glowing behind him. The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained low; the streets were gleaming and slippery.

  “Desk calling Car Three. Desk calling Car Three.” There was a note of concern in the voice now. “Please give us your position, Sergeant Miller.”

  Jonathan turned down a narrow country lane, found an opening in the hedge in front of him; he could see the airport approach lights at the top of the next hill. He swung hard left, sent the police car bumping into a plowed field, got out, and ran back to the road. The Mini waited, windshield wipers purring gently. Helen opened the door for him.

  “Now, saying they take an hour to find the car, I figure they’ll need another hour at the least to find the sergeant. And they still won’t know for sure where we’ve gone.”

  “Had it all worked out, eh?” Clark demanded. “You have an idea what the rap is for pinching a police car and assaulting the driver in the execution of his duty? I think we all need our heads examined.”

  “Helen?” Jonathan asked.

  She hesitated, then smiled and shrugged. “I always figured an article on the inside of London’s Holloway Prison might sell.” She looked at her watch. “We can just make that flight, if you step on it.”

  *

  Clark Bridges peered through the window at the cloud-filled night. The wind was still brisk, and the Viscount bumped as it climbed. Guernsey was already lost to view beneath them. “Here today and gone tomorrow,” he said sadly. “In fact, here today and gone today. That was the shortest holiday I ever had in my life. I figure champagne is the only possible drink in a situation like this.” He winked at the stewardess. “Can we have three quarter-bottles?”

  “Three champagnes, sir. I’ll just make sure we’ve some on ice.”

  “What time do we land?” Jonathan asked.

  “Nine-twenty-five, sir, at Heathrow.”

  “And the weather?” Helen asked.

  “I believe it’s about the same as here. Some mist and low cloud.”

  “Suppose we can’t get in at Heathrow? We don’t go back to Guernsey, do we?”

  “Oh, no, madam.” The girl smiled reassuringly. “We’ll divert to Gatwick or Stansted. Either way you’ll be in Central London by ten-thirty. I’ll just get your drinks, shall I?”

  “Think they’ve found the car yet?” Clark asked.

  “I doubt it,” Jonathan said. “All Mrs. Constant will be able to tell them is that we left for the Station at five after seven. I imagine they’ll find it easier to trace your hired car than to find their own.”

  “You’re an optimist,” Clark said. “Five minutes after they work out that we’ve got away they’ll be on the radio to this plane. Expect the captain through that door any moment, complete with three pairs of handcuffs.”

  “Would he do that?” Helen asked seriously. “I imagine he’d wait until we land, so as not to upset the rest of the passengers.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Jonathan said, “we’d better buckle down to a serious chat about what we do when we land.”

  “Your champagne, sir.” The stewardess set the three bottles in front of them.

  Clark poured. “Here’s to us. I was wondering when you’d get around to that. I’ve an idea that in some mysterious fashion you’re expecting Madam Cantelna to be waiting for us. I suppose you’re claiming she did in Enwright?”

  “I’m afraid it looks like it.”

  “Sounds like the sort of dame to avoid, if you ask me. What’s so special about her, anyway?”

  “Her name is Anna Cantelna, and she’s one of the most important scientists in the world. Didn’t Helen tell you about that laboratory we found in the trawler’s hold?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Well, then, she must also have told you there were several cases containing that liquid she sampled. You still have my bottle?”

/>   Helen patted the overnight bag.

  “Well, so far as I can work it out, this is all part of some experiment the Russians were planning on carrying out in the North Atlantic. And it’s something so important and so secret they’re prepared to kill for it. Right?”

  “Right. And that being so, I can see your madam will want to make it to the Russian Embassy in London and hope they’ll be able to smuggle her out of the U.K. So what do you mean to do about that on your lonesome?”

  “I’m playing a hunch,” Jonathan confessed. “Something she let slip when she was interrogating me. She was starting to talk about the voyage, and she inadvertently mentioned that they had fitted out two trawlers. At least, I think that was what she was going to say. She caught herself immediately, and corrected to the Ludmilla. By itself that’s not much to go on, but in the house just now, her Guernsey friends mentioned Barra. You know, an island in the Outer Hebrides. So putting one and one together, and adding one more, that Madam Cantelna has one laboratory down in Sevastopol and one up north in Leningrad, it seems to me most likely that if there were two trawlers they left from opposite ends of the country, as part of the experiment was a detailed study of fish movements. That being so, the other ship, no doubt also containing a laboratory and a stock of that liquid, is probably knocking about the North Atlantic waiting to rendezvous with the Ludmilla. Barra is about as far into the North Atlantic as Madam Cantelna can get, before leaving the U.K.”

  “It’s a long, long shot.”

  “Maybe it is. But if we could always know what the other chap was doing, there’d be no need for people like me at all. In this business you just have to play hunches, follow your instincts, your understanding of people. Now from my brief acquaintance with Anna Cantelna, I’d say she’s just a little bit arrogant. She satisfied herself that I was sent to Guernsey to find out what happened on board the Ludmilla, but that I knew nothing at all about the experiment. True, I’ve now dived and must have seen the equipment, but it’ll take me a day or two to work everything out and get samples back to London. So why abandon something that obviously has cost the earth and necessitated a great deal of planning? She’d reckon that half an experiment would be better than no experiment at all.”