The man behind the desk moved a heavy glass paperweight four inches tothe right. His face was not so much thoughtful or abstracted as expression-less. He had the pale complexion1 that comes from living most of the day inartificial light. This man, you felt, was an indoor man. A man of desks andfiles. The fact that to reach his office you had to walk through long twist-ing underground corridors was somehow strangely appropriate. It wouldhave been difficult to guess his age. He looked neither old nor young. Hisface was smooth and unwrinkled, and in his eyes was a great tiredness.
The other man in the room was older. He was dark with a small militarymoustache. There was about him an alert nervous energy. Even now, un-able to sit still, he was pacing up and down, from time to time throwing offa remark in a jerky manner.
“Reports!” he said explosively. “Reports, reports and more reports, andnone of them any damn’ good!” The man at the desk looked down at thepapers in front of him. On top was an official card headed, “Betterton,Thomas Charles.” After the name was an interrogation mark. The man atthe desk nodded thoughtfully. He said:
“You’ve followed up these reports and none of them any good?” Theother shrugged2 his shoulders.
“How can one tell?” he asked.
The man behind the desk sighed.
“Yes,” he said, “there is that. One can’t tell, really.” The older man wenton with a kind of machine-gun volley abruptness3:
“Reports from Rome; reports from Touraine; seen on the Riviera; no-ticed in Antwerp; definitely identified in Oslo; positively4 seen in Biarritz;observed behaving suspiciously in Strasbourg; seen on the beach at Os-tend with a glamorous5 blonde; noticed walking in the streets in Brusselswith a greyhound! Hasn’t been seen yet in the Zoo with his arm round azebra, but I dare say that will come!”
“You’ve no particular fancy yourself, Wharton? Personally I had hopesof the Antwerp report, but it hasn’t led to anything. Of course by now—”
the young man stopped speaking and seemed to go into a coma6. Presentlyhe came out of it again and said cryptically7, “Yes, probably .?.?. and yet—Iwonder?”
Colonel Wharton sat down abruptly8 on the arm of a chair.
“But we’ve got to find out,” he said insistently9. “We’ve got to break theback of all this how and why and where? You can’t lose a tame scientistevery month or so and have no idea how they go or why they go or where!
Is it where we think—or isn’t it? We’ve always taken it for granted that itis, but now I’m not so sure. You’ve read all the last dope on Betterton fromAmerica?”
The man behind the desk nodded.
“Usual Left- Wing tendencies at the period when everyone had them.
Nothing of a lasting10 or permanent nature as far as can be found out. Didsound work before the war though nothing spectacular. When Mannheimescaped from Germany, Betterton was assigned as assistant to him, andended by marrying Mannheim’s daughter. After Mannheim’s death hecarried on, on his own, and did brilliant work. He leaped into fame withthe startling discovery of ZE Fission11. ZE Fission was a brilliant and abso-lutely revolutionary discovery. It put Betterton tops. He was all set for abrilliant career over there, but his wife had died soon after their marriageand he was all broken up over it. He came to England. He has been at Har-well for the last eighteen months. Just six months ago he married again.”
“Anything there?” asked Wharton sharply.
The other shook his head.
“Not that we can find out. She’s the daughter of a local solicitor12. Workedin an insurance office before her marriage. No violent political affinitiesso far as we’ve been able to discover.”
“ZE Fission,” said Colonel Wharton gloomily, with distaste. “What theymean by all these terms beats me. I’m old-fashioned. I never really evenvisualized a molecule13, but here they are nowadays splitting up the uni-verse! Atom bombs, nuclear fission, ZE fission, and all the rest of it. AndBetterton was one of the splitters in chief! What do they say of him at Har-well?”
“Quite a pleasant personality. As to his work, nothing outstanding orspectacular. Just variations on the practical applications of ZEF.”
Both men were silent for a moment. Their conversation had been des-ultory, almost automatic. The security reports lay in a pile on the desk andthe security reports had had nothing of value to tell.
“He was thoroughly14 screened on arrival here, of course,” said Wharton.
“Yes, everything was quite satisfactory.”
“Eighteen months ago,” said Wharton thoughtfully. “It gets ’em down,you know. Security precautions. The feeling of being perpetually underthe microscope, the cloistered15 life. They get nervy, queer. I’ve seen it oftenenough. They begin to dream of an ideal world. Freedom and brother-hood, and pool-all-secrets and work for the good of humanity! That’s ex-actly the moment when someone, who’s more or less the dregs of human-ity, sees their chance and takes it!” He rubbed his nose. “Nobody’s so gull-ible as the scientist,” he said. “All the phony mediums say so. Can’t quitesee why.”
The other smiled, a very tired smile.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “it would be so. They think they know, you see. That’salways dangerous. Now, our kind are different. We’re humble- mindedmen. We don’t expect to save the world, only pick up one or two brokenpieces and remove a spanner or two when it’s jamming up the works.” Hetapped thoughtfully on the table with his finger. “If I only knew a littlemore about Betterton,” he said. “Not his life and his actions, but the re-vealing, everyday things. What sort of jokes he laughed at. What madehim swear. Who were the people he admired and who made him mad.”
Wharton looked at him curiously16.
“What about the wife—you’ve tried her?”
“Several times.”
“Can’t she help?”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“She hasn’t so far.”
“You think she knows something?”
“She doesn’t admit, of course, that she knows anything. All the estab-lished reactions: worry, grief, desperate anxiety, no clue or suspicion be-forehand, husband’s life perfectly17 normal, no stress of any kind—and soon and so on. Her own theory is that he’s been kidnapped.”
“And you don’t believe her?”
“I’m handicapped,” said the man behind the desk bitterly. “I never be-lieve anybody.”
“Well,” said Wharton slowly, “I suppose one has to keep an open mind.
What’s she like?”
“Ordinary sort of woman you’d meet any day playing bridge.”
Wharton nodded comprehendingly.
“That makes it more difficult,” he said.
“She’s here to see me now. We shall go over all the same ground again.”
“It’s the only way,” said Wharton. “I couldn’t do it, though. Haven’t gotthe patience.” He got up. “Well, I won’t keep you. We’ve not got much fur-ther, have we?”
“Unfortunately, no. You might do a special check-up on that Oslo report.
It’s a likely spot.”
Wharton nodded and went out. The other man raised the receiver by hiselbow and said:
“I’ll see Mrs. Betterton now. Send her in.”
He sat staring into space until there was a tap on the door and Mrs. Bet-terton was shown in. She was a tall woman, about twenty-seven years ofage. The most noticeable thing about her was a magnificent head of au-burn-red hair. Beneath the splendour of this, her face seemed almost in-significant. She had the blue-green eyes and light eyelashes that so oftengo with red hair. She was wearing no make-up, he noticed. He consideredthe significance of that whilst he was greeting her, settling her comfort-ably in a chair near the desk. It inclined him very slightly to the belief thatMrs. Betterton knew more than she had said she knew.
In his experience, women suffering from violent grief and anxiety didnot neglect their make-up. Aware of the ravages18 grief made in their ap-pearance, they did their best to repair those ravages. He wondered if Mrs.
Betterton calculatingly abstained19 from make-up, the better to sustain thepart of the distracted wife. She said now, rather breathlessly:
“Oh, Mr. Jessop, I do hope—is there any news?”
He shook his head and said gently:
“I’m so sorry to ask you to come up like this, Mrs. Betterton. I’m afraidwe haven’t got any definite news for you.”
Olive Betterton said quickly:
“I know. You said so in your letter. But I wondered if—since then—oh! Iwas glad to come up. Just sitting at home wondering and brooding—that’sthe worst of it all. Because there’s nothing one can do!”
The man called Jessop said soothingly20:
“You mustn’t mind, Mrs. Betterton, if I go over the same ground againand again, ask you the same questions, stress the same points. You see it’salways possible that some small point might arise. Something that youhadn’t thought of before, or perhaps hadn’t thought worth mentioning.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand. Ask me all over again about everything.”
“The last time you saw your husband was on the 23rd of August?”
“Yes.”
“That was when he left England to go to Paris to a Conference there.”
“Yes.”
Jessop went on rapidly:
“He attended the first two days of the Conference. The third day he didnot turn up. Apparently21 he had mentioned to one of his colleagues that hewas going instead for a trip on a bateau mouche that day.”
“A bateau mouche? What’s a bateau mouche?”
Jessop smiled.
“One of those small boats that go along the Seine.” He looked at hersharply. “Does that strike you as unlike your husband?”
She said doubtfully:
“It does, rather. I should have thought he’d be so keen on what was go-ing on at the Conference.”
“Possibly. Still the subject for discussion on this particular day was notone in which he had any special interest, so he might reasonably havegiven himself a day off. But it doesn’t strike you as being quite like yourhusband?”
She shook her head.
“He did not return that evening to his hotel,” went on Jessop. “As far ascan be ascertained22 he did not pass any frontier, certainly not on his ownpassport. Do you think he could have had a second passport, in anothername perhaps?”
“Oh, no, why should he?”
He watched her.
“You never saw such a thing in his possession?”
She shook her head with vehemence23.
“No, and I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it for a moment. I don’t believehe went away deliberately24 as you all try to make out. Something’shappened to him, or else—or else perhaps he’s lost his memory.”
“His health had been quite normal?”
“Yes. He was working rather hard and sometimes felt a little tired, noth-ing more than that.”
“He’d not seemed worried in any way or depressed25?”
“He wasn’t worried or depressed about anything!” With shaking fingersshe opened her bag and took out her handkerchief. “It’s all so awful.” Hervoice shook. “I can’t believe it. He’d never have gone off without a word tome. Something’s happened to him. He’s been kidnapped or he’s been at-tacked perhaps. I try not to think it but sometimes I feel that that must bethe solution. He must be dead.”
“Now please, Mrs. Betterton, please—there’s no need to entertain thatsupposition yet. If he’s dead, his body would have been discovered bynow.”
“It might not. Awful things happen. He might have been drowned orpushed down a sewer26. I’m sure anything could happen in Paris.”
“Paris, I can assure you, Mrs. Betterton, is a very well-policed city.”
She took the handkerchief away from her eyes and stared at him withsharp anger.
“I know what you think, but it isn’t so! Tom wouldn’t sell secrets or be-tray secrets. He wasn’t a communist. His whole life is an open book.”
“What were his political beliefs, Mrs. Betterton?”
“In America he was a Democrat27, I believe. Here he voted Labour. Hewasn’t interested in politics. He was a scientist, first and last.” She addeddefiantly, “He was a brilliant scientist.”
“Yes,” said Jessop, “he was a brilliant scientist. That’s really the crux28 ofthe whole matter. He might have been offered, you know, very consider-able inducements to leave this country and go elsewhere.”
“It’s not true.” Anger leaped out again. “That’s what the papers try tomake out. That’s what you all think when you come questioning me. It’snot true. He’d never go without telling me, without giving me some idea.”
“And he told you—nothing?”
Again he was watching her keenly.
“Nothing. I don’t know where he is. I think he was kidnapped, or else, asI say, dead. But if he’s dead, I must know. I must know soon. I can’t go onlike this, waiting and wondering. I can’t eat or sleep. I’m sick and ill withworry. Can’t you help me? Can’t you help me at all?”
He got up then and moved round his desk. He murmured:
“I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Betterton, so very sorry. Let me assure you thatwe are trying our very best to find out what has happened to your hus-band. We get reports in every day from various places.”
“Reports from where?” she asked sharply. “What do they say?”
He shook his head.
“They all have to be followed up, sifted29 and tested. But as a rule, I amafraid, they’re vague in the extreme.”
“I must know,” she murmured brokenly again. “I can’t go on like this.”
“Do you care for your husband very much, Mrs. Betterton?”
“Of course I care for him. Why, we’ve only been married six months.
Only six months.”
“Yes, I know. There was—forgive me for asking—no quarrel of any kindbetween you?”
“Oh, no!”
“No trouble over any other woman?”
“Of course not. I’ve told you. We were only married last April.”
“Please believe that I’m not suggesting such a thing is likely, but one hasto take every possibility into account that might allow for his going off inthis way. You say he had not been upset lately, or worried—not on edge—not nervy in any way?”
“No, no, no!”
“People do get nervy, you know, Mrs. Betterton, in such a job as yourhusband had. Living under exacting30 security conditions. In fact”— hesmiled—“it’s almost normal to be nervy.”
She did not smile back.
“He was just as usual,” she said stolidly31.
“Happy about his work? Did he discuss it at all with you?”
“No, it was all so technical.”
“You don’t think he had any qualms32 over its—destructive possibilities,shall I say? Scientists do feel that sometimes.”
“He never said anything of the kind.”
“You see, Mrs. Betterton,” he leaned forward over the desk, droppingsome of his impassiveness, “what I am trying to do is to get a picture ofyour husband. The sort of man he was. And somehow you’re not helpingme.”
“But what more can I say or do? I’ve answered all your questions.”
“Yes, you’ve answered my questions, mostly in the negative. I wantsomething positive, something constructive33. Do you see what I mean? Youcan look for a man so much better when you know what kind of a man heis.”
She reflected for a moment. “I see. At least, I suppose I see. Well, Tomwas cheerful and good-tempered. And clever, of course.”
Jessop smiled. “That’s a list of qualities. Let’s try and get more personal.
Did he read much?”
“Yes, a fair amount.”
“What sort of books?”
“Oh, biographies. Book Society recommendations, crime stories if hewas tired.”
“Rather a conventional reader, in fact. No special preferences? Did heplay cards or chess?”
“He played bridge. We used to play with Dr. Evans and his wife once ortwice a week.”
“Did your husband have many friends?”
“Oh, yes, he was a good mixer.”
“I didn’t mean just that. I mean was he a man who—cared very muchfor his friends?”
“He played golf with one or two of our neighbours.”
“No special friends or cronies of his own?”
“No. You see, he’d been in the U.S.A. for so long, and he was born inCanada. He didn’t know many people over here.”
Jessop consulted a scrap34 of paper at his elbow.
“Three people visited him recently from the States, I understand. I havetheir names here. As far as we can discover, these three were the onlypeople with whom he recently made contact from outside, so to speak.
That’s why we’ve given them special attention. Now first, Walter Griffiths.
He came to see you at Harwell.”
“Yes, he was over in England on a visit and he came to look up Tom.”
“And your husband’s reactions?”
“Tom was surprised to see him, but very pleased. They’d known eachother quite well in the States.”
“What did this Griffiths seem like to you? Just describe him in your ownway.”
“But surely you know all about him?”
“Yes, we know all about him. But I want to hear what you thought ofhim.”
She reflected for a moment.
“Well, he was solemn and rather long-winded. Very polite to me andseemed very fond of Tom and anxious to tell him about things that hadhappened after Tom had come to England. All local gossip, I suppose. Itwasn’t very interesting to me because I didn’t know any of the people.
Anyway, I was getting dinner ready while they were reminiscing.”
“No question of politics came up?”
“You’re trying to hint that he was a communist.” Olive Betterton’s faceflushed. “I’m sure he was nothing of the sort. He had some governmentjob—in the District Attorney’s office, I think. And anyway when Tom saidsomething laughingly about witch hunts in America, he said solemnly thatwe didn’t understand over here. They were necessary. So that shows hewasn’t a communist!”
“Please, please, Mrs. Betterton, now don’t get upset.”
“Tom wasn’t a communist! I keep telling you so and you don’t believeme.”
“Yes, I do, but the point is bound to come up. Now for the second contactfrom abroad, Dr. Mark Lucas. You ran across him in London in the Dor-set.”
“Yes. We’d gone up to a show and we were having supper at the Dorsetafterwards. Suddenly this man, Luke or Lucas, came along and greetedTom. He was a research chemist of some kind and the last time he hadseen Tom was in the States. He was a German refugee who’d taken Amer-ican nationality. But surely you—”
“But surely I know that? Yes, I do, Mrs. Betterton. Was your husbandsurprised to see him?”
“Yes, very surprised.”
“Pleased?”
“Yes, yes—I think so.”
“But you’re not sure?” He pressed her.
“Well, he was a man Tom didn’t much care about, or so he told me after-wards, that’s all.”
“It was just a casual meeting? There was no arrangement made to meetat some future date?”
“No, it was just a casual encounter.”
“I see. The third contact from abroad was a woman, Mrs. Carol Speeder,also from the States. How did that come about?”
“She was something to do with U.N.O., I believe. She’d known Tom inAmerica, and she rang him up from London to say she was over here, andasked if we could come up and lunch one day.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t, but your husband did!”
“What!” She stared.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Olive Betterton looked bewildered and uneasy. The man questioningher felt a little sorry for her, but he did not relent. For the first time hethought he might be getting somewhere.
“I don’t understand it,” she said uncertainly. “It seems very odd heshouldn’t have said anything about it to me.”
“They lunched together at the Dorset where Mrs. Speeder was staying,on Wednesday, August 12th.”
“August 12th?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, he did go to London about then .?.?. He never said anything—” shebroke off again, and then shot out a question. “What is she like?”
He answered quickly and reassuringly35.
“Not at all a glamorous type, Mrs. Betterton. A competent young careerwoman of thirty-odd, not particularly good-looking. There’s absolutely nosuggestion of her ever having been on intimate terms with your husband.
That is just why it’s odd that he didn’t tell you about the meeting.”
“Yes, yes, I see that.”
“Now think carefully, Mrs. Betterton. Did you notice any change in yourhusband about that time? About the middle of August, shall we say? Thatwould be about a week before the Conference.”
“No—no, I noticed nothing. There was nothing to notice.”
Jessop sighed.
The instrument on his desk buzzed discreetly36. He picked up the re-ceiver.
“Yes,” he said.
The voice at the other end said:
“There’s a man who’s asking to see someone in authority about the Bet-terton case, sir.”
“What’s his name?”
The voice at the other end coughed discreetly.
“Well, I’m not exactly sure how you pronounce it, Mr. Jessop. PerhapsI’d better spell it.”
“Right. Go ahead.”
He jotted37 down on his blotter the letters as they came over the wire.
“Polish?” he said interrogatively, at the end.
“He didn’t say, sir. He speaks English quite well, but with a bit of an ac-cent.”
“Ask him to wait.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jessop replaced the telephone. Then he looked across at Olive Betterton.
She sat there quite quietly with a disarming38, hopeless placidity39. He tore offthe leaf on his desk pad with the name he had just written on it, andshoved it across to her.
“Know anybody of that name?” he asked.
Her eyes widened as she looked at it. For a moment he thought shelooked frightened.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do. He wrote to me.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. He’s a cousin of Tom’s first wife. He’s just arrived in thiscountry. He was very concerned about Tom’s disappearance40. He wrote toask if I had had any news and—and to give me his most profound sym-pathy.”
“You’d never heard of him before that?”
She shook her head.
“Ever hear your husband speak of him?”
“No.”
“So really he mightn’t be your husband’s cousin at all?”
“Well, no, I suppose not. I never thought of that.” She looked startled.
“But Tom’s first wife was a foreigner. She was Professor Mannheim’sdaughter. This man seemed to know all about her and Tom in his letter. Itwas very correct and formal and—and foreign, you know. It seemed quitegenuine. And anyway, what would be the point—if he weren’t genuine, Imean?”
“Ah, that’s what one always asks oneself.” Jessop smiled faintly. “We doit so much here that we begin to see the smallest thing quite out of propor-tion!”
“Yes, I should think you might.” She shivered suddenly. “It’s like thisroom of yours, in the middle of a labyrinth41 of corridors, just like a dreamwhen you think you will never get out. .?.?.”
“Yes, yes, I can see it might have a claustrophobic effect,” said Jessoppleasantly.
Olive Betterton put a hand up and pushed back her hair from her fore-head.
“I can’t stand it much longer, you know,” she said. “Just sitting and wait-ing. I want to get away somewhere for a change. Abroad for choice. Some-where where reporters won’t ring me up all the time, and people won’tstare at me. I’m always meeting friends and they keep asking me if I havehad any news.” She paused, then went on, “I think—I think I’m going tobreak down. I’ve tried to be brave, but it’s too much for me. My doctoragrees. He says I ought to go right away somewhere for three or fourweeks. He wrote me a letter. I’ll show you.”
She fumbled42 in her bag, took out an envelope and pushed it across thedesk to Jessop.
“You’ll see what he says.”
Jessop took the letter out of the envelope and read it.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see.”
He put the letter back in the envelope.
“So — so it would be all right for me to go?” Her eyes watched himnervously.
“But of course, Mrs. Betterton,” he replied. He raised surprised eye-brows. “Why not?”
“I thought you might object.”
“Object—why? It’s entirely43 your own business. You’ll arrange it so that Ican get in touch with you while you’re away in case any news shouldcome through?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Where were you thinking of going?”
“Somewhere where there is sun and not too many English people. Spainor Morocco.”
“Very nice. Do you a lot of good, I’m sure.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.”
She rose, excited, elated—her nervousness still apparent.
Jessop rose, shook hands with her, pressed the buzzer44 for a messengerto see her out. He went back to his chair and sat down. For a few momentshis face remained as expressionless as before, then very slowly he smiled.
He lifted the phone.
“I’ll see Major Glydr now,” he said.
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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shrugged
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abruptness
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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glamorous
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coma
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cryptically
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abruptly
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insistently
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lasting
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fission
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solicitor
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molecule
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thoroughly
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cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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ravages
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abstained
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soothingly
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apparently
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ascertained
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vehemence
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deliberately
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depressed
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sewer
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democrat
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crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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