II
I rang up Lejeune.
“Miss Corrigan’s ill,” I said.
“What?”
“You heard me. She’s ill. She’s called her own doctor. He says perhaps’flu. It may be. But it may not. I don’t know what you can do. The only ideathat occurs to me is to get some kind of specialist onto it.”
“What kind of specialist?”
“A psychiatrist—or psychoanalyst, or psychologist. A psycho something.
A man who knows about suggestion and hypnotism and brainwashingand all that kind of thing. There are people who deal with that kind ofthing?”
“Of course there are. Yes. There are one or two Home Office men whospecialise in it. I think you’re dead right. It may be just ’flu—but it may besome kind of psycho business about which nothing much is known. Lord,Easterbrook, this may be just what we’ve been hoping for!”
I slammed down the receiver. We might be learning something aboutpsychological weapons—but all that I cared about was Ginger¹, gallant² andfrightened. We hadn’t really believed, either of us—or had we? No, ofcourse we hadn’t. It had been a game—a cops and robbers game. But itwasn’t a game.
The Pale Horse was proving itself a reality.
I dropped my head into my hands and groaned³.

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