If she comes in is there a message for her?' 'Not really. Just tell her I'll meet her at home at seven tomorrow evening.' 'I'll tell her,' said Lumsden, and rang off. I went to the office feeling faintly dissatisfied and was lucky to catch Ogilvie at the lift. As we went up I asked bluntly, 'Why haven't you given Harrington a geneticist to work with him?' 'The situation is still under review,' he said blandly. 'I don't think that's good enough.' He gave me a sideways glance. 'I shouldn't have to remind you that you don't make policy here,' he said sharply. He added in a more placatory tone, 'The truth is that a lot of pressure is being brought to bear on us.' I was tired of framing my words in a diplomatic mode. 'Who from-and why?' I asked shortly. 'I'm being asked to give up the computer programs to another department.' 'Before being interpreted?' He nodded. 'The pressure is quite strong. The Minister may accede to the request.' 'Who the devil would want…?' I stopped and remembered something Ogilvie had let drop. 'Don't tell me it's Cregar again?' 'Why should you think…'
He paused and reconsidered. 'Yes, it's Cregar. A persistent devil, isn't he?' 'Jesus!' I said. 'You kn ow how he'll use it. You said he was into bacteriological warfare techniques. If there's anything important in there he'll use it himself and hush it up.' The lift stopped and someone got in. Ogilvie said, 'I don't think we should discuss this further.' On arrival at our floor he strode away smartly.
Tuesday came and at seven in the evening I was at Penny's flat ringing the bell. There was no answer. I sat in my car outside the building for over an hour but she didn't arrive. She had stood me up without so much as a word. I didn't use the tickets for the show but went home feeling unhappy and depressed. I think even then I had an inkling that there was something terribly wrong. Little bits of a complicated jigsaw were fitting themselves together at the back of my mind but still out of reach of conscious reasoning power. The mental itch was intolerable. The next morning, as early as was decent, I rang Lumsden again. He answered my questions good-humouredly enough at first, but I think he thought I was being rather a pest. No, Penny had not yet returned. No, he had not spoken to her since Thursday. No, it wasn't at all unusual; her work could be more difficult than she expected. I said, 'Can you give me her telephone number in Scotland?' There was a silence at my ear, then Lumsden said, 'Er… no-I don't think I can do that.' 'Why? Haven't you got it?' 'I have it, but I'm afraid it isn't available to you.' I blinked at that curious statement, and filed it away for future reference. 'Then can you ring her and give her a message?' Lumsden paused again, then said reluctantly, 'I suppose I can do that. What's the message?' 'It'll need an answer. Ask her where she put the letters from her father. I need to know.' As far as I knew that would be perfectly meaningless. 'All right,' he said.
'I'll pass it on.' 'Immediately,' I persisted. 'I'll wait here until you ring me back.' I gave him my number. When I sorted the morning's post I found a slip from British Road Services; they had tried to deliver a package but to no avail because I was out-would I collect said package from the depot at Paddington? I put the slip in my wallet. Lumsden rang nearly an hour later. 'She says she doesn't know which particular letters you mean.' 'Does she? That's curious. How did she sound?' 'I didn't speak to her myself; she wasn't available on an outside line. But the message was passed to her.' I said, 'Professor Lumsden, I'd like you to ring again and speak to her personally this time. I…' He interrupted. 'I'll do no such thing. I haven't the time to waste acting as messenger-boy.' There was a clatter and he was cut off. I sat for a quarter of an hour wondering if I was making something out of nothing, chasing after insubstantial wisps as a puppy might chase an imaginary rabbit. Then I drove to Paddington to collect the package and was rather shattered to find that it was my own suitcase. Captain Morelius had taken his time in sending my possessions from Sweden. I put it in the boot of my car and opened it.
There seemed to be nothing missing although after such a length of time I couldn't be sure. What was certain was that Swedish Intelligence would have gone over everything with a microscope. But it gave me an idea. I went into Paddington Station and rang the Ashton house. Mary Cope answered, and I said, 'This is Malcolm Jaggard. How are you, Mary?' 'I'm very well, sir.' 'Mary, has anything arrived at the house from Sweden? Suitcases or anything like that?' 'Why, yes, sir. Two suitcases came on Monday. I've been trying to ring Miss Penny to ask her what to do with them, but she hasn't been at home-I mean in the flat in London.' 'What did you do with them?' 'I put them in a box-room." There were traffic jams on the way to Marlow. The congestion on the Hammersmith By-Pass drove me to a distraction of impatience, but after that the road was open and I had my foot on the floor as I drove down the M4. The gates of the house stood open. Who would think Mary Cope might need protection? She answered the door at my ring, and I said immediately, 'Has anyone else asked about those cases?' 'Why, no, sir.' 'Where are they?' 'I'll show you.' She led me upstairs by the main staircase and up another flight and along a corridor. The house was bare and empty and our footsteps echoed. She opened a door. 'I put them in here out of the way.' I regarded the two suitcases standing in the middle of the empty room, then turned to her and smiled. 'You may congratulate me, Mary. Penny and I are getting married.' 'Oh, I wish you all the best in the world,' she said. 'So I don't think you'll have to stay in London, after all. We'll probably have a house in the country somewhere. Not as big as this one though.'
'Would you want me to stay?' 'Of course,' I said. 'Now, I'd like to look at this stuff alone. Do you mind?' She looked at me a shade doubtfully, then made up her mind. So many strange things had happened in that house that one more wouldn't make any difference. She nodded and went out, closing the door behind her. Both cases were locked. I didn't trouble with lock-picking but sprung open the catches with a knife. The first case was Ashton's and contained the little he had taken with him on the run from Stockholm. It also contained the clothes he had been wearing; the overcoat, jacket and shirt were torn-bullet holes-but there was no trace of blood. Everything had been cleaned. It was Benson's case I was really interested in. In this two-cubic-foot space was all we had left of Howard Greatorex Benson, and if I couldn't find anything here then it was probable that the Ashton case would never be truly solved. I emptied the case and spread everything on the floor. Overcoat, suit, fur hat, underwear, shirt, socks, shoes-everything he had died with. The fur hat had a hole in the back big enough to put my fist through. I gave everything a thorough going-over, aware that Captain Morelius would have done the same, and found nothing-no microfilm, beloved of the thriller writers, no hidden pockets in the clothing, nothing at all out of the usual.
There was a handful of Swedish coins and a slim sheaf of currency in a wallet. Also in the wallet were some stamps, British and Swedish; two newspaper cuttings, both of book reviews in English, and a scribbled shopping list. Nothing there for me unless smoked salmon, water biscuits and Mocha coffee held a hidden meaning, which I doubted. I was about to drop the wallet when I saw the silk lining was torn.
Closer inspection showed it was not a tear but a cut, probably made by a razor blade. Captain Morelius left nothing to chance at all. I inserted my finger between the lining and the outer case and encountered a piece of paper. Gently I teased it out, then took my find to the window. It was a letter: TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN Howard Greatorex Benson is the bearer of this letter. Should his bona fides be doubted in any way the undersigned should be consulted immediately before further action is taken with regard to the bearer. Stapled to the letter was a passport-type photograph of Benson, a much younger man than the Benson I remembered but still with the damaged features and the scar on the cheek. He looked to be in his early thirties.