“I’m convinced,” said Welland vehemently, “that they do. The local police know about mountains, they can’t have failed to see what a queer sort of accident it was for an experienced man. Yet within a day they’d closed the case. I think they’ve had their orders.”
“Even if you believed in their honesty,” said the Director drily, “our position would be the same. I can’t impress upon you too strongly, Mr. Welland, that everything to do with this Institute is top secret. In this case or any case that involves us in any way, nothing whatever may be confided to foreign authorities, friendly or otherwise. There can be no overt enquiries.”
“No, sir, I realise that. But I’m there on the spot. I week-end in the mountains quite frequently, they’re used to me. I move about quite freely, I speak the language a little. I could look into it myself, without alerting anyone.”
He offered them a dutiful silence, but neither of them, it seemed, had anything to say. They looked at him narrowly, with unwinking concentration, and he found it unnerving that he had not the least idea what either of them was thinking. They were the product of the closed establishment, closed men, each in his own air-tight, suspicious, ambitious, narrow world, specialising in ever more attenuated expertise. The horrific thought visited him that he might live to be like them. He found it absolutely vital to give utterance again to the realities that still existed in him, while they existed.
“I intend to find out if Terrell was murdered. I can’t help it. If he was killed for activities that seemed to him in line of duty, then I believe we owe it to him to investigate, and to see that justice is done. He’s entitled to justice. Quite apart from the possibility that something is going on there that affects our national interests and security. We can’t just let murder go by default. It isn’t right.”
He produced this final simplicity with an authority that restored its lustre. He said with dignity: “I would much rather proceed with your approval, of course. I hope I have it.”
But he would proceed with or without it. He was committed by his conscience. An interesting survival, but there he was in the flesh, determined and distressed, perfectly conscious of what he was saying and doing, and prepared to be judged by it.
“My dear boy!” said Sir Broughton, for the first time warming into the charming smile that transformed his professionally austere face into something human and likeable. “Proceed with our blessing, of course, but with our warnings, too. One man, according to your theory, has already been killed. I beg you to take care of yourself. That’s the first essential. The second is the preservation of complete secrecy for this establishment. That I can’t over-stress. And the third thing is something I feel I ought to tell you. If you’re going into this at all, you must go with your eyes open. Nobody knows this, outside this Institute and its parent Ministry.”
He came back slowly to his desk, and leaned on his hands there, pondering. For a moment he looked more than his age, an elderly man bowed by his responsibilities.
“When Charles Alder vanished, his current working notebooks vanished with him. They contained all his projects at the experimental stage, and at that stage they were so completely his own brain-children that no one could continue his work on them. No other sketches, no other outlines existed. We don’t know, apart from a few preliminary ideas, what was in them. But he was at the height of his powers, and working like a demon, mainly on problems of aerodynamics. If he’s been pursuing the same lines of research elsewhere, there could be sensational developments. There could be more than enough at stake to invoke murder. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Welland, weak with relief and gratitude, “I understand.”
“And you understand the absolute need for secrecy? You must not say one word to anyone about this. You haven’t taken anyone into your confidence? The press men, your friends?”
“I didn’t tell them anything, beyond showing curiosity over Terrell’s record. Knowing I’m stationed in Prague, they wouldn’t wonder at that.” He was all eagerness now, dazzled and exhilarated by the Director’s energy.
“And no one else, either?”
If Welland hesitated at all, it was so briefly that the instant passed unnoticed. “No, sir, no one knows anything about this from me.”
“Good! Then go ahead, but take care of yourself. If you do hit upon a lead to Alda, you must report at once to us. Don’t go on alone and take risks, just report back and wait for orders, you understand? I’ll see that the Minister is kept informed, otherwise no one must know of this except the three of us here. I’ll arrange with the embassy in Prague, and have any message from you transmitted direct to us here by telephone. We’ll have a code signal agreed before you leave here. If you locate Alda, then send it. When we receive it, it may be advisable for Mr. Blagrove to come to Prague on some pretext, to be on hand—and to help you,” he said, the human smile reappearing for one abstracted instant, “in case of need. Even you may need help sometimes, Mr. Welland. Who knows?”
“I’ll be very careful, sir. You can rely on me.”
“We are relying on you, my boy. You’ll report to nobody else but this Institute. Not even our people in Prague. You understand? Nobody else!”
He had accomplished all and more than he had hoped for. At the edge of an adventure, with the water cold and mysterious before his plunge, Robert Welland was a vindicated, even a happy, man.
Or he would have been happy, but for one small scruple.
As soon as he left the conference in Sir Broughton’s room he hurried to the Underground station, and made his way back into London, to the Chelsea street where Chloe Terrell had her top-floor flat. It hadn’t, of course, been absolutely honest of him not to tell Sir Broughton about the note he’d dropped through Mrs. Terrell’s letter-box, when he found her out. The note certainly did confide something, more than he should have said, even to the suggestion of murder. But there was no harm done, after all, because Mrs. Terrell was not merely away from home, but out of the country. He had Blagrove’s own word for that. So no one would have read the note he should never have been so indiscreet as to write, and what he had said was not, in fact, a lie. No one knew anything about this affair from him. And no one would.
There wasn’t even any hurry about it, his sense of anxiety and impatience was folly. She was in Czechoslovakia, and she wouldn’t, couldn’t be back yet. He had plenty of time to dig out the porter of the service flats, explain that he’d left a vital paper by mistake, not knowing Mrs. Terrell was out of the country, and must recover it and get word to her elsewhere at once. The porter would have keys, and it wouldn’t be difficult to establish his own good faith. When he’d burned that note he would feel better, because his shadow of a lie wouldn’t exist, then, and there would be no leakages through him. He liked to have everything above-board, and that was how it would be.
All the same, his mind was not quite easy. Better just have a look at the top-floor flat first, before he tackled the porter, and make sure that it was still closed and empty. Just to reassure himself.
The lift was creaking its way slowly upward as he stood in the hall; he had caught a glimpse of the door closing upon a dark, slender girl with her arms full of parcels, and to judge by the time that elapsed before the lift-cable was still and the door clashed open, high up the shaft, she was disentangling her purchases at least four floors up. He pressed the call button, and nothing whatever happened. A woman with both hands full doesn’t stop to close the lift doors after her. He would have to walk up.