"Reports from where?" she asked sharply. "What do they say?"
He shook his head.
"They all have to be followed up, sifted and tested. But as a rule, I am afraid, 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 kind between 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 has to take every possibility into account that might allow for his going off in this 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 your husband had. Living under exacting security conditions. In fact -" he smiled, "- it's almost normal to be nervy."
She did not smile back.
"He was just as usual," she said stolidly.
"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 qualms 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, dropping some of his impassiveness, "what I am trying to do is to get a picture of your husband. The sort of man he was. And somehow you're not helping me."
"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 want something positive, something constructive. Do you see what I mean? You can look for a man so much better when you know what kind of a man he is."
She reflected for a moment. "I see. At least, I suppose I see. Well, Tom was 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 he was tired."
"Rather a conventional reader, in fact. No special preferences? Did he play cards or chess?"
"He played bridge. We used to play with Dr. Evans and his wife once or twice 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 much for 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 in Canada. He didn't know many people over here."
Jessop consulted a scrap of paper at his elbow.
"Three people visited him recently from the States, I understand. I have their names here. As far as we can discover, these three were the only people 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 each other quite well in the States."
"What did this Griffiths seem like to you? Just describe him in your own way."
"But surely you know all about him?"
"Yes, we know all about him. But I want to hear what you thought of him."
She reflected for a moment.
"Well, he was solemn and rather long-winded. Very polite to me and seemed very fond of Tom and anxious to tell him about things that had happened after Tom had come to England. All local gossip I suppose. It wasn'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 face flushed. "I'm sure he was nothing of the sort. He had some government job - in the District Attorney's office, I think. And anyway when Tom said something laughing about witch hunts in America, he said solemnly that we didn't understand over here. They were necessary. So that shows he wasn'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 believe me."
"Yes, I do, but the point is bound to come up. Now for the second contact from abroad, Dr. Mark Lucas. You ran across him in London in the Dorset."
"Yes. We'd gone up to do a show and we were having supper at the Dorset afterwards. Suddenly this man, Luke or Lucas, came along and greeted Tom. He was a research chemist of some kind and the last time he had seen Tom was in the States. He was a German refugee who'd taken American nationality. But surely you..."
"But surely I know that? Yes, I do, Mrs. Betterton. Was your husband surprised 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 afterwards, that's all."
"It was just a casual meeting? There was no arrangement made to meet at 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 UNO, I believe. She'd known Tom in America, and she rang him up from London to say she was over here, and asked 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 questioning her felt a little sorry for her, but he did not relent. For the first time he thought he might be getting somewhere.
"I don't understand it," she said uncertainly. "It seems very odd he shouldn'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 -" she broke off again, and then shot out a question. "What is she like?"
He answered quickly and reassuringly.
"Not at all a glamorous type, Mrs. Betterton. A competent young career woman of thirty-odd, not particularly good-looking. There's absolutely no suggestion 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 your husband about that time? About the middle of August, shall we say? That would 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 discreetly. He picked up the receiver. "Yes," he said.
The voice at the other end said,
"There's a man who's asking to see someone in authority about the Betterton 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. Perhaps I'd better spell it."
"Right. Go ahead."
He jotted 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 accent"
"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 disarming, hopeless placidity. He tore off the leaf on his desk pad with the name he had just written on it, and shoved it across to her.
"Know anybody of that name?" he asked.
Her eyes widened as she looked at it. For a moment he thought she looked 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 this country. He was very concerned about Tom's disappearance. He wrote to ask if I had had any news and - and to give me his most profound sympathy."
"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's daughter. This man seemed to know all about her and Tom in his letter. It was very correct and formal and - and foreign, you know. It seemed quite genuine. And anyway, what would be the point - if he weren't genuine, I mean?"
"Ah, that's what one always asks oneself." Jessop smiled faintly. "We do it so much here that we begin to see the smallest thing quite out of proportion!"
"Yes, I should think you might." She shivered suddenly. "It's like this room of yours, in the middle of a labyrinth of corridors, just like a dream when you think you will never get out..."
"Yes, yes, I can see it might have a claustrophobic effect," said Jessop pleasantly.
Olive Betterton put a hand up and pushed back her hair from her forehead.
"I can't stand it much longer, you know," she said. "Just sitting and waiting. I want to get away somewhere for a change. Abroad for choice. Somewhere where reporters won't ring me up all the time, and people stare at me. I'm always meeting friends and they keep asking if I have had any news?" She paused, then went on, "I think - I think I'm going to break down. I've tried to be brave, but it's too much for me. My doctor agrees. He says I ought to go right away somewhere for three or four weeks. He wrote me a letter. I'll show you."
She fumbled in her bag, took out an envelope and pushed it across the desk 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 him nervously.
"But of course, Mrs. Betterton," he replied. He raised surprised eyebrows. "Why not?"
"I thought you might object."
"Object - why? It's entirely your own business. You'll arrange it so that I can get in touch with you while you're away in case any news should come through."
"Oh, of course."
"Where were you thinking of going?"
"Somewhere where there is sun and not too many English people. Spain or 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 buzzer for a messenger to see her out. He went back to his chair and sat down. For a few moments his face remained as expressionless as before, then very slowly he smiled. He lifted the phone.
"I'll see Major Glydr now," he said.
Chapter 2
"Major Glydr?" Jessop hesitated a little over the name.
"It is difficult, yes." The visitor spoke with humorous appreciation. "Your compatriots, they have called me Glider in the war. And now, in the States, I shall change my name to Glyn, which is more convenient for all."
"You come from the States now?"
"Yes, I arrived a week ago. You are - excuse me - Mr. Jessop?"
"I'm Jessop."
The other looked at him with interest.
"So," he said. "I have heard of you."
"Indeed? From whom?"
The other smiled.
"Perhaps we go too fast. Before you permit that I should ask you some questions, I present you first this letter from the U.S. Embassy."
He passed it with a bow. Jessop took it, read the few lines of polite introduction, put it down. He looked appraisingly at his visitor. A tall man, carrying himself rather stiffly, aged thirty or thereabouts. The fair hair was close cropped in the continental fashion. The stranger's speech was slow and careful with a very definite foreign intonation, though grammatically correct. He was, Jessop noticed, not at all nervous or unsure of himself. That in itself was unusual. Most of the people who came into this office were nervous or excited or apprehensive. Sometimes they were shifty, sometimes vehement.
This was a man who had complete command of himself, a man with a poker face who knew what he was doing and why, and who would not be easily tricked or betrayed into saying more than he meant to say. Jessop said pleasantly, "And what can we do for you?"
"I came to ask if you had any further news of Thomas Betterton, who disappeared recently in what seems a somewhat sensational manner. One cannot, I know, believe exactly what one reads in the press, so I ask where I can go for reliable information. They tell me - you."
"I'm sorry we've no definite information about Betterton."
