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 idea that occurs to me is to get some kind of specialist on to it."
"What kind of specialist?"
"A psychiatrist - or psychoanalyst, or psychologist. A psycho something. A man who knows about suggestion and hypnotism and brainwashing and all that kind of thing. There are people who deal in that kind of thing?"
"Of course there are. Yes. There are one or two Home Office men who specialize in it. I think you're dead right. It may be just flu - but it may be some kind of psychobusiness 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 about psychological weapons - but all that I cared about was Ginger, gallant and frightened. We hadn't really believed, either of us - or had we? No, of course we hadn't. It had been a game - a cops and robbers game. But it wasn't a game.
The Pale Horse was proving itself a reality.
I dropped my head into my hands and groaned.
Chapter 21
I doubt if I shall ever forget the next few days. It appears to me now as a kind of bewildered kaleidoscope without sequence or form. Ginger was removed from the flat to a private nursing home. I was allowed to see her only at visiting hours.
Her own doctor, I gather, was inclined to stand on his high horse about the whole business. He could not understand what the fuss was all about. His own diagnosis was quite clear - bronchopneumonia following on influenza, though complicated by certain slightly unusual symptoms, but that, as he pointed out, "happens all the time. No case is ever 'typical.' And some people don't respond to antibiotics."
And, of course, all that he said was true. Ginger had bronchopneumonia. There was nothing mysterious about the disease from which she was suffering. She just had it - and had it badly.
I had one interview with the Home Office psychologist. He was a quaint little cock robin of a man, rising up and down on his toes, with eyes twinkling through very thick lenses.
He asked me innumerable questions, half of which I could see no point in whatever, but there must have been a point, for he nodded sapiently at my answers. He entirely refused to commit himself, wherein he was probably wise. He made occasional pronouncements in what I took to be the jargon of his trade. He tried, I think, various forms of hypnotism on Ginger, but by what seemed to be universal consent, no one would tell me very much. Possibly because there was nothing to tell.
I avoided my own friends and acquaintances, yet the loneliness of my existence was insupportable.
Finally, in an excess of desperation, I rang up Poppy at her flower shop. Would she come out and dine with me. Poppy would love to do so.
I took her to the Fantasie. Poppy prattled happily and I found her company very soothing. But I had not asked her out only for her soothing qualities. Having lulled her into a happy stupor with delicious food and drink, I began a little cautious probing. It seemed to me possible that Poppy might know something without being wholly conscious of what it was she knew. I asked her if she remembered my friend Ginger. Poppy said, "Of course," opening her big blue eyes, and asked what Ginger was doing nowadays.
"She's very ill," I said.
"Poor pet." Poppy looked as concerned as it was possible for her to look, which was not very much.
"She got herself mixed up with something," I said. "I believe she asked your advice about it. Pale Horse stuff. Cost her a terrible lot of money."
"Oh," exclaimed Poppy, eyes wider still. "So it was you!"
For a moment or two I didn't understand. Then it dawned upon me that Poppy was identifying me with the man whose invalid wife was the bar to Ginger's happiness. So excited was she by this revelation of our love life that she quite failed to be alarmed by the mention of the Pale Horse.
She breathed excitedly:
"Did it work?"
"It went a bit wrong somehow." I added, "'The dog it was that died.'"
"What dog?" asked Poppy, at sea.
I saw that words of one syllable would always be needed where Poppy was concerned.
"The - er - business seems to have recoiled upon Ginger. Did you ever hear of that happening before?"
Poppy never had.
"Of course," I said, "this stuff they do at the Pale Horse down in Much Deeping - you know about that, don't you?"
"I didn't know where it was. Down in the country somewhere."
"I couldn't quite make out from Ginger what it is they do..."
I waited carefully.
"Rays, isn't it?" said Poppy vaguely. "Something like that. From outer space," she added helpfully. "Like the Russians!"
I decided that Poppy was now relying on her limited imagination.
"Something of that kind," I agreed. "But it must be quite dangerous. I mean, for Ginger to get ill like this."
"But it was your wife who was to be ill and die, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said, accepting the role Ginger and Poppy had planted on me. "But it seems to have gone wrong - backfired."
"You mean -" Poppy made a terrific mental effort. "Like when you plug an electric iron in wrong and you get a shock?"
"Exactly," I said. "Just like that. Did you ever know that sort of thing happen before?"
"Well, not that way -"
"What way, then?"
"Well, I mean if one didn't pay up - afterwards. A man I knew wouldn't." Her voice dropped in an awe-stricken fashion. "He was killed in the tube - fell off the platform in front of a train."
"It might have been an accident."
"Oh, no," said Poppy, shocked at the thought. "It was THEM."
I poured some more champagne into Poppy's glass. Here, I felt, in front of me was someone who might be helpful if only you could tear out of her the disassociated facts that were flitting about in what she called her brain. She had heard things said, and assimilated about half of them, and got them jumbled up and nobody had been very careful what they said because it was "only Poppy."
The maddening thing was that I didn't know what to ask her. If I said the wrong thing she would shut up in alarm like a clam and go dumb on me.
"My wife," I said, "is still an invalid, but she doesn't seem any worse."
"That's too bad," said Poppy sympathetically, sipping champagne.
"So what do I do next?"
Poppy didn't seem to know.
"You see it was Ginger who - I didn't make any of the arrangements. Is there anyone I could get at?"
"There's a place in Birmingham," said Poppy doubtfully.
"That's closed down," I said. "Don't you know anyone else who'd know anything about it?"
"Eileen Brandon might know something - but I don't think so."
The introduction of a totally unexpected Eileen Brandon startled me. I asked who Eileen Brandon was.
"She's terrible really," said Poppy. "Very dim. Has her hair very tightly permed, and never wears stiletto heels. She's the end." She added by way of explanation, "I was at school with her - but she was pretty dim then. She was frightfully good at geography."
"What's she got to do with the Pale Horse?"
"Nothing really. It was only an idea she got. And so she chucked it up."
"Chucked what up?" I asked, bewildered.
"Her job with C.R.C."
"What's C.R.C.?"
"Well, I don't really know exactly. They just say C.R.C. Something about Customers' Reactions or Research. It's quite a small show."
"And Eileen Brandon worked for them? What did she have to do?"
"Just go round and ask questions - about toothpaste or gas stoves, and what kind of sponges you used. Too too depressing and dull. I mean, who cares?"
"Presumably C.R.C." I felt a slight pricking of excitement.
It was a woman employed by an association of this kind who had been visited by Father Gorman on the fatal night. And - yes - of course, someone of that kind had called on Ginger at the flat.
Here was a link of some kind.
"Why did she chuck up her job? Because she got bored?"
"I don't think so. They paid quite well. But she got a sort of idea about it - that it wasn't what it seemed."
"She thought that it might be connected, in some way, with the Pale Horse? Is that it?"
"Well, I don't know. Something of that kind. Anyway, she's working in an Espresso coffee bar off Tottenham Court Road now."
"Give me her address."
"She's not a bit your type."
"I don't want to make sexual advances to her," I said brutally. "I want some hints on Customers Research. I'm thinking of buying some shares in one of those things."
"Oh, I see," said Poppy, quite satisfied with this explanation.
There was nothing more to be got out of her, so we finished up the champagne, and I took her home and thanked her for a lovely evening.
II
I tried to ring Lejeune next morning but failed. However, after some difficulty I managed to get through to Jim Corrigan.
"What about that psychological pipsqueak you brought along to see me, Corrigan. What does he say about Ginger?"
"A lot of long words. But I rather think, Mark, that he's truly baffled. And you know, people do get pneumonia. There's nothing mysterious or out of the way about that."
"Yes," I said. "And several people we know of, whose names were on a certain list, have died of bronchopneumonia, gastro-enteritis, bulbar paralysis, tumour on the brain, epilepsy, paratyphoid and other well-authenticated diseases."
"I know how you feel. But what can we do?"
"She's worse, isn't she?" I asked.
"Well - yes..."
"Then something's got to be done."
"Such as?"
"I've got one or two ideas. Going down to Much Deeping, getting hold of Thyrza Grey and forcing her, by scaring the living daylights out of her, to reverse the spell or whatever it is."
"Well - that might work."
"Or - I might go to Venables -"
Corrigan said sharply:
"Venables? But he's out. How can he possibly have any connection with it? He's a cripple."
"I wonder. I might go there and snatch off that rug affair and see if this atrophied limbs business is true or false!"
"We've looked into all that -"
"Wait. I ran into that little chemist chap, Osborne, down in Much Deeping. I want to repeat to you what he suggested to me."
I outlined to him Osborne's theory of impersonation.
"That man's got a bee in his bonnet," said Corrigan. "He's the kind of man who has always got to be right."
"But, Corrigan, tell me, couldn't it be as he said? It's possible, isn't it?"
After a moment or two Corrigan said slowly:
"Yes. I have to admit it's possible... but several people would have to be in the know - and would have to be paid very heavily for holding their tongues."
"What of that? He's rolling in money, isn't he? Has Lejeune found out yet how he's made all that money?"
"No. Not exactly... I'll admit this to you. There's something wrong about the fellow. He's got a past of some kind. The money's all very cleverly accounted for, in a lot of ways. It isn't possible to check up on it all without an investigation which might take years. The police have had to do that before - when they've been up against a financial crook who has covered his traces by a web of infinite complexity. I believe the Inland Revenue has been smelling around Venables for some time. But he's clever. What do you see him as - the head of the show?"
"Yes, I do. I think he's the man who plans it all."
"Perhaps. He sounds as though he'd have the kind of brains for that, I agree. But surely he wouldn't have done anything so crude as killing Father Gorman himself!"
"He might have if there was sufficient urgency. Father Gorman might have had to be silenced before he could pass on what he had learned from that woman about the activities of the Pale Horse. Besides -"
I stopped short.
"Hallo - you still there?"
"Yes, I was thinking... just an idea that occurred to me..."
"What was it?"
"I've not got it clear yet... just that real safety could only be achieved one way. I haven't worked it out yet. Anyway, I must go now. I've got a rendez-vous at a coffee bar."
"Didn't know you were in the Chelsea coffee bar set!"
"I'm not. My coffee bar is in Tottenham Court Road, as a matter of fact."
I rang off and glanced at the clock.
I started for the door when the telephone rang.
I hesitated. Ten to one, it was Jim Corrigan again, ringing back to know more about my idea.
I didn't want to talk to Jim Corrigan just now.
I moved towards the door while the telephone rang on persistently, naggingly.
Of course, it might be the hospital - Ginger -
I couldn't risk that. I strode across impatiently and jerked the receiver off its hook.
"Hallo?"
"Is that you, Mark?"
"Yes, who is it?"
"It's me, of course," said the voice reproachfully. "Listen, I want to tell you something."
"Oh, it's you." I recognized the voice of Mrs Oliver. "Look here, I'm in a great hurry, got to go out. I'll ring you back later."
"That won't do at all," said Mrs Oliver, firmly. "You've got to listen to me now. It's important."
"Well, you'll have to be quick. I've got an appointment. "
