The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

‘No.’

‘I see. Right.’ He touched Denison’s side. ‘Feel anything?’

‘It’s numb but I can feel pressure.’

‘Good,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m going to stitch the wound closed. You won’t feel anything – but if you do then shout like hell.’ He put on rubber gloves which he took out of a sealed plastic bag and then took some fine thread out of another small packet. ‘I’d turn your head away,’ he advised. ‘Lie down.’

He worked on Denison’s side for about fifteen minutes and Denison felt nothing but the pressure of his fingers. At last he said, ‘All right, Mr Denison; I’ve finished.’

Denison sat up and looked at his side. The wound was neatly closed and held by a row of minute stitches. ‘I’ve always been good at needlework,’ said Iredale conversationally. ‘When the stitches are out there’ll be but a hairline. In a year you won’t be able to see it.’

Denison said, ‘This isn’t a doctor’s surgery. Who are you?’

Iredale packed his bag rapidly and stood up. ‘There’ll be another doctor to see you in a moment.’ He walked to the door and closed it behind him.

There was something about the way the door closed that vaguely alarmed Denison. He stood up and walked to the door and found it locked. Frowning, he turned away and looked about the room. There was the settee on which he had been lying, a table, two armchairs and a bookcase against the wall. He went over to the bookcase to inspect it and tripped over a wire which threatened to topple a telephone from a small table. He rescued the telephone and then stood looking down at it.

Iredale walked along the corridor and into a room at the end. Carey glanced up at him expectantly, breaking off his conversation with McCready. Harding, the psychiatrist, sat in an armchair, his long legs outstretched and his fingertips pressed together. There was also another man whom Iredale did not know. Carey saw Iredale looking at him, and said, ‘Ian Armstrong of my staff. Well?’ He could not suppress his eagerness.

Iredale put down his case. ‘He’s not Meyrick.’ He paused. ‘Not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.’

Carey blew out his breath in a long gasp. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Iredale, a little testily.

‘That’s it, then.’ Carey looked across at Harding. ‘It’s your turn, Dr Harding. Try to get out of him as much as you can.’

Harding nodded and uncoiled himself from the chair. He walked out of the room without speaking. As the door closed Carey said, ‘You understand that, to the best of our knowledge, this alteration was made in the space of a week – not more.’ He took a thin, cardboard file from the table. ‘We’ve just received a lengthy cable from London about Denison – and a photo came over the wire.’ He took the photograph and handed it to Iredale. ‘That’s Denison as he was quite recently. It hardly seems possible.’

Iredale studied the photograph. ‘Very interesting,’ he commented.

‘Could this thing be done in a week?’ Carey persisted.

Iredale put down the photograph. ‘As far as I could ascertain there was only one lesion,’ he said precisely. ‘That was at the outside corner of the left eyelid. A very small cut which was possibly held together by one stitch while it healed. It would certainly heal in a week although there might have been a residual soreness. I detected a minute inflammation.’

McCready said in disbelief, ‘You mean that was the only cut that was made?’

‘Yes,’ said Iredale. ‘The purpose was to draw down the left eyelid. Have you got that photograph of Meyrick?’

‘Here,’ said Carey.

Iredale put down his forefinger. ‘There – you see? The eyelid was drawn down due to the skin contraction caused by this scar.’ He paused and said sniffily, ‘A bit of a butcher’s job, if you ask me. That should never have happened.’

‘It was a war wound when Meyrick was a boy,’ said Carey. He tapped the photograph of Meyrick. ‘But how the devil did they reproduce this scar on Denison without cutting?’

‘That was very cleverly done,’ said Iredale with sudden enthusiasm. ‘As expert a job of tattooing as I’ve ever seen, as also was the birthmark on the right jaw.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘In my field, of course, I come across a lot of tattooing but I specialize in removal rather than application.’ He leaned forward again and traced a line on the photograph. ‘The hairline was adjusted by depilation; nothing as crude as mere shaving and leaving the hair to grow out. I’m afraid Mr Denison has lost his hair permanently.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said McCready, coming forward. He leaned over the table, comparing the two photographs. ‘But just look at these two men. Denison is thin in the face, and he’d look thinner without the beard. Meyrick is fat-jowled. And look at the differences in the noses.’

‘That was done by liquid silicone injection,’ said Iredale. ‘Some of my more light-minded colleagues aid film stars in their mammary development by the same means.’ His tone was distasteful. ‘I palpated his cheeks and felt it. It was quite unmistakable.’

‘I’ll be damned!’ said Carey.

‘You say that Denison lost a week of objective time?’ asked Iredale.

‘He said he’d lost a week out of his life – if that’s what you mean.’

‘Then I can hazard a guess as to how it was done,’ said Iredale. ‘He was drugged, of course, and kept unconscious for the whole week. I noticed a dressing on his left arm. I didn’t investigate it, but that was where the intravenous drip feed was inserted to keep him alive.’

He paused, and Carey said in a fascinated voice, ‘Go on!’

‘The cut would be made at the corner of the eye, giving it a full week to heal. Any competent surgeon could do that in five minutes. Then I suppose they’d do the tattooing. Normally there’d be a residual soreness from that, but it would certainly clear up in a week. Everything else could be done at leisure.’

He picked up the two photographs. ‘You see, the underlying bone structure of these two men, as far as the heads go, is remarkably similar. I rather think that if you had a photograph of Meyrick taken fifteen to twenty years ago he would look not unlike Denison or, rather, as Denison used to look. I take it that Meyrick has been used to expensive living?’

‘He’s rich enough,’ said Carey.

‘It shows on his face,’ said Iredale, and tossed down the photographs. ‘Denison, however, looks a shade undernourished.’

‘Interesting you should say that,’ said Carey, opening the folder. ‘From what we have here it seems that Denison, if not an alcoholic, was on the verge. He’d just lost his job – fired for incompetence on June 24.’

Iredale nodded. ‘Symptomatic. Alcoholics reject food – they get their calories from the booze.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all I can do tonight, gentlemen. I should like to see Denison tomorrow with a view to restoring him to his former appearance, which won’t be easy – that silicone polymer will be the devil to get out. Is there any more?’

‘Nothing, Mr Iredale,’ said Carey.

‘Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.’

‘You know where your room is,’ said Carey, and Iredale nodded and left the room.

Carey and McCready looked at each other in silence for some time, and then Carey stirred and said over his shoulder, ‘What did you make of all that, Ian?’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ said Armstrong.

Carey grunted. ‘I’m damned, too. I’ve been involved in some bizarre episodes in this game, but this takes the prize for looniness. Now we’ll have to see what Harding comes up with, and I suspect he’s going to be a long time. I think somebody had better make coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’

Carey was right because more than two hours elapsed before Harding returned. His face was troubled, and he said abruptly, ‘I don’t think Denison should be left alone.’

‘Ian!’ said Carey.

Armstrong got up, and Harding said, ‘If he wants to talk let him. Join in but steer clear of specifics. Stick to generalities. Understand?’

Armstrong nodded and went out. Harding sat down and Carey studied him. Finally Carey said, ‘You look as though you could do with a drink, Doctor. Whisky?’

Harding nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He rubbed his. forehead. ‘Denison is in a bad way.’

Carey poured two ounces of whisky into a glass. ‘How?’

‘He’s been tampered with,’ said Harding flatly.