The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

He was aware that he was looking at bubbles rising in amber liquid and that he had not touched his beer. He lifted the glass and drank; it was cold and refreshing.

He had two things going for him – two things that kept him sane. One – Giles Denison’s scar on H. F. Meyrick’s shin – and two – the change in the timbre of Meyrick’s voice as recognized by the hotel porter. And what did that imply? Obviously that there were two Meyricks; one who had booked in on June 18, and another – himself – who had just been planted. Never mind why and never mind how. Just accept the fact that it was done.

He drank some more beer and rested his chin in his hand, feeling the unaccustomed flab of his jowl. He had lost a week of his life. Could so much plastic surgery be done in a week? He added that to the list of things to be checked on.

And what to do? He could go to the British Embassy and tell his story. Mentally he ran through the scenario.

‘What can we do for you, Mr Meyrick?’

‘Well the fact is I’m not Meyrick – whoever he is. My name is Giles Denison and I’ve been kidnapped from London, my face changed, and dumped into an Oslo hotel with a hell of a lot of money and an unlimited credit account. Can you help me?’

‘Certainly, Mr Meyrick. Miss Smith, will you ring for a doctor?’

‘My God!’ said Denison aloud. ‘I’d end up in the loony-bin.’

The barman cocked his head and came over. ‘You wish something, sir?’

‘Just to pay,’ said Denison, finishing his beer.

He paid from the loose change in his pocket and left the bar. In the lobby he spotted a sign saying GARAGE, so he went through a door and down a flight of stairs to emerge into a basement car park. He checked the number on the Hertz key and walked along the first row of cars. It was right at the end – a big black Mercedes. He unlocked the door.

The first thing he saw was the doll on the driver’s seat, a most curious object made of crudely carved wood and rope. The body was formed of rope twisted into a spiral and coming out in the form of a tail. His feet were but roughly indicated and the head was a round knob with a peg nose. The eyes and a mouth twisted to one side had been inked on to the wood, and the hair was of rope teased out into separate strands. It was a strange and somehow repulsive little figure.

He picked it up and discovered a piece of paper underneath it. He unfolded the deckle-edged note-paper and read the scrawled handwriting: Your Drammen Dolly awaits you at Spiraltoppen. Early morning, July 10.

He frowned. July 10 was next day, but where was Spiraltoppen and who – or what – was a Drammen Dolly? He looked at the ugly little doll. It had been lying on the driver’s seat as though it had been deliberately left for him to find. He tossed it in his hand a couple of times and then thrust it into his pocket. It made an unsightly bulge, but what did he care? It was not his jacket. The note he put into his wallet.

The car was almost new, with just over 500 kilometres on the clock. He found a sheaf of papers relating to the car hire; it had been rented five days earlier, a fact which was singularly devoid of informative content. There was nothing else to be found.

He got out of the car, locked it, and left the garage by the car entrance, emerging on to a street behind the hotel. It was a little bewildering for him; the traffic drove on the wrong side of the road, the street and shop signs were indecipherable and his command of Norwegian was minimal, being restricted to one word – skal – which, while being useful in a cheery sort of way, was not going to be of much use for the more practical things of life.

What he needed was information and he found it on the corner of the street in the form of a bookshop. He went inside and found an array of maps from which he selected a map of central Oslo, one of Greater Oslo, and a motoring map of Southern Norway. To these he added a guide to the city and paid out of the slab of Norwegian currency in Meyrick’s wallet. He made a mental note to count that money as soon as he had privacy.

He left the shop intending to go back to the hotel where he could study the maps and orient himself. He paused on the pavement and rubbernecked at the corner of a building where one would normally expect to find a street name – and there it was – Roald Amundsens Gata.

‘Harry!’

He turned to go in the direction of the hotel but paused as he felt a hand on his arm. ‘Harry Meyrick!’ There was a note of anger in the voice. She was a green-eyed redhead of about thirty and she was flying alarm flags – her lips were compressed and pink spots glowed in her cheeks. ‘I’m not used to being stood up,’ she said. ‘Where were you this morning?’

Momentarily he was nonplussed but remembered in time what the hotel porter had thought about his voice. ‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ he managed to get out. ‘I was in bed.’

‘There’s a thing called a telephone,’ she said angrily. ‘Alexander Graham Bell invented it – remember?’

‘I was knocked out by sleeping pills,’ he protested. With a small portion of his mind he noted that this was probably a true statement. ‘Perhaps I overdid it.’

Her expression changed. ‘You do sound a bit glued-up,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe I’ll forgive you.’ There was a faint American undertone to her English. ‘It will cost you a drink, darling.’

‘In the hotel?’ he suggested.

‘It’s too nice a day to be inside. We’ll go into the Studenterlunden.’ She waved her arm past a passing articulated tramcar towards the gay umbrellas in the gardens on the other side of the street.

Denison felt trapped as he escorted her across the street, but he also realized that if he was to learn anything about Meyrick then this was too good a chance to pass up. He had once been accosted in the street by a woman who obviously knew him but he did not have the faintest idea of who she was. There is a point of no return in that type of conversation after which one cannot, in decency, admit ignorance. On that occasion Denison had fumbled it, had suffered half an hour of devious conversation, and they had parted amicably without him finding out who she was. He still did not know. Grimly he thought that it was good practice for today’s exercise.

As they crossed the street she said, ‘I saw Jack Kidder this morning. He was asking about you.’

‘How is he?’

She laughed. ‘Fine, as always. You know Jack.’

‘Of course,’ said Denison deadpan. ‘Good old Jack.’

They went into the outdoor café and found an empty table with difficulty. Under other circumstances Denison would have found it pleasant to have a drink with a pretty woman in surroundings like this, but his mind was beleaguered by his present problems. They sat down and he put his parcel of maps on the table.

One of them slipped out of the packet and his main problem prodded at it with a well-manicured forefinger. ‘What are these?’

‘Maps,’ said Denison succinctly.

‘Maps of where?’

‘Of the city.’

‘Oslo!’ She seemed amused. ‘Why do you want maps of Oslo? Isn’t it your boast that you know Oslo better than London?’

‘They’re for a friend.’

Denison chalked up a mental note. Meyrick knows Oslo well; probably a frequent visitor. Steer clear of local conditions or gossip. Might run into more problems like this.

‘Oh!’ She appeared to lose interest.

Denison realized he was faced with a peculiar difficulty. He did not know this woman’s name and, as people do not commonly refer to themselves by name in conversation, he did not see how he was going to get it, short of somehow prying into her handbag and looking for identification.

‘Give me a cigarette, darling,’ she said.

He patted his pockets and found he had left the cigarette case and lighter in the room. Not being a smoker it had not occurred to him to put them in his pocket along with the rest of Meyrick’s personal gear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any with me.’

‘My!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me the great Professor Meyrick has stopped smoking. Now I will believe in cancer.’

Professor!

He used the pretext of illness again. ‘The one I tried this morning tasted like straw. Maybe I will stop smoking.’ He held his hand over the table. ‘Look at those nicotine stains. Imagine what my lungs must be like.’

She shook her head in mock sorrow. ‘It’s like pulling down a national monument. To imagine Harry Meyrick without a cigarette is like trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower.’

A Nordic waitress came to the table; she looked rather like Jeanette MacDonald dressed for an appearance in White Horse Inn. Denison raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘What will you have?’

‘The usual,’ she said indifferently, delving into her handbag.

He took refuge in a paroxysm of coughing pulling out his handkerchief and only emerging when he heard her giving the order. He waited until the waitress left before putting away the handkerchief. The woman opposite him said, ‘Harry, that’s a really bad cough. I’m not surprised you’re thinking of giving up the cancer sticks. Are you feeling all right, darling? Maybe you’d be better off in bed, after all.’