The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

‘Where does it come from?’

‘From the Spiralen, sir – in Drammen. If you’re interested, I have a pamphlet.’

‘I’m very much interested,’ said Denison.

The porter looked through papers on a shelf and came up with a leaflet printed in blue ink. ‘You must be an engineer, sir.’

Denison did not know what the hell Meyrick was. ‘It’s in my general field of interest,’ he said guardedly, took the key and the leaflet, and walked towards the lifts. He did not notice the man who had been hovering behind him and who regarded him speculatively until the lift door closed.

Once in his room Denison tossed the maps and the leaflet on to the dressing-table and picked up the telephone. ‘I’d like to make a long distance call, please – to England.’ He took out his wallet.

‘What is the number, sir?’

‘There’s a little difficulty about that. I don’t have a number – only an address.’ He opened the wallet with one hand and extracted one of Meyrick’s cards.

The telephonist was dubious. ‘That may take some time, sir.’

‘It doesn’t matter – I’ll be in my room for the rest of the day.’

‘What is the address sir?’

Denison said clearly, ‘Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire, England.’ He repeated it three times to make sure it had got across.

‘And the name?’

Denison opened his mouth and then closed it, having suddenly acquired a dazed look. He would appear to be a damned fool if he gave the name of Meyrick – no one in his right mind rings up himself, especially after having admitted he did not know his own telephone number. He swallowed, and said shortly, ‘The name is not known.’

The telephone sighed in his ear. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

Denison put down the telephone and settled in a chair to find out about the Spiralen. The front of the leaflet was headed: DRAMMEN. There was an illustration of a Spiralen Doll which did not look any better for being printed in blue. The leaflet was in four languages.

The Spiralen was described as being ‘a truly unique attraction, as well as a superb piece of engineering.’ Apparently there had been a quarry at the foot of Bragernesasen, a hill near Drammen, which had become an eyesore until the City Fathers decided to do something about it. Instead of quarrying the face of the hill the operation had been extended into the interior.

A tunnel had been driven into the hill, thirty feet wide, fifteen feet high and a mile long. But not in a straight line. It turned back on itself six complete times in a spiral drilled into the mountain, climbing five hundred feet until it came out on top of Bragernesasen where the Spiraltoppen Restaurant was open all the year round. The views were said to be excellent.

Denison picked up the doll; its body was formed of six complete turns of rope. He grinned weakly.

Consultation of the maps revealed that Drammen was a small town forty kilometres west of Oslo. That would be a nice morning drive, and he could get back in the afternoon well in time for any call from the redhead. It was not much to go on, but it was all he had.

He spent the rest of the afternoon searching through Meyrick’s possessions but found nothing that could be said to be a clue. He ordered dinner to be sent to his room because he suspected that the hotel restaurant might be full of unexploded human mines like the redhead he had met, and there was a limit to what he could get away with.

The telephone call came when he was half-way through dinner. There were clicks and crackles and a distant voice said, ‘Dr Meyrick’s residence.’

Doctor!

‘I’d like to speak to Dr Meyrick.’

‘I’m sorry, sir; but Dr Meyrick is not at home.’

‘Have you any idea where I can find him?’

‘He is out of the country at the moment, sir.’

‘Oh! Have you any idea where?’

There was a pause. ‘I believe he is travelling in Scandinavia, sir.’

This was not getting anywhere at all. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘This is Andrews – Dr Meyrick’s personal servant. Would you like to leave a message, sir?’

‘Do you recognize my voice, Andrews?’ asked Denison.

A pause. ‘It’s a bad line.’ Another pause. ‘I don’t believe in guessing games on the telephone, sir.’

‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘When you see Dr Meyrick will you tell him that Giles Denison called, and I’ll be getting in touch with him as soon as possible. Got that?’

‘Giles Denison. Yes, Mr Denison.’

‘When is Dr Meyrick expected home?’

‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Denison.’

‘Thank you, Mr Andrews.’

Denison put down the telephone. He felt depressed.

FOUR (#ulink_51bfb147-79be-5d71-8cb8-56cf8273e9fc)

He slept poorly that night. His sleep was plagued with dreams which he did not remember clearly during the few times he was jerked into wakefulness but which he knew were full of monstrous and fearful figures which threatened him. In the early hours of the morning he fell into a heavy sleep which deadened senses and when he woke he felt heavy and listless.

He got up tiredly and twitched aside the window curtain to find that the weather had changed; the sky was a dull grey and the pavements were wet and a fine drizzle filled the air. The outdoor café in the gardens opposite would not be doing much business that day.

He rang down for breakfast and then had a shower, finishing with needle jets of cold water in an attempt to whip some enthusiasm into his suddenly heavy body and, to a degree, he succeeded. When the floor waitress came in with his breakfast he had dressed in trousers and white polo-necked sweater and was combing his hair before the bathroom mirror. Incredibly enough, he was whistling in spite of having Meyrick’s face before him.

The food helped, too, although it was unfamiliar and a long way from an English breakfast. He rejected the raw, marinated herring and settled for a boiled egg, bread and marmalade and coffee. After breakfast he checked the weather again and then selected a jacket and a short topcoat from the wardrobe. He also found a thin, zippered leather satchel into which he put the maps and the Spiralen leaflet which had a street plan of Drammen on the back. Then he went down to the car. It was exactly nine o’clock.

It was not easy getting out of town. The car was bigger and more powerful than those he had been accustomed to driving and he had to keep to what was to him the wrong side of the road in a strange city in early rush-hour traffic. Three times he missed signs and took wrong turnings. The first time he did this he cruised on and got hopelessly lost and had to retrace his path laboriously. Thereafter when he missed a turn he reversed immediately so as not to lose his way again.

He was quite unaware of the man following him in the Swedish Volvo. Denison’s erratic course across the city of Oslo was causing him a lot of trouble, especially when Denison did his quick and unexpected reversals. The man, whose name was Armstrong, swore freely and frequently, and his language became indescribable when the drizzle intensified into a downpour of heavy driving rain.

Denison eventually got out of the centre of the city and on to a six-lane highway, three lanes each way. The windscreen wipers had to work hard to cope with the rain, but it was better when he fiddled with a switch and discovered they had two speeds. Resolutely he stuck to the centre lane, reassured from time to time by the name DRAMMEN which appeared on overhead gantries.

To his left was the sea, the deeply penetrating arm of Oslofjord, but then the road veered away and headed inland. Presently the rain stopped, although no sun appeared, and he even began to enjoy himself, having got command of the unfamiliar car. And suddenly he was in Drammen, where he parked and studied the plan on the back of the leaflet.

In spite of the plan he missed the narrow turning to the right and had to carry on for some way before he found an opportunity to reverse the car, but eventually he drove up to the entrance of the tunnel where he stopped to pay the two-kroner charge.

He put the car into gear and moved forward slowly. At first the tunnel was straight, and then it began to climb, turning to the left. There was dim illumination but he switched on his headlights in the dipped position and saw the reflection from the wetness of the rough stone wall. The gradient was regular, as was the radius of the spiral, and by the time he came to a board marked 1 he had got the hang of it. All he had to do was to keep the wheel at a fixed lock to correspond with the radius of the spiral and grind upwards in low gear.