Dalgliesh ran the thin metal rod through his fingers.
“So I could select, for example, the cards of patients in class one who were treated eight to ten years ago, were married with a family and were suffering from, say, sexual aberration, kleptomania or any other socially unacceptable personality disorder.”
“You could,” admitted the medical director quietly. “But I can’t see why you should want to.”
“Blackmail, Doctor. It occurs to me that we have here a neatly contrived apparatus for the pre-selection of a victim. You push through the rod and out pops your card. The card bears a number on the top right-hand corner. And down in the basement record room the medical record is filed and waiting.”
The medical director said: “This is nothing but guesswork. There isn’t a shred of evidence.”
“There’s no proof, certainly, but it’s a reasonable possibility. Consider the facts. On Wednesday afternoon Miss Bolam saw the group secretary after the House Committee meeting and told him all was well at the clinic. At twelve-fifteen on Friday morning she telephoned to ask for an urgent visit because ‘something is going on here that he ought to know about.’ It was something serious and continuing and something that started before her time here, that is, more than three years ago.”
“Whatever it was, we’ve no evidence that it was the reason for her death.”
“No.”
“In fact, if the murderer wanted to prevent Miss Bolam seeing Lauder, he left it rather late. There was nothing to stop the group secretary turning up here any time after one o’clock.”
Dalgliesh said: “She was told over the telephone that he couldn’t arrive until after the JCC meeting that evening. That leads us to ask who could have overheard the telephone call. Cully was officially on the board, but he was unwell most of the day and, from time to time, other members of the staff took over, sometimes only for a few minutes. Nagle, Mrs. Bostock, Miss Priddy and even Mrs. Shorthouse all say that they helped on the board. Nagle thinks he took over for a short time at midday before he went out for his lunchtime beer but says that he can’t be sure. Nor can Cully. No one admits to having put through this particular call.”
“They might not know if they had,” replied Dr. Etherege. “We’re insistent that the operator doesn’t listen in to calls. That, after all, is important in our work. Miss Bolam may have merely asked for group offices. She must put through calls fairly often to the finance and supplies departments as well as the group secretary. The operator couldn’t know there was anything special about this call. She might even have asked for an outside line and put through the call herself. That is possible, of course, with the PABX system.”
“But it could still be overheard by the person on the board.”
“If he plugged in, I suppose it could.”
Dalgliesh said: “Miss Bolam told Cully late in the afternoon that she was expecting Mr. Lauder and she may have mentioned the visit to other people. We don’t know. No one will admit to having been told except Cully. In the circumstances, that isn’t perhaps surprising. We’re not going to get much further with it at present. What I must do now is to find out what Miss Bolam wanted to tell Mr. Lauder. One of the first possibilities to be considered in a place like this must be blackmail. God knows that’s continuing and it’s serious enough.”
The medical director did not speak for a moment. Dalgliesh wondered whether he was contemplating a further remonstrance, selecting appropriate words to express concern or disbelief. Then he said quietly: “Of course it’s serious. There’s no point in wasting time discussing just how serious. Obviously, having thought up this theory, you have to carry through your investigation. Any other course of action would be most unfair to the members of my staff. What do you want me to do?”
“To help me select a victim. Later, perhaps, to make some telephone calls.”
“You appreciate, Superintendent, that the case records are confidential?”
“I’m not asking to see a single case record. But if I did, I don’t think either you or the patient need worry. Shall we get started? We can take out our class one patients. Perhaps you would call out the codes for me.”
A considerable number of the Steen patients were in class one. Upper-class neuroses catered for only, thought Dalgliesh. He surveyed the field for a moment and then said: “If I were the blackmailer, would I choose a man or a woman? It would depend on my own sex, probably. A woman might pick on a woman. But, if it’s a question of a regular income, a man is probably a better bet. Let’s take out the males next. I imagine our victim will live out of London. It would be risky to select an ex-patient who could too easily succumb to the temptation to pop into the clinic and let you know what was going on. I think I’d select my victim from a small town or village.”
The medical director said: “We only coded the country if it were an out-London address. London patients are coded by borough. Our best plan will be to take out all the London addresses and see what’s left.”
This was done. The number of cards still in the survey was now only a few dozen. Most of the Steen patients, as might be expected, came from the county of London. Dalgliesh said: “Married or single? It’s difficult to decide whether one or the other would be most vulnerable. Let’s leave it open and start on the diagnosis. This is where I need your help particularly, Doctor. I realize this is highly confidential information. I suggest that you call out the codes for the diagnoses or symptoms which might interest a blackmailer. I don’t want details.”
Again the medical director paused. Dalgliesh waited patiently, metal rod in hand, while the doctor sat in silence, the code book open before him. He seemed not to be seeing it. After a minute he roused himself and focused his eyes on the page. He said quietly: “Try codes 23, 68, 69 and 71.” There were now only eleven cards remaining. Each of them bore a case-record number on the top right-hand margin.
Dalgliesh made a note of the numbers and said: “This is as far as we can go with the diagnostic index. We must now do what I think our blackmailer did, have a look at the case records and learn more of our prospective victims. Shall we go down to the basement?”
The medical director got up without a word. As they went down the stairs, they passed Miss Kettle on her way up. She nodded to the medical director and gave Dalgliesh a brief, puzzled glance as if wondering whether he were someone she had met and ought to recognize. In the hall Dr. Baguley was talking with Sister Ambrose. They broke off and turned to watch with grave, unsmiling faces as Dr. Etherege and Dalgliesh made their way to the basement stairs. At the other end of the hall the grey outline of Cully’s head could be seen through the glass of the reception kiosk. The head did not turn and Dalgliesh guessed that Cully, absorbed in his contemplation of the front door, had not heard them.
The record room was locked, but no longer sealed. In the porters’ restroom Nagle was putting on his coat, evidently on his way out to an early lunch. He made no sign as the medical director took the record-room key from its hook, but the flash of interest in his mild, mud-brown eyes was not lost on Dalgliesh. They had been well observed. By early afternoon everyone in the clinic would know that he had examined the diagnostic index with the medical director and then visited the record room. To one person that information would be of crucial interest. What Dalgliesh hoped was that the murderer would become frightened and desperate; what he feared was that he would become more dangerous.
Dr. Etherege switched on the light in the record room and the fluorescent tubes flickered, yellowed and blazed into whiteness. The room stood revealed. Dalgliesh smelt again its characteristic smell, compounded of mustiness, old paper and the tang of hot metal. He watched without betraying any emotion while the medical director locked the door on the inside and slipped the key in his pocket.