Gresham was doing things with a tobacco-pouch. ‘Do you know how long an illness of this sort would take to develop? I mean, if it were caused by radiation?’
‘Well, I understand Sir Robert had a chat with some people at Bart’s Hospital who specialise in this sort of thing. I gather that leukaemia, for instance, normally takes at least five years.’
Gresham got up from his chair and began to pace the room slowly. Dick noticed for the first time how short he was — he hadn’t seemed so because he had none of the characteristics of small men. Gresham did not speak again until his pipe was going. ‘Surely it’s inconceivable to think that this could have been going on for five years without being detected?’
‘Yes, I think you’re right there. And, of course, the illness and the peculiarity of the tin could be quite unconnected. Still, they did say at Bart’s that in exceptional circumstances, given a big enough dose — especially in the case of a child — an illness could develop a good deal more quickly.’
Gresham suddenly caught sight of an object that had been newly fixed above the door. ‘What’s that thing?’ he said abruptly.
‘It’s a loudspeaker, sir. For relaying incoming telephone calls — so that everyone in the room can hear them.’
‘Good Lord, is it really?’
Simmel smiled and brought him gently back to the point. ‘I was saying about Bart’s. They said the absolute minimum time that any symptoms could be expected would be about two years.’
Gresham was still gazing at the loudspeaker. ‘Two years, eh? Let me see, that takes us to the spring of ‘57.’ He turned round suddenly. ‘Great Scott! You don’t think—’
‘Project 3, you mean? I shouldn’t think so. I imagine Seff and Gatt between them got everything pretty well buttoned-up.’
‘Buttoned-up.’ Gresham ruminated on the phrase for a moment. It seemed to please him. Then: ‘I’m sure you’re right. As I recall it, they didn’t find any pollution of the atmosphere, did they?’
Simmel didn’t really feel competent to discuss the technicalities of the affair. He made another determined effort to get back to the point. ‘This business about Heatherfield.’
‘Sorry, Dick! I keep interrupting. Fire ahead.’
‘That’s okay, sir. Anyway, as soon as we heard from Cartwright we sent urgent signals to just about every hospital — both here and abroad — that we could think of. And the results were all negative — except one. But when we looked into that single instance we found we’d got all we wanted to know. With a vengeance.
‘The cable we got back from Mombasa General Hospital stated that two men had been detained with mild symptoms of what could only be radiation sickness. That’s not the same, of course, as the kind of blood disease that develops eventually if you eat contaminated food. The sickness is always the result of being exposed to external sources of radiation.’
‘What, like getting too near a piece of cobalt-60, or something like that?’
‘Yes. Well, it soon became clear what had happened when the authorities started to investigate. The men concerned were members of a crew of a freight ship called the Henry Starbuck. (Incidentally, she was carrying some passengers on the voyage in question, and that’s where Heatherfield comes in.) The men occupied a cabin immediately in front of the Number One Hold, with only a wooden partition between the cargo and them.’
‘And what was in the hold?’
Dick looked up at him. ‘There were two tons of Spigett’s Baked Beans,’ he said quietly.
II. THE FIRST DAY
CHAPTER FOUR
Arlen Gatt heaved himself into the chair nearest the swing-doors.
You never knew with Gatt. And this morning — the first day of the conference — he seemed quite affable, Kate thought. He sat there, this huge hunk of a man, leafing through some papers he had taken from his battered dispatch-case. He was the first to arrive, having come straight from the airport.
He consulted the large face of his gold wrist-watch and grunted. ‘What time does this performance begin?’ he demanded. Kate told him ten o’clock. ‘Pretty grim, eh, this business? What do you think about it?’ The question evidently didn’t require an answer. ‘Will Mr Seff be here?’
‘He’s flying down specially. He should be here soon.’
‘Well, why run two cars from the airport. I could have waited there for him.’
‘He came R.A.F. and will be landing at Northolt, Mr Gatt.’ Gatt had come via London Airport.
He smiled suddenly. ‘I’d better shut up.’ He didn’t, though. ‘How’s your boy-friend?’
She went a little red. ‘If you mean Mr Simmel, he’s quite well, thank you.’
‘Is that the comparative quite, or the superlative quite?’
‘Just ordinary quite.’
She was well used to this sort of thing from Gatt. He never could resist the temptation to dig into other people’s affairs. It was a kind of game; you scored a goal when you got the other person rattled. But Kate wasn’t easily rattled, so it always went on longer with her. He tried again. ‘Aren’t you his mistress or something?’ he asked interestedly.
‘No, I am not his mistress. Or something.’
‘Why not? This Department needs a little sex.’
‘What it needs and what I’m going to provide it with are two different things. But perhaps I’m old-fashioned.’
‘Not old-fashioned. Just unscientific. Don’t tell me you’re going to marry him?’
‘I didn’t tell you I’m going to marry him! He hasn’t asked me to, anyway.’ She was getting rattled now, thought Gatt. Kate said: ‘What have you got, particularly, against marriage? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.’
‘I’m not talking about me. But if you want the answer to your question, look around.’ He meant Seff, of course.
This, thought Kate, was not quite playing by the rules — even Gatt’s rules, which were pretty malleable. The unhappy state of the Seff home was well-known to her, and in any case Angela Seff would be arriving at any moment and would know intuitively that she was the subject of the conversation. Fortunately Kate was saved from having to make any comment, because Simmel stepped out of the lift with his patent half-run and pushed open the glass swing-doors briskly. He seemed more relaxed this morning.
‘I don’t see my breakfast anywhere,’ he said. Then he saw Gatt.
Kate indicated with a tiny jigger of the eyebrows that all was reasonably calm.
‘You don’t have to signal,’ said Gatt. ‘I survived the flight.’
Simmel’s slight smile was one of relief. ‘How about some breakfast, Mr Gatt?’
‘Mine was courtesy of B.E.A.,’ said Gatt, ‘but you go ahead. Incidentally, why the change of policy?’
‘You mean first-class air travel? Purely shock-tactics, sir. I’ve been reading one of those little books on industrial psychology.’ He sat on the edge of Kate’s desk. ‘New dress,’ he said.
‘Just a little thing I ran up.’
Gatt said: ‘Any notes for me?’
Kate burrowed in a drawer. ‘Two lots so far, Mr Gatt.’ She handed them to Simmel, who took them over.
Simmel said: ‘One about an incident near Oxford; the other in Kenya.’
‘You realise I know practically nothing about this business?’ said Gatt. ‘Is it really such a mystery?’
Dick was suddenly serious. ‘If it’s half as bad as the Director thinks, it’s not only a mystery but a pretty desperate business altogether. Still, I’m not allowed to comment on it — not even to you — until the conference.’