“This is a notion that has an appeal-we now know-for Rapson! He himself has an unwanted, defective and expensive offspring round his neck. I think the victim of blackmail became himself a blackmailer. Instead of rushing to the police, he confronted the villains he uncovered and made them an offer: ‘Extend your services to me as a personal favour for not blowing the gaff. I have another little job for you.’ ”
“What a fool!”
“Not the brightest. He took on a cold and clinical organisation who deal in death.”
“Death, sir? You’d go that far? I was thinking on the lines of segregation or sterilisation. The loony bin or the snip. Possibly both?”
“There was one eu word the doctor didn’t utter. The second part of it is another Greek word: thanatos. Death. An easy death. Let’s call them a Euthanasian Society. I think these birds went along with Rapson as far as sending the car after dark to make the pickup. But something went wrong. The child escapes, or is never presented, or was never going to be taken, the car takes off into the night, and Rapson staggers back, dying of knife wounds. Having got his comeuppance?”
“We need to look again at that courtyard when the snow’s finally disappeared.” Martin’s voice suddenly held a ray of hope. “Who knows what tale it may be able to tell us if we look in the right places, sir. This organisation-I like the sound of that. Several people involved, are we thinking?”
“Almost certainly. Rapson, I’m sure, must have worked out that if there is such an organisation in place, it very likely features the headmaster. Farman. The man who attends the meetings of the Eugenics Education Society. The man who has no time for anyone of less than human perfection.”
“Unless it’s himself, of course. Farman! You’d be looking at him a long time before you thought of Adonis! I can’t see it, sir. Eugenist by conviction, I’ll grant you that, but cold-blooded murderer? Naw! He’d preach ’em to death, but I doubt he’d lay a finger on one. I can’t see him shoving a child off a cliff one dark night.”
“Nor can I, Martin. I think he’s just a cog in a much greater machine. He’s an enabler-does the word exist? Oh, Lord! I find myself trying to avoid euphemisms after Carter’s little pep talk! He’s a sort of Charon. Not killing the children himself but ferr-oh, my God!”
Joe stood, unable to move, mind racing.
“You all right sir? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have.” Joe shuddered. “A ghastly, grey-garbed, pitiless figure. Charon. Do you know what the headmaster’s name is in German? A horrible coincidence? I’m not superstitious or particularly credulous, Martin, but this makes my blood run cold. It was Gosling who said it-as a joke. ‘Herr Fahrmann,’ he called him. Fahrmann. In German that’s the Ferryman.”
“By God! Funny that! Makes you think. I wonder where he’s stashed all those obols he’s collected for punting the kids across to the Underworld?”
“That’s a very copper-ish thought!” Joe grinned. His smile faded quickly. “But I’ll replace it with something more sober-I fear we have one lost soul still adrift on the river.”
“Maybe two, sir. Did you notice that file Carter had on his desk at the ready when we went in?”
“I did. I thought he was going to refer to it, but he didn’t.”
“He was surprised when you opened up with the Bellefoys. That wasn’t what he was prepared for.”
“Did you catch the name on the file, Martin? Weston? Means nothing to me.”
“Means something to me! I put a sergeant in charge of it. That blacksmith’s son who went missing Tuesday. Jem Weston’s lad, Walter. Now, why was the doc expecting to be grilled about little Walter? I’ll get hold of my sergeant. I was going to call him off the inquiry, but I’ll leave it open a bit longer. Take responsibility myself.”
“Another thread, Martin? Give it a tug! Use your local clout!”
“Ah, yes, thinking of local clout, sir, did I hear you say I’d managed to twist a magistrate’s arm to sign one of your search warrants-and all before breakfast? I don’t remember bursting in on old Brigadier Murchison as he buttered his toast. How come?”
Joe passed the headed sheet over to his colleague. “Forged, of course. I always carry one. One day some bugger will twig, insist on studying the small print and challenge the signature, and then I’ll have to do a bit of fast thinking, but it’s held good so far! Now, race you to the telephone!”
CHAPTER 23
Gosling was hopping from foot to foot at the bottom of the back stairs as they clattered in, Joe a few yards ahead of the inspector.
He launched straight into his message. “Masterson’s reported back, sir!” He looked warily at Martin.
“Go ahead. Martin needs to know. Our cases have become one, Gosling.”
“Very well. The Spielmans are on the move! Herr S. has signed off at the Embassy. Masterson thinks his role there was temporary, cooked up or clandestine. Anyway, short-lived. According to Messrs. Thomas Cook, he’s booked a passage back to Berlin with his wife and son. Three tickets. They take the boat train and arrive in Dover to catch the morning ferry. That’s tomorrow morning, sir. Masterson is arranging for one of our operatives to watch them from the station. But, sir, watch is all we can do. You do realise that a man in his position has diplomatic immunity? Officially, he can come and go by any conveyance without question. No way we can hassle him.”
“Where are they now?”
“Gone to ground! They’ve checked in at a small hotel near the station. Two of them. They don’t yet have their son with them, sir.”
“Awaiting delivery from wherever he’s spent the last two days, are we thinking? But in what condition? Did you get any hints from the other parents of the disappeared, Gosling? Any luck?”
“Not much.” He held out a notebook. “I didn’t ring Alicia, of course. I know her responses, and I don’t want to raise her hopes. She starts every conversation with the same words: ‘Have you found him yet?’ ”
“She must know her son is dead, surely?” Joe asked gently. He had noted Gosling’s tendresse for the mother of the missing Peterkin. Another little monkey hanging onto a furry substitute?
“Oh, yes. She’s nobody’s fool. She wants simply to know the truth and, at best, to bury her son.”
The three men settled into Martin’s ground-floor headquarters to continue their meeting. Joe rapidly filled Martin in on the background to the nine missing boys, and Martin took some pleasure in telling Gosling of the information they had dug out on the Eugenist Society.
Gosling looked anxiously at his watch and then at Joe. “Remember our appointment at the clinic, sir. I’ll make this brief and give you my notes to look at while I drive.”
Gosling launched into his resumé.
“Nil returns first. Eliminate the dead wood.
“Number one-still not a clue as to ID.
“Number two. Jefferson 1910. No good. Last male member died in the war. I got hold of a granny. Sharp memory though. Young Douglas died of the influenza. His death certificate is in the family archives. And will the school kindly stop pestering them now, she added.”
“Ah! A footprint! Rapson was here before us.”
“Number three. Murgatroyd. Major. Again-dead of the flu. Streetly-Standish had done his best, but to no avail. I asked about the minor Murgatroyds. Thriving, both of them, thank you. The mother-that’s the second Mrs. M.-answered. Blessing in disguise. Their father died six years ago and the second son, hale and hearty and the apple of his mother’s eye, has inherited the title. Poor dear Lascelles! He would never have been able to carry the burden of the estate. Not quite all there, you know.”
“You manage to get some information over and above what’s strictly necessary to answer your questions, Gosling?” Joe said, amused.