Terror's Cradle

He handed them back to me politely. 'I know so little. Miss Hay had a booking for ten days. She slept here one night. On the following night she apparently telephoned the police, said she was in grave danger and asked for immediate protection. The police sent a car without delay. When it arrived, she had gone.'

`The phone call,' I asked. Was it made from the hotel?' Òh, yes.'

`You're sure?'

`Certainly. It was put through the hotel operator.' Àt what time?'

Àt five minutes past eleven, I believe. The list can be checked if it is important.'

`She didn't tell you she was in danger?'

'No.'

'Or any of the staff?'

`What about her room. May I see it?'

Ì'm sorry.' He shrugged again, but with a touch of irritation. 'The room is locked. Instructions from the police, you understand. If you get their permission, then naturally .

.

I said, Was there any commotion?'

`No.'

`What about her things. Were they disturbed?'

`By the police, inevitably. They spent much time in the room.'

`But there was no sign of a struggle?'

He sighed a little. 'These are questions you must ask the police, Mr Sellers. I am simply the manager of a hotel. We prefer — '

`Not to get involved?'

`Naturally. No hotel likes these affairs. If I can help, naturally I will. But I have told you all that I know. I really think you should talk to the police now.'

I nodded. 'I will, Mr Pederson. Thanks.'

He showed me out with the same neutral courtesy, trying to mask his distaste for the whole business, but it showed all the same.

Òne more thing,' I said. 'She tried to phone me that night. I'd like to know what time that was.'

Òf course. I will ask the telephonist.'

I learned that Alsa had made, or tried to make, three phone calls that night. The first was to London, to the Daily News, but not presumably to Scown or he'd have mentioned it. The second was to me, the third to the police. It seemed likely she'd rung London to find out where I was, tried to reach me and finally, nearly three hours later, she'd called the police. What had happened in those three hours?

I'd have to get on to the police. I went up to my room intending to ring them but changed my mind and decided to go in person. d was putting on a raincoat when the phone rang. An Inspector Schmid was downstairs and would like to see me. I told them to send him up, removed my mac and waited. Pederson had clearly called the police the moment I'd gone.

When the knock came on the door, I opened it and two men came into my room.

`Mr Sellers?' the first one asked. He was surprisingly small, no more than five feet six or so. I nodded. The size of policemen is in reverse ratio to the prosperity of a country. Ì am Inspector Schmid. This is Sergeant Gustaffson. I understand you are here about the case of Miss Alison Hay.'

`Sit down,' I said. Schmid sat. His sergeant apparently preferred to stand.

`How much do you know, Mr Sellers?'

`Not much. What the hotel manager told me.'

`We ourselves know very little more.'

`No news, then?'.

`None.'

I said, 'People don't just vanish. Do you know how she left the hotel?'

`We are concerned,' Schmid said, 'because this lady had just returned from the Soviet Union.'

Ì know she had. Why do you think it's relevant?'

He smiled. 'I prefer to believe everything is relevant until it is eliminated. May I see your passport?'

I handed it over and he flipped through the pages, then looked up at me. 'I see you have been to the Soviet Union recently, too.'

Not too recently. Some time ago'

`Yes.' He gave the passport back to me. 'I know, of course, the reason for her presence in Gothenburg. But not in detail.'

I said, 'The company she works for is producing a magazine about Russia for sale in Britain. She went to Russia to collect material and came here to put it together. The magazine's being printed here.'

`Why is that?'

Ùsual reasons. Suitable printer at a suitable price.' `Yes.' He looked at me for a moment.

'Why was a woman sent?'

`Because . . I hesitated. I didn't fully understand Scown's reasons myself. 'I suppose because she was the right person to do it. She knew magazine production.'

`But it would be unusual to send a woman?'

À bit,' I said. 'We're male chauvinist pigs in Fleet Street.' `You're what?'

Ìt's a man's world,' I said. The thing is, it wasn't just

"a woman" who was sent, any more than they'd send just any man. She went because she'

s damn good.'

Ànd very attractive? I have seen her photograph.' `Then you know the answer.'

Àlso, she has charm?'

`More than most,' I said. More than any was what I meant, but I was keeping things deliberately fiat. Police forces the world over send worried lovers and husbands home for a cup of tea. It's a conditioned reflex.

He saw through me though. 'Your relationship with Alison Hay?'

Ì've known her a long time. Her father was a friend. So is she. And we worked together for a while.'

He nodded, glanced down at his fingers, and muttered something I didn't quite catch.

`Sorry?'

He looked up, met my eyes deliberately and said quickly: `Why did you go to Russia, Mr Sellers?'

If I hadn't been so worried about Alsa, I'd have laughed. The old interrogator's punctuation trick ! I said, 'On the same thing.'

`The same magazine?'

`That's right.'

`Why? Why was it necessary to—'

I interrupted. 'Because I made a mess of things and they

threw me out. She apparently did the job properly.' Schmid nodded and rose. 'Thank you. If we have any

news, you will be informed.'

Not so fast,' I said. 'There are things I want to know.' `Well?'

Ì'd like to see her room.'

`No.'

`Why not?'

`We want nothing disturbed. It may be important, Mr Sellers.'

`There may also,' I said sarcastically, 'be something there that will help.. Something you wouldn't see and I would. That could be important, tool'

`Possibly. However, that is the decision. As I said, you will be informed a any development.'

I wanted to hit him, instead I made myself speak quietly. Ìt's forty-eight hours now, Inspector Schmid. Are you really telling me you've discovered nothing? Don't you even know where she went, who she saw, why she was afraid?'

Schmid said, 'One possibility, Mr Sellers, is that she was carrying something out of the Soviet Union. Had that occurred to you?' He was pulling the same trick again, looking me suddenly hard in the eye.

I said, 'Sure she was. She was carrying articles and pictures. Enough for six issues of the magazine. She was a journalist, not a spy.'

Ìs the distinction always so clear?'

`She wasn't a spy,' I said. 'You can be quite certain of that. If she was carrying anything, it was planted on her.'

Schmid nodded. 'We are aware of that possibility, too.'

Then he slid out, without looking back, and the big sergeant followed. I watched the door close. Appropriate. I faced a closed door, all right. I picked up the phone and gave the operator Scown's phone number, the line that wasn't intercepted by secretaries, and listened to the assorted clicks as the call was routed.

`What is it?' Other people give their names or numbers, or at least say, yes? Scown assumes the worst.

`The police aren't very co-operative,' I said.

`Who's that?'

`Sellers.'

Àre they ever?'

`They've closed the door,' I said. Tut I want to check one thing. She phoned the office that night. To whom did she speak and what did she say?'

`Your number?'

I told him and he put the phone down.

Miss ,Harrison, the editor's secretary, rang me back ten minutes or so later. She said, '