‘No, you’re not,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve always wondered where you stood in that general direction. What would you call yourself, Harry? Atheist? Agnostic? Humanist?’
At last he was getting something of the quality of Meyrick. Those were questions but they were leading questions, and he was quite prepared to discuss philosophy with her — a nice safe subject. ‘Not an atheist,’ he said. ‘It’s always seemed to me that to believe in the non-existence of something is somewhat harder than to believe in its existence. I’d put myself down as an agnostic — one of the “don’t know” majority. And that doesn’t conflict with humanism.’
He fingered the notes and coins on the table, counted them mentally, subtracted the price of two beers based on what he had paid for a beer in the hotel, and arrived at the price of a packet of cigarettes. Roughly, that is. He had an idea that the price of a beer in a luxury hotel would be far higher than in an open-air café.
‘I went to church last Sunday,’ she said pensively. ‘To the English church — you know — the one on Møllergata.’ He nodded as though he did know. ‘I didn’t get much out of it. I think next time I’ll try the American church.’ She frowned. ‘Where is the American church, Harry?’
He had to say something, so he took a chance. ‘Isn’t it near the Embassy?’
Her brow cleared. ‘Of course. Between Bygdøy Alle and Drammens Veien. It’s funny, isn’t it? The American church being practically next door to the British Embassy. You’d expect it to be near the American Embassy.’
He gulped. ‘Yes, you would,’ he said, and forbore to mention that that was what he had meant. Even a quasitheological conversation was strewn with pitfalls. He had to get out of this before he really dropped a clanger.
And an alarming suspicion had just sprung to mind, fully armed and spiky. Whoever had planted him in that hotel room and provided him with money and the means to provide all the necessities of life — and a lot of the luxuries, too — was unlikely to leave him unobserved. Someone would be keeping tabs on him, otherwise the whole operation was a nonsense. Could it be this redhead who apparently had qualms about her immortal soul? What could be better than to plant someone right next to him for closer observation?
She opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. ‘You’re sure you won’t?’
He shook his head. ‘Quite sure.’
‘It must be marvellous to have will power.’
He wanted peace and not this continuous exploration of a maze where every corner turned could be more dangerous than the last. He started to cough again, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘I think you’re right; I’d be better off in bed. Do you mind if I leave you?’
‘Of course not.’ Her voice was filled with concern. ‘Do you want a doctor?’
‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow — I know how these turns take me.’ He stood up and she also rose. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. The hotel is only across the road.’
He picked up the packet and thrust the maps back into it, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. She looked down at his feet. ‘You’ve dropped something,’ she said, and stooped to pick it up. ‘Why, it’s a Spiralen Doll.’
‘A what?’ he asked incautiously. It must have been pulled from his pocket when he took out the handkerchief.
She regarded him oddly. ‘You pointed these out at the Spiralen when we were there last week. You laughed at them and called them tourist junk. Don’t you remember?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just this damned headache.’
She laughed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you carrying one. You didn’t buy this when we were there — where did you get it?’
He told the truth. ‘I found it in the car I hired.’
‘You can’t trust anyone to do a good job these days,’ she said, smiling. ‘Those cars are supposed to be cleaned and checked.’ She held it out. ‘Do you want it?’
‘I may be a bit light-headed,’ he said, ‘but I think I do.’ He took it from her. ‘I’ll be going now.’
‘Have a hot toddy and a good night’s sleep,’ she advised. ‘And ring me as soon as you’re better.’
That would be difficult, to say the least, with neither telephone number nor name. ‘Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be well enough to have dinner. I promise not to stand you up again.’
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Promise,’ he insisted, not wanting to lose her.
‘Promise.’
He put the rope doll into his pocket and left her with a wave, and went out of the garden, across the road and into the hotel, feeling relieved that he was well out of a difficult situation. Information, he thought, as he walked across the hotel lobby; that’s what I need — I’m hamstrung without it.
He paused at the porter’s desk and the porter looked up with a quick smile. ‘Your key, sir?’ He swung around and unhooked it.
On impulse Denison held out the doll. ‘What’s that?’
The porter’s smile broadened. ‘That’s a Spiralen Doll, sir.’
‘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.