Dover Beach (32 page)

"Good night, Kathy."

And she left me alone in the living room. It didn't seem quite right to sleep with her, with my theory looming over us. We both seemed to understand that. And I had another reason for wanting to stay up. I got the letter from Bobby and took it over to the rocking chair. I sat down and stared at it for a moment, savoring my expectation, and then I opened it. It was laboriously printed in black ink on white lined paper.

Dear Wally,

Season's Greetings from your freinds in America! Gwen and all showed your postcard to me, so I decided to respond thru my trusty secketary ** Doctor J** (Hi!—**Doctor J**) as my eyes aren't what they used to be. It's good to hear your doing well and the case is coming along. We all have great faith in your ability. Have you managed to kill any Brits yet?

We are all fine. Well, that is not exackly true, Linc has been feeling pretty bad as you know and we are all worried about him. Maybe if he can make it thru the winter everything will be ok. Stretch is the same as always. He is feeling pretty important as he is in line for a promotion. Someone should cut him down to size (ha ha). He has put a sign up at your office like he promised.

Gwen is working hard. She doesn't say anything but of course she misses you. She isn't writing because she says your coming back soon once you wrap up your case so why bother?

As far as Gallagher Enterprises Inc. is concerned we are doing great. We made another run up to Mr. Fitch's place the other night. Some nice porselin, a grandfather clock, even another Sarjent. The things that are still out their! He was awful disappointed that you weren't with us but he understood when I told him about England. He started resiting Shakspear and it was all pretty boring, altho Im sure you would have liked it.

Speaking of paintings, I have been waiting for your Renwars to come back from the shop. I think they'll look great in my office don't you?

Anyway we all hope you are well and doing fine. Write to us again and let us know what you are up to. And dont forget to go to **Ireland** which Im sure is a lot nicer than crummy old England.

Happy New Year!

Bobby

(and **Doctor J**!)

I read the letter about fourteen times, even though I had memorized it the first time through. It made me feel slightly dizzy—the way I had felt my last night in Boston, standing by the statue of Columbus—as if I or the world were spinning too fast.

I wanted to concentrate on the news—on Linc's sickness and Stretch's promotion and all the rest. But I couldn't. I could only think about one thing: my case.

I had another Theory.

Strange that it should arrive in such an offhand manner, via a casual letter from an old friend. But my first theory had arrived in much the same way, from casual reading of a few newspapers. Not the way it's written up in the private-eye textbooks, certainly. Maybe both theories were wrong—maybe they were as absurd as Winfield's. I just didn't know, and my gut didn't tell me.

But I knew that I would find out tomorrow.

I stood up and stared out the window. The street was empty; the world was asleep.
Tomorrow
, I thought.
Tomorrow.
I sat back down, folded up the letter, and started rocking, thankful for once that I had the long sleepless night in which to think and plan.

Chapter 28

In the morning I went out early and bought a newspaper. There was nothing in it about a teenager being killed. Good. And no one followed me. Bad. I was very nervous.

* * *

Kathy looked just as nervous when she got up, and I felt obliged to reassure her. "How are you going to find the list?" she asked.

"Oh, we private eyes have our ways. Can I borrow the notebook I gave you?"

"Of course." It was on her night table. She handed it to me. "I'm afraid I haven't had any insights about my character to put in it yet."

"That's all right. They'll come."

She sat on the bed and stared down at an old scatter rug. "What shall we do," she asked, "if you don't find out anything?"

"Don't worry," I said. "We private eyes always find out something."

"I think you've read too many novels, Walter."

"Funny, you're not the first person to tell me that."

* * *

For some reason I felt obliged to reassure Winfield too. He was bleary-eyed but apparently rational when he came out of his room looking for breakfast. "It's going to be dangerous," he warned. "These people burned down Cornwall's house. No telling what they'll do to you."

"I can handle them," I said. "Everything's under control."

"I don't like the idea of being left alone," he said when he found out Kathy was also leaving.

"No one's going to bother you. I'm going to take care of that too."

He shook his head. "I hope you know what you're doing."

I smiled and nodded confidently. I hoped so too.

* * *

I left Kathy getting dressed and Winfield sitting by the desk, staring nervously at the unlocked door.

This was it, then. Time to show what I could do. Time to show that I was more than a novel reader. When I reached the street, I stopped for a moment and looked around casually. I thought I saw him, but I wasn't sure. The day was cold and clear. I walked slowly to the right, feeling the faint rays of the sun on my face. I started to speed up as I turned the corner. Then I stopped abruptly and bent over to tie a shoelace that did not need tying. I caught a glimpse of a gray-overcoated man across the street, struggling to keep up. That was all I needed. I stood up and kept walking.

I could have raced across the street and confronted the man, and in the process tested Theory 2 in all its particulars, but there would be time enough for that. Theory 1 was more important right now; I just needed to know that the gray-overcoated man was with me.

I walked through Soho, the theater district, and Trafalgar Square, then down the starchily official length of Whitehall. The Ministry of Science was in a little courtyard in a little side street. Its location was commensurate with its status in the government, I supposed. I walked inside. The gray-overcoated man would not follow me here, I knew; instead he would be forced to linger outside in the cold, curious and impatient, while I did my business. I hoped he would not have to linger long.

I was standing in an oppressively ornate foyer. Grim portraits of royalty and stuffy ministers stared down at me. A tiny fire smoked in a marble fireplace. The place was as cold as any building in Boston.

A couple of bobbies stood guard next to a large reception desk, where an old and cranky-looking woman was talking on the telephone. She was wearing a black dress, and looked like she was in perpetual mourning. I stood in front of her until she put the receiver down. "May I help you?" she asked. Her tone suggested that a positive response would be the greatest of impositions.

"I'd like to see Mr. Carstairs, please. Mr. J. T. Carstairs."

"No Mr. Carstairs here." A hint of triumph in her voice this time: complete victory on the first exchange.

I was prepared for the response. It had been a long time, after all, and I hadn't come across the name in any of the stuff I had read about the place at the newspaper library. "Perhaps I could speak to his successor, then," I suggested.

She stared in amazement at my persistence—and my idiocy. "There's
never
been a Mr. Carstairs here," she said. "Eighteen years I've worked here in this Ministry and never a Mr. Carstairs."

I wasn't prepared for that. I don't forget things. The letter had been signed "J. T. Carstairs." He had been from the Ministry of Science.
I have enclosed a list of those scientists whom our American Relief Expedition accommodated with air transportation to England....
The secretary could have been senile, but she certainly didn't sound it.

Not an auspicious start. But I couldn't stop to puzzle it out; I had to talk to
somebody.
And, after all, Carstairs was just a name: he was no more likely to have the information I needed than anyone else.

I smiled my most winning smile. "I wonder if you could help me, then. Someone gave me the name of this Carstairs person, but obviously it's a mistake. I'm a reporter—for
The Boston Globe,
back in America. Perhaps you've heard of it? No? Well, I'm researching an article on American scientists working in England, you see, and I wanted to talk to someone in this Ministry. Perhaps you could suggest the appropriate person."

"You'll want the Public Information Department, then," she said accusatorily. "I'll ring Mr. Finch-Thistle. Your name?"

"I would certainly appreciate that. The name is Sands. Walter Sands."

She rang, held a brief conversation, then hung up. "Mr. Finch-Thistle will be with you presently," she announced, and she gestured dismissively toward an uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chair. I sat and awaited Mr. Finch-Thistle.

The name conjured up images of some epicene British bureaucrat, sallow and supercilious. The person who finally came for me was quite different—young, florid-faced, and with the mischievous eyes of a schoolboy. He looked as if he enjoyed his pints of bitter. "Mr. Sands? Arthur Finch-Thistle here."

I stood up, and we shook hands.

"We don't get many reporters from the States," he said as he escorted me up a grand staircase. "In fact, I believe you're the first I've encountered."

"Things are starting to pick up over there," I said.

"Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it." He led me through a frosted-glass door into a tiny office that bulged with stacks of paper. The window behind his desk was filthy; one pane was broken and had been replaced with plywood. "Excuse the squalor, if you would. Budget cuts, you understand."

"I understand." I sat on a chair with a cracked plastic seat that had been poorly repaired with strips of tape. I began to feel comfortable; the place reminded me of my own office.

"Now, how can the Public Information Department help you, Mr. Sands?"

My story had to be adapted slightly for my new audience, but basically it was the same one I had prepared for the mysterious J. T. Carstairs. "Are you aware, Mr. Finch-Thistle, that the British forces brought many American scientists back to England after the war?"

"Um, certainly sounds familiar. Before my time, of course."

"Well, I'm interested in one of these scientists: a biologist by the name of Robert Cornwall. When he lived in America, Cornwall was involved in cloning. Do you know what cloning is, Mr. Finch-Thistle?"

"Copying a frog or something, right? Never was very good in biology. Call me Arthur, incidentally. Saves a lot of energy."

"Great. Call me Walter. You're right about copying frogs—but Cornwall was interested in copying people too. And that's what I believe he's been doing here in England."

"I daresay this Ministry isn't involved with anything like that, Walter."

"I'm not so sure about that, Arthur," I said. I took a breath.
Here goes.
"Cornwall ran a research center at Bromford up until about ten years ago, when this Ministry shut it down. It was shut down, apparently, because people started raising questions about what was going on there. Cornwall then went to Oxford, and he retired a few years ago."

"But this is all ancient history," Arthur said, smiling. "It was the old government."

"True, but if my information is correct, and Cornwall was cloning human beings at Bromford, the question remains:
What happened to the clones?
Is it possible that the Hatton government, while it might not actually support cloning, might be willing to enjoy the fruits of the previous government's efforts? I'm not saying that's true, I'm just raising the possibility. It's one I raised with Cornwall, incidentally, when I interviewed him recently."

"And what did he say?"

"He told me a lot," I lied. "He said, for example, that he had been cloning military leaders, mathematical geniuses, and the like at Bromford. He said that Hatton's government had stopped further cloning, but they certainly intended to use the existing clones for the government's own purposes when the time was right. And immediately after the interview he did a curious thing."