Operation Pax (32 page)

‘True enough. And, in point of fact, I don’t think we need be in any doubt about the place. Our poor uncle’s danger is DTs. And this clinic – ostensibly, at least – is nothing more than a high-class drunk’s home. The alcohol habit cured in six weeks. Utmost privacy assured. Fee, five hundred guineas.’

‘And something else goes on behind?’

‘Something else goes on behind.’ Remnant paused. ‘Unless, that is, we’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘You think I’m making a fool of both of us?’

Remnant shook his head decidedly. ‘I certainly don’t think that. But you must admit that, so far, there’s precious little evidence of dirty work behind the curtain. If only – Good Lord, look at that little boy!’

The boy’s desire to plague his companions had increased yet further. He had gone up to an elderly lady apparently engaged upon a crossword puzzle and insufferably snatched her paper from her. The lady had merely smiled and made a small, resigned gesture. And at this the boy had lost control of himself. Darting forward again, he had dealt her a stinging blow across the face. And – once more –the lady simply smiled.

This was the startling incident that had attracted Remnant’s attention. But it was not concluded. The boy had drawn back. He was very frightened. He looked from face to face of the people scattered around him. Some of them had seen his act; others were preoccupied. But nobody made any move. He gave a choking cry and rushed at a tall man with a pipe in his mouth who was sitting in idle contemplation of the garden. The boy knocked the pipe to the ground and clawed, battered at the tall man’s face. The man smiled, slightly shook his head, got up and moved to another seat. Most of the people were now watching. They watched as if nothing abnormal was occurring. But this was itself the only abnormal thing about them. They conversed, smoked, looked up from or returned to their books with every sign of reasonable mental alertness. The boy threw himself down on the terrace and sobbed. At this the lady whom he had first struck rose and bent over him solicitously. Others showed a similar kindly concern. And then from a door farther along the terrace a nurse hurried out, picked up the weeping child, and carried him away. The whole incident vanished. Everybody was completely composed. It was like seeing a wet sponge being passed over a slate.

Remnant had got to his feet. He and Jane looked at each other wide-eyed. Without a word passed between them, they knew that they were agreed. They had witnessed something unutterably shocking. A child’s temper tantrum had betrayed the presence of abomination – there, in the clear sunlight, only a few yards away. It was something obscure, and at the same time instantly clamant. They had witnessed the fruit of some horrible violation of human personality.

Jane heard Remnant catch his breath and saw him move in half a dozen swift strides to the lower terrace. He looked quickly round the people assembled there and picked out a man in a somewhat different category from the others. He was younger and of fine physique, with a strong mouth and jaw; he might have been a professional soldier. Remnant stepped up to him and slapped his face hard. The man jerked back his head. Remnant could see pain – perhaps two sorts of pain – in his eyes. Then he too smiled, rose, walked quietly away.

Remnant returned to the upper terrace. He was very pale. At the same moment the nurse who had carried off the boy returned with a second nurse somewhat older than herself. They moved about among the group of people, speaking to them briefly. Each of those so spoken to nodded, smiled, rose, and moved off. They betrayed no consciousness of awkwardness or discomfort, but went off in a group – either conversing placidly or glancing still at their open books. Within a few seconds the lower terrace was empty.

Jane was aware of something wrong with herself. She realized it was a sense of brute, physical nausea. But she could just trust herself to speak, and she opened her mouth to do so. Then she became aware that Dr Cline had come back. He was carrying a large diary.

‘I see that we can just manage it.’ He sat down, glanced at the empty lower terrace and then at his visitors. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I am afraid that you have been obliged to witness one of our little hitches. I assure you that they occur very infrequently. And I think I had better explain the system to you.’

Remnant nodded – and Jane noted with admiration that he did so very pleasantly. ‘Yes, Dr Cline, we should very much like to hear about the system.’

‘Our patients are divided into messes – into progressive messes. It is rather like the successive forms in a school. You must realize – and it is the reason why our treatment sometimes has to be of rather long duration – that alcoholic addiction is merely one form of addiction to drugs. It cannot be broken at once. The process must be gradual. Consumption is reduced in stages – stages, of course, that go hand in hand with the progress of our psychiatric and other treatments. And here let me emphasize that what we aim at eventually is
total
abstention. Experience has compelled us to conclude that a return to moderate indulgence is psychologically impracticable. It is a thousand pities – for, after all, a glass of wine is both a civilized and a wholesome pleasure.’

‘But with former addicts it doesn’t work?’

‘Precisely!’ Dr Cline tapped the book on his knees with measured and impressive emphasis. He was well launched on his sales talk once more. ‘Our patients go out drinking no alcohol – and our figures show that in eighty-seven per cent of cases the cure is permanent and absolute. Perhaps – on the psychological side – the decisive factor is this: that we never antagonize them. There is a positive transference from the first.’

Dr Cline paused on this weighty technical term. His smile was amiable, Jane thought, but his eye was wary. Remnant broke in smoothly. ‘I see. The patients, in fact, just love all they get?’

Dr Cline appeared gratified by this interpretation of the tenor of his remarks. ‘I think I can say that they are very well contented from the first. And now, about the messes. On arrival, most patients go into – well, what one might term the Lower Third.’ Dr Cline permitted himself a mild laughter at this scholastic pleasantry. ‘It is, of course, entirely a matter of the amount of wine and so forth served at table. In the Sixth – shall we say among the prefects? – there is none at all.’ He paused admiringly. ‘Not even a light cup; not even a glass of cider!’

‘Remarkable.’

‘I think I may say that it is. But of course it is necessary that intercourse between the various messes – and I need not tell you that each has its own dining-room – should be minimal. Otherwise a certain amount of friction and jealousy is apt to be engendered. The people we saw just now belong to a mess that ought not to be in this part of the grounds. Some mistake had been made. But I need hardly say that – such unfortunate slips apart – nobody here has ever the slightest feeling of being dragooned, of being ordered about… And now I will just mention some details about the fees, and so on. But perhaps we might go into that more conveniently indoors. And no doubt you will wish to go over the Clinic, so as to be able to give your aunt a full description of it.’

Remnant nodded. ‘We should certainly like to see,’ he said, ‘whatever can be seen.’

‘Which is everything!’ And Dr Cline smiled quite brilliantly as he led the way back to his study.

It seemed to Jane Appleby that matters were now at something of an
impasse
. They might be shown a great deal of Milton Manor Clinic. But nothing more would transpire that was at all to their purpose. They could get away, and then think again. Or presumably they could get away. For the Medical Superintendent appeared not in the least to suspect their
bona fides
, and there was no reason to suppose that the respectable and respectful persons who had unlocked gates upon their arrival would not unhesitatingly perform the same service for them when they signified a wish to depart. Yes, they could clear out – and consider themselves thoroughly lucky in doing so. Perhaps their account of the very odd thing they had seen would be sufficient immediately to procure a radical investigation of the whole place. But meantime she had seen or heard nothing of the fate of Geoffrey – which was the single and overwhelming concern with which she had come. She had seen only a brief, enigmatical horror which filled her with the deepest fears for the man she loved. And to go away hard upon that sinister and imperfect revelation seemed to hold something craven in it that she did not like.

The Medical Superintendent had sat down comfortably at his desk, opened his large diary, and produced a beautiful gold fountain pen. ‘I am bound to say that you are very wise’, he murmured. ‘In these cases quite a short space of time may be important. Monday, I think you said, Lord Remnant? Excellent! What can be more satisfactory than decisive action?’

‘What indeed?’ And Remnant, leaning across the desk, slapped Dr Cline hard across the right cheek.

The man scrambled to his feet and staggered backwards, his mouth feebly working. It did not appear that he was either a very courageous or a very quick-witted person. He stood staring at them helplessly with watering eyes. Then he made a dive for a drawer in his desk, emitting at the same time the enraged snarl of a cornered animal.

But Remnant was before him, and slung him across the room. ‘Reactions very poor,’ he said. ‘Definite signs of resentment. Needs a spot of the cure himself.’

Cline regained his balance and dashed for the fireplace, his hand stretched out in front of him to press a bell. Remnant stepped forward and hit him on the jaw. Cline made a half turn on his heels and dropped to the floor. He struggled to his hands and knees and rose, staggering. His mouth was streaming blood. He opened it and let out a feeble attempt at a yell. Remnant hit him again. He went down and lay quite still.

These were proceedings that Jane Appleby had never before witnessed except in the cinema. She stared at the inert body of the Medical Superintendent and felt her head swim. Remnant had stepped to the closed door and was listening. ‘No sound of alarm,’ he said.

‘Is he dead?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Remnant looked down impassively at the figure supine on the carpet. ‘But it’s not a bad knockout. Do you know, for a moment I thought I had mistimed it? Getting a bit rusty, I’m afraid, at this sort of thing.’

Jane’s head began to clear. ‘I suppose you
haven’t
mistimed it? I mean, it was the best thing to do?’ She was far from clear what their next step could be.

‘I told you, didn’t I? When you meet a thing like this, you put your fist straight through it. And it’s obvious enough now. These people are kidnappers, just as you said. And they use their victims – the little man you saw today, those people outside, your own young man if they’ve caught him – for some filthy sort of experiment. The only thing to do is to keep on hitting them hard.’

‘I see. Well, whom do you hit next?’

‘I’d say that this just about concludes our concern with the clinical side. It’s not of much interest, and I expect that this precious swine hasn’t all that importance in the set-up of the place. What we’re looking for is the research… Will you do something?’

‘Whatever you say.’

Remnant cheerfully grinned. He was reflecting, perhaps that these were not words which this young woman frequently addressed to her male contemporaries. ‘Then cut out to the car. Don’t be in a hurry to offer explanations to anybody you see about. Remember you belong to a class of society accustomed to going its own way unquestioned.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Yank up the front seat. There’s a leather bag, and there’s a bottle. Empty the bag, put in the bottle, and bring it back here. I’ll give you four minutes. Then, if you’re not back, I’ll change plans and come and find you. Understand?’

‘I think I do.’ Jane took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked out of the room.

The broad corridor was deserted. So was the hall with its foolish little fountain and its massed chrysanthemums. But in the vestibule was one of the manservants she had seen earlier. She fancied he looked at her curiously. Jane walked to the front door and halted – with the air of one who very seldom has occasion to open doors for herself. The man jumped to the door handle and let her out. ‘I’m returning,’ she said briefly, and walked across to the car. She managed to do as Remnant had instructed her – and probably, she judged, without the precise nature of the operation being observed. She turned and mounted the steps, the bag in her hand. The man was waiting, with the door held open. He bowed impeccably and closed it behind her. She thanked him and walked on.

Remnant was sitting on the Medical Superintendent’s desk, examining a revolver. He looked up quickly as she entered. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Now we can get cracking again.’

Jane looked about the study. ‘Where’s Cline?’ The Medical Superintendent had vanished.

‘I’ve lugged the guts into the neighbour room.’ As he delivered himself of this stray fruit of his former frequentation of the lecture halls of Oxford, Remnant slipped the revolver into his pocket. ‘This is what he was making a grab for in the drawer. I don’t like the things. Noisy. But you never know what will come in handy.’

‘Mayn’t he recover quite quickly?’

‘I’ve tied him up, gagged him, and put him in a cupboard. Useful that they taught us all those dirty tricks. Got the bottle?’

‘Here it is.’ Jane set the bag down on the desk. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘About Milton Manor?’

‘Yes – of course.’

‘Burn it to the ground.’

‘Burn it! You can’t–’

‘Never believe it.’ Remnant had brought out the bottle. ‘Capital stuff, petrol. And this room is pretty well ideal. Panelled walls, bookshelves, massive desk, all those curtains – give us a splendid start, believe me.’ He uncorked the bottle. ‘Just pass me that big waste-paper basket, will you?’

Jane gasped, but did as she was told. ‘But what about Cline?’ she said. ‘Didn’t you say he’s in a cupboard?’

‘Cline? Oh – I see what you mean. Well, they say it’s not really bad. The suffocation knocks you out before the actual roasting. Quite humane, really.’ Remnant was going composedly about his fire-raising operation.