Destination Unknown - Agatha Christie [80]
‘Not unsupported.’
Dr Van Heidem swung round in surprise. One of the Moroccan servants had stepped forward. He was a fine figure of a man in white embroidered robes with a white turban surrounding his head, his face gleamed black and oily.
What caused the entire company to gaze at him in speechless astonishment was the fact that from his full rather Negroid lips a voice of purely transatlantic origin was proceeding.
‘Not unsupported,’ that voice said, ‘you can take my evidence here and now. These gentlemen have denied that Andrew Peters, Torquil Ericsson, Mr and Mrs Betterton and Dr Louis Barron are here. That’s false. They’re all here–and I speak for them.’ He took a step forward towards the American Ambassador. ‘You may find me a bit difficult to recognize at the moment, sir,’ he said, ‘but I am Andrew Peters.’
A very faint, sibilant hiss issued from Aristides’ lips, then he settled back in his chair, his face impassive once more.
‘There’s a whole crowd of people hidden away here,’ said Peters. ‘There’s Schwartz of Munich, there’s Helga Needheim, there are Jeffreys and Davidson, the English scientists, there’s Paul Wade from the U.S.A., there are the Italians, Ricochetti and Bianco, there’s Murchison. They’re all right here in this building. There’s a system of closing bulkheads that’s quite impossible to detect by the naked eye. There’s a whole network of secret laboratories cut right down into the rock.’
‘God bless my soul,’ ejaculated the American Ambassador. He looked searchingly at the dignified African figure, and then he began to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t say I’d recognize you even now,’ he said.
‘That’s the injection of paraffin in the lips, sir, to say nothing of black pigment.’
‘If you’re Peters, what’s the number you go under in the F.B.I.?’
‘813471, sir.’
‘Right,’ said the Ambassador, ‘and the initials of your other name?’
‘B.A.P.G., sir.’ The Ambassador nodded.
‘This man is Peters,’ he said. He looked towards the Minister.
The Minister hesitated, then cleared his throat.
‘You claim,’ he demanded of Peters, ‘that people are being detained here against their will?’
‘Some are here willingly, Excellence, and some are not.’
‘In that case,’ said the Minister, ‘statements must be taken–er–yes, yes, statements must certainly be taken.’
He looked at the Prefect of Police. The latter stepped forward.
‘Just a moment, please.’ Mr Aristides raised a hand. ‘It would seem,’ he said, in a gentle, precise voice, ‘that my confidence here has been greatly abused.’ His cold glance went from Van Heidem to the Director and there was implacable command in it. ‘As to what you have permitted yourselves to do, gentlemen, in your enthusiasm for science, I am not as yet quite clear. My endowment of this place was purely in the interests of research. I have taken no part in the practical application of its policy. I would advise you, Monsieur Le Directeur, if this accusation is borne out by facts, to produce immediately those people who are suspected of being detained here unlawfully.’
‘But, Monsieur, it is impossible. I–it will be–’
‘Any experiment of that kind,’ said Mr Aristides, ‘is at an end.’ His calm, financier’s gaze swept over his guests. ‘I need hardly assure you, Messieurs,’ he said, ‘that if anything illegal is going on here, it has been no concern of mine.’
It was an order, and understood as such because of his wealth, because of his power and because of his influence. Mr Aristides, that world famous figure, would not be implicated in this affair. Yet, even though he himself escaped unscathed, it was nevertheless defeat. Defeat for his purpose, defeat for that brains pool from which he had hoped to profit so greatly. Mr Aristides was unperturbed by failure. It had happened to him occasionally, in the course of his career. He had always accepted it philosophically and gone on to the next coup.
He made an oriental gesture of his hand.
‘I wash my hands of this affair,’ he said.
The Prefect of Police bustled forward. He had had his cue now, he knew what