Destination Unknown. Agatha Christie

fluttered off again with a sigh. Hilary bent closer.

      ‘Is there anything you can tell me to help me—help me in my journey, I mean? Help me to get in contact with your husband?’

      ‘Snow.’

      The word came so faintly that Hilary was puzzled. Snow? Snow? She repeated it uncomprehendingly. A faint, ghost-like little giggle came from Olive Betterton. Faint words came tumbling out.

       Snow, snow, beautiful snow!

       You slip on a lump, and over you go!

      She repeated the last word. ‘Go … Go? Go and tell him about Boris. I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. But perhaps it’s true … If so, if so …’ a kind of agonized question came into her eyes which stared up into Hilary’s ‘… take care …’

      A queer rattle came to her throat. Her lips jerked.

      Olive Betterton died.

      The next five days were strenuous mentally, though inactive physically. Immured in a private room in the hospital, Hilary was set to work. Every evening she had to pass an examination on what she had studied that day. All the details of Olive Betterton’s life, as far as they could be ascertained, were set down on paper and she had to memorize and learn them by heart. The house she had lived in, the daily woman she had employed, her relations, the names of her pet dog and her canary, every detail of the six months of her married life with Thomas Betterton. Her wedding, the names of her bridesmaids, their dresses. The patterns of curtains, carpets and chintzes. Olive Betterton’s tastes, predilections, and day by day activities. Her preferences in food and drink. Hilary was forced to marvel at the amount of seemingly meaningless information that had been massed together. Once she said to Jessop:

      ‘Can any of this possibly matter?’

      And to that he had replied quietly:

      ‘Probably not. But you’ve got to make yourself into the authentic article. Think of it this way, Hilary. You’re a writer. You’re writing a book about a woman. The woman is Olive. You describe scenes of her childhood, her girlhood; you describe her marriage, the house she lived in. All the time that you do it she becomes more and more of a real person to you. Then you go over it a second time. You write it this time as an autobiography. You write it in the first person. Do you see what I mean?’

      She nodded slowly, impressed in spite of herself.

      ‘You can’t think of yourself as Olive Betterton until you are Olive Betterton. It would be better if you had time to learn it up, but we can’t afford time. So I’ve got to cram you. Cram you like a schoolboy—like a student who is going in for an important examination.’ He added, ‘You’ve got a quick brain and a good memory, thank the Lord.’

      He looked at her in cool appraisement.

      The passport descriptions of Olive Betterton and Hilary Craven were almost identical, but actually the two faces were entirely different. Olive Betterton had had a quality of rather commonplace and insignificant prettiness. She had looked obstinate but not intelligent. Hilary’s face had power and an intriguing quality. The deep-set bluish-green eyes under dark level brows had fire and intelligence in their depths. Her mouth curved upwards in a wide and generous line. The plane of the jaw was unusual—a sculptor would have found the angles of the face interesting.

      Jessop thought: ‘There’s passion there—and guts—and somewhere, damped but not quenched, there’s a gay spirit that’s tough—and that enjoys life and searches out for adventure.’

      ‘You’ll do,’ he said to her. ‘You’re an apt pupil.’

      This challenge to her intellect and her memory had stimulated Hilary. She was becoming interested now, keen to achieve success. Once or twice objections occurred to her. She voiced them to Jessop.

      ‘You say that I shan’t be rejected as Olive Betterton. You say that they won’t know what she looks like, except in general detail. But how sure can you be of that?’

      Jessop shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘One can’t be sure—of anything. But we do know a certain amount about the set-up of these shows, and it does seem that internationally there is very little communication from one country to another. Actually, that’s a great advantage to them. If we come upon a weak link in England (and, mind you, in every organization there always will be a weak link) that weak link in the chain knows nothing about what’s going on in France, or Italy, or Germany, or wherever you like, we are brought up short by a blank wall. They know their own little part of the whole—no more. The same applies the opposite way round. I dare swear that all the cell operating here knows is that Olive Betterton will arrive on such and such a plane and is to be given such and such instructions. You see, it’s not as though she were important in herself. If they’re bringing her to her husband, it’s because her husband wants her brought to him and because they think they’ll get better work out of him if she joins him. She herself is a mere pawn in the game. You must remember too, that the idea of substituting a false Olive Betterton is definitely a spur of the moment improvisation—occasioned by the plane accident and the colour of your hair. Our plan of operation was to keep tabs on Olive Betterton and find out where she went, how she went, whom she met—and so on. That’s what the other side will be on the look-out for.’

      Hilary asked:

      ‘Haven’t you tried all that before?’

      ‘Yes. It was tried in Switzerland. Very unobtrusively. And it failed as far as our main objective was concerned. If anyone contacted her there we didn’t know about it. So the contact must have been very brief. Naturally they’ll expect that someone will be keeping tabs on Olive Betterton. They’ll be prepared for that. It’s up to us to do our job more thoroughly than last time. We’ve got to try and be rather more cunning than our adversaries.’

      ‘So you’ll be keeping tabs on me?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘How?’

      He shook his head.

      ‘I shan’t tell you that. Much better for you not to know. What you don’t know you can’t give away.’

      ‘Do you think I would give it away?’

      Jessop put on his owl-like expression again.

      ‘I don’t know how good an actress you are—how good a liar. It’s not easy, you know. It’s not a question of saying anything indiscreet. It can be anything, a sudden intake of the breath, the momentary pause in some action—lighting a cigarette, for instance. Recognition of a name or a friend. You could cover it up quickly, but just a flash might be enough!’

      ‘I see. It means—being on your guard for every single split second.’

      ‘Exactly. In the meantime, on with the lessons! Quite like going back to school, isn’t it? You’re pretty well word perfect on Olive Betterton, now. Let’s go on to the other.’

      Codes, responses, various properties. The lesson went on; the questioning, the repetition, the endeavour to confuse her, to trip her up; then hypothetical schemes and her own reactions to them. In the end, Jessop nodded his head and declared himself satisfied.

      ‘You’ll do,’ he said. He patted her on the shoulder in an avuncular manner. ‘You’re an apt pupil. And remember this, however much you may feel at times that you’re all alone in this, you’re probably not. I say probably—I won’t put it higher than that. These are clever devils.’

      ‘What happens,’ said Hilary, ‘if I reach journey’s end?’

      ‘You mean?’

      ‘I mean when at last I come face to face with Tom Betterton.’

      Jessop nodded grimly.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the danger moment. I