Destination Unknown. Agatha Christie

or cronies of his own?’

      ‘No. You see, he’d been in the USA for so long, and he was born in Canada. He didn’t know many people over here.’

      Jessop consulted a scrap of paper at his elbow.

      ‘Three people visited him recently from the States, I understand. I have their names here. As far as we can discover, these three were the only people with whom he recently made contact from outside, so to speak. That’s why we’ve given them special attention. Now first, Walter Griffiths. He came to see you at Harwell.’

      ‘Yes, he was over in England on a visit and he came to look up Tom.’

      ‘And your husband’s reactions?’

      ‘Tom was surprised to see him, but very pleased. They’d known each other quite well in the States.’

      ‘What did this Griffiths seem like to you? Just describe him in your own way.’

      ‘But surely you know all about him?’

      ‘Yes, we know all about him. But I want to hear what you thought of him.’

      She reflected for a moment.

      ‘Well, he was solemn and rather long-winded. Very polite to me and seemed very fond of Tom and anxious to tell him about things that had happened after Tom had come to England. All local gossip, I suppose. It wasn’t very interesting to me because I didn’t know any of the people. Anyway, I was getting dinner ready while they were reminiscing.’

      ‘No question of politics came up?’

      ‘You’re trying to hint that he was a communist.’ Olive Betterton’s face flushed. ‘I’m sure he was nothing of the sort. He had some government job—in the District Attorney’s office, I think. And anyway when Tom said something laughingly about witch hunts in America, he said solemnly that we didn’t understand over here. They were necessary. So that shows he wasn’t a communist!’

      ‘Please, please, Mrs Betterton, now don’t get upset.’

      ‘Tom wasn’t a communist! I keep telling you so and you don’t believe me.’

      ‘Yes, I do, but the point is bound to come up. Now for the second contact from abroad, Dr Mark Lucas. You ran across him in London in the Dorset.’

      ‘Yes. We’d gone up to a show and we were having supper at the Dorset afterwards. Suddenly this man, Luke or Lucas, came along and greeted Tom. He was a research chemist of some kind and the last time he had seen Tom was in the States. He was a German refugee who’d taken American nationality. But surely you—’

      ‘But surely I know that? Yes, I do, Mrs Betterton. Was your husband surprised to see him?’

      ‘Yes, very surprised.’

      ‘Pleased?’

      ‘Yes, yes—I think so.’

      ‘But you’re not sure?’ He pressed her.

      ‘Well, he was a man Tom didn’t much care about, or so he told me afterwards, that’s all.’

      ‘It was just a casual meeting? There was no arrangement made to meet at some future date?’

      ‘No, it was just a casual encounter.’

      ‘I see. The third contact from abroad was a woman, Mrs Carol Speeder, also from the States. How did that come about?’

      ‘She was something to do with UNO, I believe. She’d known Tom in America, and she rang him up from London to say she was over here, and asked if we could come up and lunch one day.’

      ‘And did you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You didn’t, but your husband did!’

      ‘What!’ She stared.

      ‘He didn’t tell you?’

      ‘No.’

      Olive Betterton looked bewildered and uneasy. The man questioning her felt a little sorry for her, but he did not relent. For the first time he thought he might be getting somewhere.

      ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said uncertainly. ‘It seems very odd he shouldn’t have said anything about it to me.’

      ‘They lunched together at the Dorset where Mrs Speeder was staying, on Wednesday, August 12th.’

      ‘August 12th?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Yes, he did go to London about then … He never said anything—’ she broke off again, and then shot out a question. ‘What is she like?’

      He answered quickly and reassuringly.

      ‘Not at all a glamorous type, Mrs Betterton. A competent young career woman of thirty-odd, not particularly good-looking. There’s absolutely no suggestion of her ever having been on intimate terms with your husband. That is just why it’s odd that he didn’t tell you about the meeting.’

      ‘Yes, yes, I see that.’

      ‘Now think carefully, Mrs Betterton. Did you notice any change in your husband about that time? About the middle of August, shall we say? That would be about a week before the conference.’

      ‘No—no, I noticed nothing. There was nothing to notice.’

      Jessop sighed.

      The instrument on his desk buzzed discreetly. He picked up the receiver.

      ‘Yes,’ he said.

      The voice at the other end said:

      ‘There’s a man who’s asking to see someone in authority about the Betterton case, sir.’

      ‘What’s his name?’

      The voice at the other end coughed discreetly.

      ‘Well, I’m not exactly sure how you pronounce it, Mr Jessop. Perhaps I’d better spell it.’

      ‘Right. Go ahead.’

      He jotted down on his blotter the letters as they came over the wire.

      ‘Polish?’ he said interrogatively, at the end.

      ‘He didn’t say, sir. He speaks English quite well, but with a bit of an accent.’

      ‘Ask him to wait.’

      ‘Very good, sir.’

      Jessop replaced the telephone. Then he looked across at Olive Betterton. She sat there quite quietly with a disarming, hopeless placidity. He tore off the leaf on his desk pad with the name he had just written on it, and shoved it across to her.

      ‘Know anybody of that name?’ he asked.

      Her eyes widened as she looked at it. For a moment he thought she looked frightened.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do. He wrote to me.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Yesterday. He’s a cousin of Tom’s first wife. He’s just arrived in this country. He was very concerned about Tom’s disappearance. He wrote to ask if I had had any news and—and to give me his most profound sympathy.’

      ‘You’d never heard of him before that?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Ever hear your husband speak of him?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘So really he mightn’t be your husband’s cousin at all?’

      ‘Well, no, I suppose not. I never thought of that.’ She looked startled. ‘But Tom’s first wife was a foreigner. She was Professor Mannheim’s daughter. This man seemed to know all about her and Tom in his letter. It was very correct and formal and—and foreign, you know. It seemed