Destination Unknown. Agatha Christie

I should think you might.’ She shivered suddenly. ‘It’s like this room of yours, in the middle of a labyrinth of corridors, just like a dream when you think you will never get out …’

      ‘Yes, yes, I can see it might have a claustrophobic effect,’ said Jessop pleasantly.

      Olive Betterton put a hand up and pushed back her hair from her forehead.

      ‘I can’t stand it much longer, you know,’ she said. ‘Just sitting and waiting. I want to get away somewhere for a change. Abroad for choice. Somewhere where reporters won’t ring me up all the time, and people won’t stare at me. I’m always meeting friends and they keep asking me if I have had any news.’ She paused, then went on, ‘I think—I think I’m going to break down. I’ve tried to be brave, but it’s too much for me. My doctor agrees. He says I ought to go right away somewhere for three or four weeks. He wrote me a letter. I’ll show you.’

      She fumbled in her bag, took out an envelope and pushed it across the desk to Jessop.

      ‘You’ll see what he says.’

      Jessop took the letter out of the envelope and read it.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I see.’

      He put the letter back in the envelope.

      ‘So—so it would be all right for me to go?’ Her eyes watched him nervously.

      ‘But of course, Mrs Betterton,’ he replied. He raised surprised eyebrows. ‘Why not?’

      ‘I thought you might object.’

      ‘Object—why? It’s entirely your own business. You’ll arrange it so that I can get in touch with you while you’re away in case any news should come through?’

      ‘Oh, of course.’

      ‘Where were you thinking of going?’

      ‘Somewhere where there is sun and not too many English people. Spain or Morocco.’

      ‘Very nice. Do you a lot of good, I’m sure.’

      ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.’

      She rose, excited, elated—her nervousness still apparent.

      Jessop rose, shook hands with her, pressed the buzzer for a messenger to see her out. He went back to his chair and sat down. For a few moments his face remained as expressionless as before, then very slowly he smiled. He lifted the phone.

      ‘I’ll see Major Glydr now,’ he said.

       CHAPTER 2

      ‘Major Glydr?’ Jessop hesitated a little over the name.

      ‘It is difficult, yes.’ The visitor spoke with humorous appreciation. ‘Your compatriots, they have called me Glider in the war. And now, in the States, I shall change my name to Glyn, which is more convenient for all.’

      ‘You come from the States now?’

      ‘Yes, I arrive a week ago. You are—excuse me—Mr Jessop?’

      ‘I’m Jessop.’

      The other looked at him with interest.

      ‘So,’ he said. ‘I have heard of you.’

      ‘Indeed? From whom?’

      The other smiled.

      ‘Perhaps we go too fast. Before you permit that I should ask you some questions, I present you first this letter from the US Embassy.’

      He passed it with a bow. Jessop took it, read the few lines of polite introduction, put it down. He looked appraisingly at his visitor. A tall man, carrying himself rather stiffly, aged thirty or thereabouts. The fair hair was close cropped in the continental fashion. The stranger’s speech was slow and careful with a very definite foreign intonation, though grammatically correct. He was, Jessop noticed, not at all nervous or unsure of himself. That in itself was unusual. Most of the people who came into this office were nervous or excited or apprehensive. Sometimes they were shifty, sometimes violent.

      This was a man who had complete command of himself, a man with a poker face who knew what he was doing and why, and who would not be easily tricked or betrayed into saying more than he meant to say. Jessop said pleasantly:

      ‘And what can we do for you?’

      ‘I came to ask if you had any further news of Thomas Betterton, who disappeared recently in what seems a somewhat sensational manner. One cannot, I know, believe exactly what one reads in the press, so I ask where I can go for reliable information. They tell me—you.’

      ‘I’m sorry, we’ve no definite information about Betterton.’

      ‘I thought perhaps he might have been sent abroad on some mission.’ He paused and added, rather quaintly, ‘You know, hush-hush.’

      ‘My dear sir.’ Jessop looked pained. ‘Betterton was a scientist, not a diplomat or a secret agent.’

      ‘I am rebuked. But labels are not always correct. You will want to inquire my interest in the matter. Thomas Betterton was a relation of mine by marriage.’

      ‘Yes. You are the nephew, I believe, of the late Professor Mannheim.’

      ‘Ah, that you knew already. You are well informed here.’

      ‘People come along and tell us things,’ murmured Jessop. ‘Betterton’s wife was here. She told me. You had written to her.’

      ‘Yes, to express my condolences and to ask if she had had any further news.’

      ‘That was very correct.’

      ‘My mother was Professor Mannheim’s only sister. They were very much attached. In Warsaw when I was a child I was much at my uncle’s house, and his daughter, Elsa, was to me like a sister. When my father and mother died my home was with my uncle and cousin. They were happy days. Then came the war, the tragedies, the horrors … Of all that we will not speak. My uncle and Elsa escaped to America. I myself remained in the underground Resistance, and after the war ended I had certain assignments. One visit I paid to see my uncle and cousin, that was all. But there came a time when my commitments in Europe are ended. I intend to reside in the States permanently. I shall be, I hope, near my uncle and my cousin and her husband. But alas’—he spread out his hands—‘I get there and my uncle, he is dead, my cousin, too, and her husband he has come to this country and has married again. So once more I have no family. And then I read of the disappearance of the well-known scientist Thomas Betterton, and I come over to see what can be done.’ He paused and looked inquiringly at Jessop.

      Jessop looked expressionlessly back at him.

      ‘Why did he disappear, Mr Jessop?’

      ‘That,’ said Jessop, ‘is just what we’d like to know.’

      ‘Perhaps you do know?’

      Jessop appreciated with some interest how easily their roles might become reversed. In this room he was accustomed to ask questions of people. This stranger was now the inquisitor.

      Still smiling pleasantly, Jessop replied:

      ‘I assure you we do not.’

      ‘But you suspect?’

      ‘It is possible,’ said Jessop cautiously, ‘that the thing follows a certain pattern … There have been occurrences of this kind before.’

      ‘I know.’ Rapidly the visitor cited a half-dozen cases. ‘All scientists,’ he said, with significance.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘They have gone beyond the Iron Curtain?’

      ‘It is a possibility,