The Tightrope Men / The Enemy by Desmond Bagley

pulled up outside a large building which could have been a block of flats. They went inside and into a lift which took them to the fifth floor. McCready unlocked a door and motioned Denison inside. He found himself in a hall with doors on each side. McCready opened one of them, and said, ‘This is Mr Iredale. He’ll fix up your side for you.’
    Iredale was a sallow, middle-aged man, balding and with deep grooves cut from the base of his nose to the corners of his mouth. He said pleasantly, ‘Come in, Mr Denison; let me have a look at you.’
    Denison heard the door close behind him and turned to find that McCready had already gone. He whirled around to confront Iredale. ‘I thought I was being taken to a doctor.’
    ‘I am a doctor,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m also a surgeon. We surgeons have a strange inverted snobbery—we’re called “mister” and not “doctor”. I’ve never known why. Take off your coat, Mr Denison, and let me see the damage.’
    Denison hesitated and slowly took off his jacket and then his shirt. ‘If you’ll lie on the couch?’ suggested Iredale, and opened a black bag which could only have been the property of a doctor. Somewhat reassured, Denison lay down.
    Iredale snipped away the bandages with a small pair of scissors and examined the slash. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘But clean. It will need a local anaesthetic. Are you allergic to anaesthetic, Mr Denison?’
    ‘I don’t know—I don’t think so.’
    ‘You’ll just feel three small pricks—no more.’ Iredale took out a hypodermic syringe and filled it from a small phial. ‘Lie still.’
    Denison felt the pricks, and Iredale said, ‘While we’re waiting for that to take effect you can sit up.’ He took an ophthalmoscope from his bag. ‘I’d just like to look at your eyes.’ He flashed a light into Denison’s right eye. ‘Had any alcohol lately?’
    ‘No.’
    Iredale switched to the left eye upon which he spent more time. ‘That seems to be all right,’ he said.
    ‘I was stabbed in the side, not hit on the head,’ said Denison. ‘I don’t have concussion.’
    Iredale put away the ophthalmoscope. ‘So you have a little medical knowledge.’ He put his hands to Denison’s face and palpated the flesh under the chin. ‘You know what they say about a little knowledge.’ He stood up and looked down at the top of Denison’s head, and then his fingers explored the hairline. ‘Don’t knock the experts, Mr Denison—they know what they’re doing.’
    ‘What sort of a doctor are you?’ asked Denison suspiciously.
    Iredale ignored that. ‘Ever had scalp trouble? Dandruff, for instance?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I see. Right.’ He touched Denison’s side. ‘Feel anything?’
    ‘It’s numb but I can feel pressure.’
    ‘Good,’ said Iredale. ‘I’m going to stitch the wound closed. You won’t feel anything—but if you do then shout like hell.’ He put on rubber gloves which he took out of a sealed plastic bag and then took some fine thread out of another small packet. ‘I’d turn your head away,’ he advised. ‘Lie down.’
    He worked on Denison’s side for about fifteen minutes and Denison felt nothing but the pressure of his fingers. At last he said, ‘All right, Mr Denison; I’ve finished.’
    Denison sat up and looked at his side. The wound was neatly closed and held by a row of minute stitches. ‘I’vealways been good at needlework,’ said Iredale conversationally. ‘When the stitches are out there’ll be but a hairline. In a year you won’t be able to see it.’
    Denison said, ‘This isn’t a doctor’s surgery. Who are you?’
    Iredale packed his bag rapidly and stood up. ‘There’ll be another doctor to see you in a moment.’ He walked to the door and closed it behind him.
    There was something about the way the door closed that vaguely alarmed Denison. He stood up and walked to the door and found it locked. Frowning, he turned away and looked about the room. There was the settee on which he