The Tightrope Men / The Enemy by Desmond Bagley Page A

had been lying, a table, two armchairs and a bookcase against the wall. He went over to the bookcase to inspect it and tripped over a wire which threatened to topple a telephone from a small table. He rescued the telephone and then stood looking down at it.
    Iredale walked along the corridor and into a room at the end. Carey glanced up at him expectantly, breaking off his conversation with McCready. Harding, the psychiatrist, sat in an armchair, his long legs outstretched and his fingertips pressed together. There was also another man whom Iredale did not know. Carey saw Iredale looking at him, and said, ‘Ian Armstrong of my staff. Well?’ He could not suppress his eagerness.
    Iredale put down his case. ‘He’s not Meyrick.’ He paused. ‘Not unless Meyrick has had plastic surgery recently.’
    Carey blew out his breath in a long gasp. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Iredale, a little testily.
    ‘That’s it, then.’ Carey looked across at Harding. ‘It’s your turn, Dr Harding. Try to get out of him as much as you can.’
    Harding nodded and uncoiled himself from the chair. He walked out of the room without speaking. As the door closed Carey said, ‘You understand that, to the best of ourknowledge, this alteration was made in the space of a week—not more.’ He took a thin, cardboard file from the table. ‘We’ve just received a lengthy cable from London about Denison—and a photo came over the wire.’ He took the photograph and handed it to Iredale. ‘That’s Denison as he was quite recently. It hardly seems possible.’
    Iredale studied the photograph. ‘Very interesting,’ he commented.
    ‘Could this thing be done in a week?’ Carey persisted.
    Iredale put down the photograph. ‘As far as I could ascertain there was only one lesion,’ he said precisely. ‘That was at the outside corner of the left eyelid. A very small cut which was possibly held together by one stitch while it healed. It would certainly heal in a week although there might have been a residual soreness. I detected a minute inflammation.’
    McCready said in disbelief, ‘You mean that was the only cut that was made?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Iredale. ‘The purpose was to draw down the left eyelid. Have you got that photograph of Meyrick?’
    ‘Here,’ said Carey.
    Iredale put down his forefinger. ‘There—you see? The eyelid was drawn down due to the skin contraction caused by this scar.’ He paused and said sniffily, ‘A bit of a butcher’s job, if you ask me. That should never have happened.’
    ‘It was a war wound when Meyrick was a boy,’ said Carey. He tapped the photograph of Meyrick. ‘But how the devil did they reproduce this scar on Denison without cutting?’
    ‘That was very cleverly done,’ said Iredale with sudden enthusiasm. ‘As expert a job of tattooing as I’ve ever seen, as also was the birthmark on the right jaw.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘In my field, of course, I come across a lot of tattooing but I specialize in removal rather than application.’ He leaned forward again and traced a line on thephotograph. ‘The hairline was adjusted by depilation; nothing as crude as mere shaving and leaving the hair to grow out. I’m afraid Mr Denison has lost his hair permanently.’
    ‘That’s all very well,’ said McCready, coming forward. He leaned over the table, comparing the two photographs. ‘But just look at these two men. Denison is thin in the face, and he’d look thinner without the beard. Meyrick is fat-jowled. And look at the differences in the noses.’
    ‘That was done by liquid silicone injection,’ said Iredale. ‘Some of my more light-minded colleagues aid film stars in their mammary development by the same means.’ His tone was distasteful. ‘I palpated his cheeks and felt it. It was quite unmistakable.’
    ‘I’ll be damned!’ said Carey.
    ‘You say that Denison lost a week of objective time?’ asked Iredale.
    ‘He said he’d lost a week out of