It seemed to loom out of nowhere. It looked like a large white fish floating belly up, and Constable Hiller's first thought was: If we haul it aboard, we're going to stink of it. It was about ten yards to starboard and the boat was moving away from it. If he opened his mouth, the bloody fish was going to delay his getting off duty. They would have to stop and grapple it, and either pull it over the side or tow it in. Whichever they did would delay his getting to Flo. Well, he didn't have to report it. What if he had not seen it? What if - ? They were moving farther away.
Constable Hiller called out, "Sergeant, there's a floating fish twenty degrees off starboard. Looks like a big shark."
The hundred-horsepower diesel engine suddenly changed rhythm, and the boat began to slow. Sergeant Gaskins stepped to his side. "Where is it?" he asked.
The dim shape was gone now, buried in the rain. "It was over there."
Sergeant Gaskins hesitated. He too was anxious to get home. His impulse was to ignore the damned fish.
"Was it big enough to menace navigation?" he asked.
Constable Hiller fought with himself and lost. "Yes," he said.
And so the patrol boat turned and slowly headed toward where the object had last been seen. It materialized again unexpectedly, almost under the bow, and they both stood there, staring down at it. It was the body of a young blond girl.
She was naked, except for a red ribbon tied around her swollen neck.
Chapter 39
At the moment when Constable Hiller and Sergeant Gaskins were fishing the body of the murdered girl out of the Thames, ten miles on the other side of London, Detective Max Hornung was entering the gray-and-white marble lobby of New Scotland Yard. Just walking through the storied portals gave him a sense of pride. They were all part of the same great fraternity. He enjoyed the fact that the Yard's cable address was HANDCUFFS. Max was very fond of the English. His only problem concerned their ability to communicate with him. The English spoke their native language so strangely.
The policeman behind the reception desk asked, "Can I help you, sir?"
Max turned. "I have an appointment with Inspector Davidson."
"Name, sir?"
Max said, slowly and distinctly, "Inspector Davidson."
The guard looked at him with interest. "Your name is Inspector Davidson?"
"My name is not Inspector Davidson. My name is Max Hornung."
The policeman behind the desk said apologetically,"Excuse me, sir, but do you speak any English?"
Five minutes later Max was seated in the office of Inspector Davidson, a large, middle-aged man with a florid face and uneven yellow teeth. Typically British-looking, Max thought happily.
"Over the phone you said you were interested in information on Sir Alec Nichols as a possible suspect in a murder case."
"He's one of half a dozen."
Inspector Davidson stared at him. "His wanted toes are frozen?"
Max sighed. He repeated what he had just said, slowly and carefully.
"Ah." The Inspector thought for a moment. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll turn you over to C-Four Criminal Records Department. If they have nothing on him, we'll try C-Eleven and C-Thirteen - Criminal Intelligence."
Sir Alec Nichols' name was not listed in any of the files. But Max knew where he could get the information he wanted.
Earlier that morning Max had phoned a number of executives who worked in the City, the financial center of London.
Their reactions were identical. When Max announced his name, they were filled with trepidation, for everyone doing business in the City had something to hide, and Max Hornung's reputation as a financial avenging angel was international. The moment that Max informed them that he was seeking information about somone else, they fell over themselves to cooperate with him.
Max spent two days visiting banks and finance companies, credit rating organizations and vital statistics offices. He was not interested in talking to the people at those places: he was interested in talking to their computers.
Max was a genius with computers. He would sit before the console board and play the machines like a virtuoso. It did not matter what language the computer had been taught, for Max spoke all of them. He talked to digital computers and low-level and high-level language computers. He was at ease with FORTRAN and FORTRAN IV, the giant IBM 370's and the PDP 10's and 11's and ALGOL 68.
He was at home with COBAL, programmed for business, and BASIC, used by the police, and the high speed APL, which conversed solely in charts and graphs. Max talked to LISP and APT, and PL-1. He held conversations in the binary code, and questioned the arithmetic units and the CPV units, and the high-speed printer answered his questions at the rate of eleven hundred lines a minute. The giant computers had spent their lives sucking up information like insatiable pumps, storing it, analyzing it, remembering it, and now they were spewing it out in Max's ear, whispering their secrets to him in their secluded air-conditioned crypts.
Nothing was sacred, nothing was safe. Privacy in today's civilization was a delusion, a myth. Every citizen was exposed, his deepest secrets laid bare, waiting to be read. People were on record if they had a Social Security number, an insurance policy, a driver's license or a bank account. They were listed if they had paid taxes or drawn unemployment insurance or welfare funds. Their names were stored in computers if they were covered by a medical plan, had made mortgage payments on a home, owned an automobile or bicycle or had a savings or checking account. The computers knew their names if they had been in a hospital, or in the military service, had a fishing or hunting license, had applied for a passport, or telephone, or electricity, or if they had been married or divorced or born.