This United State

by Colin Forbes

  'Who's your boss?' he asked suddenly.

  'Benson.'

  'Wicked. Real wicked. Lying to Baldy.'

  He hauled on the chain and she was elevated off the floor. Expecting this, her hands dived to her neck inside the chain, keeping it away from her throat. He went on hauling her higher until the top of her head was close to the beam. She found herself swaying, back and forth. She looked down and saw the top of his bald head.

  'Swing 'igh, swing low,' he sang in his tuneless voice.

  The strain on her hands was enormous. She knew she couldn't keep this up for long. Then he did something else which she had expected. He released the chain and she dived to the floor. She landed as she had been taught at the training mansion in Surrey, bending her knees to cushion the impact. She straightened up as his hated face peered round at her.

  'You can't hold out for long. Who is your boss? Just the first question.'

  'Benson.'

  'Up you go...'

  Again she was hauled upwards, held there, head almost touching the beam, but not quite as high as before. Again her body started swaying. She looked down. He was standing back a few feet from the beam. She forced herself to sway harder, hands protecting her throat against the chain. She was swaying back and forth through a greater arc, her knees lifted. She could never have done it without the aerobics and the exercises she had practised at the health club. She was beginning to sway back quite quickly when suddenly she dropped her legs to the fullest extent, opening them as wide as possible. She was staring at Baldy who gazed up at her in surprise. The chain round her ankles caught him under the jaw, round his thick neck.

  He let go of the end he was holding, which she had known he would if she could bring it off. Probably break my bloody back, she thought. The chain slithered over the beam, she plunged down behind Baldy, landed on one of the many old couches lying round the warehouse floor.

  Positions reversed. Now she had him in a stranglehold, the chain tight round his neck as she clamped her feet together. He was on his back, hands clawing futilely at the chain cutting off his air supply. His heels hammered at the floor. One heel-tip caught on the lever inset into the floor. The trapdoor he was sprawled along opened away from Paula. She whipped her feet apart. The ankle chain slipped up over his jaw. He was free. The trap slid downwards. Baldy let out a croaking scream. His body rushed forward, vanished into the gaping hole. Paula heard a distant splash, then silence.

  Because she forced herself not to hurry, she released herself from the chain more quickly than she'd expected. She stood up off the couch, legs trembling. Cautiously she crept forward to the edge, looked down. Seeing nothing, she forced her aching limbs to take her across to the chair, took out her Browning, her torch. When she returned to the rim of the gaping hole she turned on her powerful torch. The tip of the beam just reached down to show her fast-moving water. The River Thames, she guessed. That was where she had ultimately been destined to go.

  Forcing her arms into her coat, she picked up the chain, threw it down into the river. Behind her on the far wall was a closed door. She made herself walk quickly. An old key was in the lock. She had to use both bruised hands to turn it, to pull back a wooden bar. She had the Browning in her hand as she opened it and peered out. If any of Baldy's chums were waiting she was going to kill them.

  She was gazing out into a deserted cobbled street, the buildings looking fit only for demolition. A wall lamp cast an eerie glow over a street sign. Eagle Street.

  To her left the street ended. Beyond it flowed the Thames, with wriggling lights reflected in its dark flow. She turned right after closing the door behind her. She emerged into a wider street which reminded her of the East End. Nobody about. A taxi came crawling along the street, its For Hire light on.

  She flagged it down madly. The driver slowed, peered out to examine her. He looked surprised at her good coat and shoes, illuminated by another street light. He leaned forward.

  'What's a lady like you doin' in a place like this?'

  'A row with my boy friend. I just got out of his car and he drove off.'

  'Better get yourself another boy friend. Where to?' 'Park Crescent, please. Facing Regent's Park.'

  10

  Paula was so relieved when she saw the lights in Tweed's office windows. She had guessed he might be working late. Entering his room, she found not only Monica but also Newman and Marler. Tweed took one look at her, jumped up, went to her.

  'What happened?'

  'I must look the most awful mess...`

  She sank down behind her desk and told them about her experience. Reaction had set in. Her voice was shaky. Hidden beneath the desk, her knees trembled. She pressed them together, forced herself to go on talking. At an early stage Tweed asked Monica to fetch plenty of sweetened tea - he recognized that Paula was in shock. Later, while Paula continued, Monica checked her hands - bruised where she had fought to hold the chain away from her neck. She brought the first aid kit, gently rubbed soothing salve on her hands, then on her neck.

  Glancing at Tweed, Newman realized he was almost in a state of shock himself. Sagged in his chair, Tweed was appalled that he had let Paula go home by herself. He cursed himself for not insisting on accompanying her. At one moment, when Paula's head was turned away, he frowned at Newman and Marler, warning them not to mention the killing of the Ear. That could come later, when Paula had recovered.

  'So that's it,' Paula concluded when she had described her ordeal. 'I think I'd like to go home now.'

  'We'll come with you,' Tweed said instantly. 'Butler and Nield are still in the building. They will stay the night with you. I recall you have a couple of couches in the living room. Back in a minute..

  Paula was protesting it wasn't necessary as he disappeared. He came back a few minutes later, accompanied by Nield and Butler. Nield went over to Paula.

  'Sorry you've had such a dreadful time. We have a plan. Harry and I drive ahead of the rest of you. Could you give me the key to your flat? We'd like to go through it with a fine-tooth comb before you arrive. You don't sound too good.'

  'I haven't said anything. You used that phrase instead of saying you don't look too good. Which is the case. Thank you, Pete. Here is my key.

  'I think I'd like to go to the washroom. I'm filthy,' Paula said when the two men had left.

  'I'll come with you,' Monica told her.

  'Jake Ronstadt is behind this,' Tweed said grimly when he was alone with Newman and Marler. 'I saw a peculiar, savage expression flicker in his eyes when I was dining with Paula and she told him her name.'

  'When the opportunity arises I'll break every bone in his body,' said Newman.

  'For starters,' Marler suggested.

  There was silence in the room until, ten minutes after Butler and Nield had left, Tweed led the way downstairs with Paula. When she had returned with Monica, Newman noticed she had used a modicum of make-up and brushed her hair. Her complexion was still pallid.

  They travelled back to the flat in the Fulham Road in the Merc with Newman behind the wheel. Marler sat beside him while Tweed occupied the back next to Paula. He put his arm round her, a gesture for which she was grateful. They were driving through deserted dark streets' when Newman kept glancing in his rear-view mirror.

  'We're being followed,' he remarked. 'A taxi cab. I'm pulling up here. Back in a minute.'

  He walked back until the cab approached him. Only the driver behind the wheel. Newman flagged him down. The driver nearly didn't stop; then changed his mind. He stared unpleasantly as Newman opened his door.

  'Been in this country long?' Newman enquired, smiling.

  'Sure. What's it to you?'

  The accent was coarse American. To talk to the driver Newman had run round the front of the stationary cab so he could open the door on the street side. He grabbed hold of the collar of the leather jacket the driver wore, hauled him out into the street. The American jerked away from Newman, his right hand slipping inside the jacket.

 
'Buddy, you sure shouldn've done that...'

  He never completed his sentence. Newman's right fist collided with the American's jaw. A knockout punch. As he was sagging to the ground Newman grabbed him again, heaved his unconscious body back into his seat. Unzipping the jacket all the way, he found a gun butt protruding from a shoulder holster. Searching in the other pocket he found an American diplomatic passport. Switching off the engine, he extracted the key, threw it into a garden, walked back to the Merc.

  'We can now proceed,' he announced, seated behind the wheel.

  'So we were being followed,' Tweed commented. 'They must have bribed a cab driver.'

  'No.' Newman was still checking his mirror. 'The driver was an American.' He tossed the passport over his shoulder. 'See for yourself.'

  'I wonder what happened to the real driver,' Tweed mused as he examined the passport.

  'Probably at the bottom of the Thames,' Paula said vehemently. 'Where they dump all their victims.'

  'Lew Willis is the name on the passport,' Tweed informed them. 'I think I'll phone Buchanan from Paula's flat, let him know there's a suspicious character in the cab back there. Without his passport he'll be in a real stew...'

  Butler met them at the entrance leading to the flat. Nield arrived in their car, parked it, got out. Tweed told Paula to wait in the car until he'd spoken to them. Nield was jaunty, waving a hand.

  'While Harry was checking the flat I patrolled the area in search of thugs. None about anywhere. All clear. What about the flat, Harry?'

  'Clean as a whistle. The flat on the ground floor seems empty. No one inside. I've closed all the curtains in Paula's flat, switched on a few lights to welcome her.'

  'Thank you, Harry,' Paula said with feeling. 'The woman downstairs is away. How did you get inside? I forgot to give you the key to the second lock.'

  'Used one of my skeleton keys to get inside. You can't be too careful the way things are now.'

  'Breaking and entering,' Paula teased him.

  'That's right. One of my main occupations. It's cold out here. Better get inside. I turned up the heating.'

  Once inside, Paula insisted on making coffee for everyone. Tweed made his phone call to Buchanan. When he put down the receiver he looked at Paula, who had just poured coffee.

  'Do you feel like talking for a few minutes?'

  'Of course I do. I'm tired but the brain is ticking over.'

  'What happened at Eagle Street never happened. We've never even heard of the place. If we reported this to Buchanan we'd get bogged down in his investigation. We can't afford the time. The body of Hank Whoever...'

  'Hank Waltz,' Newman said. 'Known as Diamond Waltz. I had a run-in with him months ago in New York when I was trying to interview Sir Guy Strangeways.'

  'You mean a thug like that was protecting Strangeways?' Tweed asked in a tone of disbelief.

  'So it seemed.'

  'Before I force myself to take a shower,' Paula said, 'I'll get two pairs of blankets to make Pete and Harry more comfortable on the couches.'

  'One pair,' said Nield. 'We'll take it in turns to stay awake while the other sleeps. God help anyone who tries to sneak in here.'

  'Then I'll say goodnight.' Paula went to Tweed, hugged him.

  'Now, don't brood over the fact that I came back to the flat from Goodfellows alone. I can look after myself. I did...'

  'Earlier,' Tweed began after she had gone, 'I was going to say the body of Hank Whoever is likely to be washed up further down the Thames. Which is why we don't know anything about it. And how, Bob, did you know he was Diamond Waltz?'

  'Two things. First from Paula's description of the thug. Also he happened to be in Goodfellows the night you were there with Paula and I was up at the bar with Basil and Rupert. Where to now?'

  'Back to Park Crescent. It's going to be a long night …'

  'I had sinister news when I talked to Buchanan on the phone,' Tweed told Newman and Marler when they were settled in his office. 'An American syndicate is bidding for control of two leading London daily newspapers. Plus bidding for one of the top TV stations and three key radio stations. They're offering so much money they're bound to succeed.'

  'What's going on?' asked Monica, who had finished one phone call prior to making another.

  'It's serious. The syndicate - when it gets control - will be in a position to start brainwashing the British public. There are shades of Dr Goebbels here.'

  'Creepy, Monica replied.

  'The size of this gigantic operation is growing by the hour,' Tweed warned.

  'How do we counter this?' Newman wondered.

  'We need more men as tough as - or tougher than - the opposition,' Marler interjected. 'As you know, I've spent quite a bit of time in the East End. Just in case we ever needed reinforcements I've trained a team of cockneys. They're known as Alf's Mob. They're gut fighters.'

  'They will never be a match for men with guns,' Tweed objected.

  'Really?' Marler's expression was sardonic. 'They are lethal with their fists. In addition, in a remote spot in the countryside, I've trained them to use grenades – stun, smoke, the deadly variety. They're now familiar with automatic rifles and handguns. They're masters of stealth — they can creep up on me and have their hands round my neck before I know anyone is near me.'

  `I'm impressed.'

  'Don't forget,' Marler reminded him, 'if you read the history of the Burma fighting in World War Two it was cockneys who out-fought the enemy. Cockneys! In jungle warfare.'

  'So we have a reserve. We may well need it. I'm working on a plan to go on to the offensive. We're not going to let these thugs have it all their own way. More details later.'

  'About time,' Marler drawled.

  'Tweed.' Monica leaned over her desk. 'I ought to alert you. Howard is back from his overseas visit. So he could be up here any moment.'

  'We'll all go home and leave you to it,' Newman suggested.

  'Hear, hear,' agreed Marler.

  Howard, the Director, was not popular A pompous man, he was always complaining that Tweed didn't keep him fully informed about what was going on. His complaint was not without foundation — Tweed had a habit of keeping progress to himself until he was certain he knew what was happening. The phone rang, Monica answered it, looked surprised, put her hand over the mouthpiece as she spoke to Tweed.

  'There's a Denise Chatel on the phone. Says she's Sharon Mandeville's assistant. Asked if you were still here — she's speaking from a car phone. She could be here in five minutes.'

  'At this hour? Oh, well, we need to find out all we can. What does she sound like?'

  'She has a lovely voice. Enchanting.'

  Tweed stared at Monica. He had never before heard her refer to a woman with such words. Nodding, he indicated that the woman calling could come to Park Crescent.

  'Now,' he began as Monica put down her phone, 'before Paula returned from her ordeal in Eagle Street we were talking about the Ear. You were telling me what happened to him.'

  'I still feel rotten,' Marler said, 'leaving him there propped up against the steps, then making an anonymous call to Buchanan, telling him where there was a body.'

  'Don't feel guilty,' Tweed assured him. 'The last thing we can cope with is getting caught up in an involved police investigation. Are you sure those men with umbrellas didn't kill him? You said they had guns.'

  'Handguns,' Marler corrected. 'I should know enough now to recognize when a rifle bullet has hit someone. It has to be the Phantom.'

  'And,' Newman pointed out, 'Basil Windermere had disappeared inside his flat a few minutes earlier. Plus the fact that the last words Kurt Schwarz grasped out were Basil... Schwarz.'

  'Funny that he used his own name. Incidentally, I told you that when I was inside the American Embassy I saw Jefferson Morgenstern, accompanied by guards, putting a file in a safe. I'd like to get hold of that file. I think it's a job for Pete and Harry. They'll need a diversion. Heaven knows how they can manage it.'

  'Set f
ire to the ruddy building,' Monica burst out. 'You know, that could be a good idea.'

  'I was only joking,' Monica protested.

  'I wasn't.' He paused while Monica answered the phone. She told him their visitor from the Embassy had arrived. 'Ask her to come up,' Tweed told her.

  * * *

  George opened the door, stood back, closed it when Denise Chatel had entered and stood quite still. Newman stared, then stood up. Marler leant against a wall, straightened up. He gazed at their visitor. Tweed. was amused at their reaction.

  Denise Chatel, thirty-something, was about five feet eight tall. She had a good figure, without being voluptuous. A brunette, her hair fell below her shoulders. She had a longish face, excellent features and the hint of a warm smile lingered on her mouth. Wearing a figure-hugging two-piece blue suit, she was enticing. Tweed stood up, held out his hand.

  'Do sit down, Ms Chatel. I'm intrigued to know why you have called to see me in the middle of the night.'

  She crossed her legs elegantly as she sat down. Neither Newman nor Marler could take their eyes off her.

  'I'm an owl, like yourself, Mr Tweed. Which suits Miss Mandeville, who likes to work when most people have left the Embassy.'

  'Would you like some coffee?' Newman suggested. 'I'll make it,' Monica said in a brittle tone.

  'That would be most acceptable. And a glass of cold water — if that's not too much trouble.'

  She had a cool American voice. Underneath it Tweed detected a very different accent.

  'Denise Chatel,' he mused, scrutinizing her through his horn-rims. 'That sounds like a French name.'

  'My father was French, my mother American. When I was almost thirty they moved to Washington — my father was offered a good job. I went with them.'

  `Do you ever return to France?' Tweed persisted gently.

  'Oh, frequently. My job takes me to the American Embassy in Paris. Sharon likes to keep herself well informed about what is going on in Europe.' She smiled. 'Are you interrogating me?'