by Colin Forbes
'I heard he was a very old man.' Newman commented. 'I suppose in a place like you described he'd have great log fires. One could have rolled out onto a rug and there we go. A tragedy.'
'There was a log pile, I think,' Eve ruminated, chin perched in her left hand, the right holding the vodka so it wouldn't disappear. 'Outside a barn-like effort. Stacked up against the end of the building, the one where Sterndale kept his old Bentley. The rear of the car was sticking out in the open.'
Philip stayed quiet, sipping his glass of wine. He had no recollection of the log pile Eve had described. But up there on the cliff-top his mind had been a turmoil of emotions - his growing fascination with Eve, remembrances of his dead wife, Jean. He couldn't swear there had been no log pile at the end of the barn. He couldn't be sure of anything. He wondered whether Tweed was still in his office.
'You sent Philip down to Dorset on the excuse of his needing a holiday but your real purpose was to have him on the spot to watch over General Sterndale. Now look at the mess he's in.' Paula accused.
It was ten o'clock at night in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. He sat behind his desk and studied Paula Grey without replying at once. A very attractive slim brunette, she sat behind her own desk, her eyes blazing. His closest confidante and chief assistant, she never hesitated to speak her mind, something Tweed admired. Paula, unmarried after an unhappy love affair, was in her mid-thirties.
The only other occupant, behind her own desk in a corner, was Monica, also a trusted deputy. A small woman of uncertain age, she wore her greying hair in a bun and now she listened to the duel of words, enjoying herself.
'You're partly right.' Tweed admitted. 'But he's spent too many nights and weekends in that nice house he lived in with Jean. I wanted to get him out of the atmosphere of the place. Somewhere in this country - not abroad until I'm sure he's stabilized emotionally. I certainly had no idea his trip would turn out to be so dramatic. And, as you know, Bob Newman has rushed down there at my request as back-up.'
'That will help,' Paula agreed. 'But what is this all about? How did it start?'
'In Paris.'
He rather enjoyed the look of astonishment on her face. All trace of indignation vanished.
'In Paris?' Paula repeated. 'How?'
There was a tap on the door, Tweed called out, 'Come in.' and Marler entered. The deadliest marksman in Western Europe, the new arrival, a long-time member of Tweed's staff, was of medium height, slim and smartly dressed in a shooting jacket, corduroy trousers, and brown hand-made shoes which gleamed like glass. Clean-shaven, he had a cynical smile and was known not to trust a word anyone said to him until he had triple-checked it.
'Evenin'.' he drawled in an upper-crust voice. 'Nice to see you're all having an early night for a change.'
He adopted a typical stance, leaning against a wall while he lit a king-size cigarette.
'Marler.' Tweed began, 'Paula is puzzled about what's going on. Tell her about your Paris trip. You've come here straight off the plane, I imagine?'
'Of course. Paula is puzzled? So am I.'
'Tell her what happened, for Heaven's sake.' Tweed suggested.
'Please do.' Paula urged.
'Started with a phone call from an informant of mine in Paris. Jules Fournier. I can give you his name now the poor sod is dead. We met at five o'clock - after it was dark - outside a bar in the Rue St-Honore. He told me on the phone something big was soon to break, mentioned a name which shook me up a bit. I boarded a flight this morning to suss out the meeting place. Seemed safe enough. A main street in Paris when there'd be lots of other people about. I didn't realize that could be dangerous. Black mark.'
'What name did he mention?' asked Paula.
'All in good time. It's that quick mind of yours. So bear with me. Fournier was a slip of a man with greasy hair. He'd been a totally reliable informant of mine in the past. I was leaning up against an outside window of the bar, pretending to read Figaro. Lots of people about, hurrying home from work, as I'd anticipated. I was carrying a Walther automatic in a hip holster - borrowed from a friend in Paris earlier. You never know on an assignment like that. Fournier turned up out of nowhere.'
'On foot?' asked Paula.
'That was my impression. He seemed unusually nervous, glancing over his shoulder. He spilled out his so-called information in French. Didn't make much sense. He mentioned the same name again, said the chap concerned was engaged on an operation to change the world, that he had contacts everywhere. That was when a group of motorcyclists clad in black leather, wearing crash helmets, came staggering along the pavement. I thought they were drunk. They were shouldering people out of the way, making rude signs if anyone protested. I saw them clearly, but not their faces, of course. As they came up close to Fournier one of them stumbled. I was an idiot.'
He paused, took a deep drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in the crystal-glass ashtray Monica had pushed close to him on her desk.
'Never heard you say that before.' Paula said quietly.
'I was too intent on what Fournier was trying to tell me. He said he'd sent me a letter. Then it happened. I still curse myself.'
'What happened? I doubt if you could have prevented it. Not in rush hour on the Rue St-Honore.' Paula commented.
'These drunken roughs, as I thought, almost formed a circle round us. My alarm bells started shrieking then, but it was too late.'
'What was too late?' Tweed enquired.
'It was the chap who had stumbled - appeared to -when he cannoned into Fournier. Said, "Sorry, mate," in English. As they disappeared Fournier gave a gulp and fell forward into my arms. I grabbed him round the waist and my right hand was sticky. Blood. The stumbler had rammed a knife up under Fournier's left shoulder blade. As he sagged I checked his pulse after I'd rested him against the window. Nothing. He was dead. A very professional job.'
'What about the motorcyclist gang?' Paula asked.
'They'd disappeared like the wind. I decided I'd better do likewise. Carrying a Walther without a certificate I didn't fancy an interview with the flics - or the big boys they'd summon. I signalled to Archie and left poor Fournier after telling a woman who'd stopped he'd had a heart attack and could she get a doctor. Not a thing I could do to help my informant.'
'And who is Archie?' Paula enquired. 'Archie who?'
'His second name doesn't matter. He's probably the best informant I have in the world. He's based in Paris but flits all over the place. When I arrived at De Gaulle Airport on the way in I'd phoned Archie, asked him to be close by as back-up. He's quite a character.'
'Where was he at the moment of the murder?' Tweed interjected.
'On the far side of the street in a doorway. I doubt if he saw much, with the traffic being so heavy. But he got my message and disappeared. That's it.'
'No, it isn't.' Paula persisted. 'What was the name Fournier mentioned on the phone which startled you -and then repeated in Paris before he was murdered?'
'I suppose I heard him correctly. He was gabbling on both occasions.' Marler paused to light a fresh king-size. Outwardly calm, Paula sensed he was upset by what he regarded as a lethal failure on his part.
'Leopold Brazil, if you can believe it . . .'
2
There was a stunned silence inside Tweed's office. Paula's and Monica's expressions suggested sheer disbelief. It was Paula who broke the silence.
'Leopold Brazil? The international power-broker? The mystery man who it's rumoured has the ear of the American President, our Prime Minister, the President of France, and Lord knows who else?'
'That was the name I'm pretty sure I heard.' Marler said. 'And Fournier mentioned it twice.'
'He must have made a mistake.' Paula insisted.
'Maybe.' intervened Tweed. 'I'll let you into a secret. For the past few weeks I've personally been making discreet enquiries about him. He's like a second Kissinger, but without the publicity. And like Kissinger he conducts shuttles between the world's capitals in his private jet
when trouble is looming. He's a very powerful man and rich.' He paused. 'So powerful that earlier today I was summoned to Downing Street. Someone talked. I was told by the PM personally to discontinue making any more enquiries about Mr Brazil.'
'Keep off the grass.' Marler said laconically.
'So what are we going to do?' asked Paula.
She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Monica took the call, spoke briefly, then put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Tweed.
'It's Rene Lasalle, your old friend in the DST.' She was referring to the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, French counter-espionage.
Tweed pressed a button on his phone. He lifted the receiver and greeted the Frenchman cordially. Lasalle sounded agitated.
'Are you on scrambler?'
'Yes. You sound bothered.'
'Does your man, Marler, wear a shooting jacket and corduroy trousers?'
Tweed glanced at Marler who was dressed exactly as Lasalle had described.
'What's all this about?' Tweed asked tersely. 'I don't like questions about my staff any more than you would.'
'Has Marler visited Paris today?'
'Same reaction. I repeat, what is this all in aid of, Rene?'
'Murder.' Lasalle paused as though expecting Tweed to say something, but Tweed remained silent. 'Murder,' the Frenchman repeated. 'Cold-blooded murder in the middle of Paris. A man called Jules Fournier, occupation not known, was stabbed to death a few hours ago during the rush hour. In the Rue St-Honore, of all places.'
'So?'
'Fournier was with another man who laid the dead body against the window of a bar. He then told a woman - in French - Fournier had had a heart attack and told her to get a doctor.'
'So?' Tweed repeated.
'She gave a good description. A very observant lady. I was reminded of Marler.'
'No one else in the world looks like him? Is that what you're getting at?' Tweed demanded.
'What about the clothes description? Very British garb.'
'What about it?'
'Tweed, you're stalling . . .'
'I'm damned annoyed at your absurd assumption. And no, I've never seen the said person wearing such clothes. Also he's been in London all day. I can vouch for that myself.'
Heaven help me, Tweed thought, and that's one place I won't be going to. He changed the subject.
'While we're on the phone - on scrambler as we agreed earlier - have you got any further with your clandestine check on Leopold Brazil?'
'More rumours about him I don't like. That he's planning something global. Oh, I've been warned off checking any further on him. Would you believe it -I was summoned to the Elysee and the President himself told me Brazil was an important man and I would now stop any further investigation.'
'And your decision?'
'Blast the Elysee. They can sack me and I'll continue the investigation on my own time. Something's rotten in the state of Denmark.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Lasalle prided himself on using English colloquialisms and well-known phrases.
'Why not proceed very secretly? Only use a small circle of people you know you can trust with your life.'
'That is a small circle in today's world. Let's keep in touch. I'm sorry I went off the deep end when I started this call.'
'Forget it. Look after yourself. And I agree - we'll keep in touch . . .'
Tweed put down the phone. He stared at Marler.
'I went out on a limb there. Did you travel to Paris under your own name?'
'Of course not. I used one of my false passports. The call from Fournier bothered me so I took every precaution.'
'Get rid of those clothes fast. Lasalle has a woman witness - the one you spoke to after Fournier was killed -and she gave a perfect description of you. I'd like to have told Lasalle about the gang in motorcyclists' outfits, but I couldn't.'
'Understood. Agreed.' Marler said.
'You were never in Paris.' Tweed went on emphatically. 'If you were caught up in a murder investigation by the French police you could be kept there for weeks. Lasalle wouldn't be able to help you. Now, lose those clothes.'
'Will do.' Marler paused at the door just before leaving. 'I've remembered something Fournier said when he was gabbling on. He'd just mentioned Leopold Brazil. Said I might get info from a servant working for General Sterndale. I suppose that couldn't be the Sterndale's Bank chap?'
'Anything else?' Tweed asked brusquely, worried about the clothes problem.
'Also said Sterndale trusted his servant who lived in with the General. Chap called Marchat. No idea of his nationality. . .'
'That gives us a link at last between Leopold Brazil and Sterndale.' Paula commented, hiding her excitement.
'I had one already.' Tweed told her. 'Recently I bumped into Sterndale again. I was visiting someone at that boring club where I'd first met him. I met him on his way out. He started talking about Brazil, about what a brilliant man he was. Then he had to rush off.'
'Which is why you sent Philip to Wareham on a so-called holiday - then asked him to check up on Sterndale.'
'You're right.' Tweed shifted in his swivel chair. 'I have an unpleasant feeling something pretty big is being planned. International. I don't like Fournier's reference to "an operation to change the world".'
'Could anyone really do that?' Paula asked sceptically.
'Depends on how clever they are, how powerful. There's nothing standing in their way, which keeps me awake at night. We have a hopeless PM. Washington is a joke. Bonn has a man who just wants to go down in history as creator of the United States of Europe. Barmy idea - the German doesn't recall history. The Austro-Hungarian Empire, controlled from Vienna before the First World War, was a hotch-potch of nationalities, just as Europe would be. So what happens at the end of that horrible conflict? The Empire collapses, breaks up into various individual nations - Hungary, Czechoslovakia, et cetera. Austria is left as a tiny state of no account.'
'What about today?' Paula enquired.
'The situation reminds me of what I've read about the 1930s. A man called Adolf Hitler, evil but a brilliant psychologist, manipulates the Western leaders like pulling the strings of puppets.'
'You mean Brazil could be a new Hitler?'
'No! But you queried that phrase "engaged in an operation to change the world" - the West is leaderless, ripe for a genius to manipulate it.'
'You think Brazil is a genius?'
'I met him not so long ago at a party. He came over to talk to me briefly. I had the uncomfortable feeling he knew who I was, about the SIS. He has contacts all over the place. Like an octopus. A very clever man - and a great charmer. He wants to meet me again but I'm dodging him. For the moment.'
'So we have a murder in Paris, which could link up with two more murders in Dorset. That's pretty wide-spread.' Paula mused. 'And I wonder what happened to the missing servant, Marchat.'
'You noticed that, then?' Tweed smiled drily. 'Over the phone, as I told you earlier, Chief Inspector Buchanan told me quite specifically the fire brigade had searched what remains of the manor and brought out two bodies -identified as Sterndale and his son, Richard. So what happened to this shadowy figure Marchat?'
Inside a large old stone house on the fabulously expensive Avenue Foch in Paris, a large tall man sat behind a Louis Quinze desk. The walls of the room were lined with bookcases but the lighting was very dim, the room mostly in darkness. He spoke in English to his visitor, seated on the far side of the desk and shrouded in gloom.
'I think you ought to start on your travels again. Take an early flight to Heathrow tomorrow, hire a car, drive down to Dorset. Specifically, to Wareham. Clear?'
'As far as it goes, yes,' replied the visitor. 'What am I looking for in Dorset?'
'Trouble. It may be a clean-up job you have to undertake. If so, do it. No loose ends, please.'
'I'm an expert at locating them, tying them up.'
'Which is why I'm sending you. I've explained what has happen
ed, as far as I know it. Certain people will be running all over the county like ants. Watch your step.'
'I always do that,' the visitor replied, pushing back his chair prior to leaving.
'I repeat, watch your step.' Leopold Brazil emphasized. 'You don't know the details, but a world is at stake.'
In the bar of the Priory Eve Warner tilted her glass, knocked back her fourth large vodka. Newman watched her cynically. As far as he could tell the amount of alcohol had no effect on her. She had a head like a rock. Philip was sipping the last of his single glass of wine.
'Bed for me.' Eve announced. She yawned without putting her hand over her mouth. 'It's been an exciting day.'
'I wouldn't call it exciting.' Philip objected. 'I think tragic is a better word.'
'Well. It isn't as though we'd known either of the victims. Good night, Bob. See you in the morning, I hope?'
'Possibly.' Newman replied.
'Tap on my door, Philip, when you come down. Just to say good night.'
'Your rooms are close?' Newman asked Philip when she had gone, leaving the bar empty except for the two men.