by Colin Forbes
'These are very heavy reinforcements you are sending. What triggered off your decision?'
'Monica's news that Brazil owns Grenville Grange, which is in the same area as Sterndale Manor. And I want a dragnet out to find the missing Marchat before Buchanan gets to him. He could be the key to what really happened.'
'You've got something else on your mind too. I can sense it.'
'Something I've only told Philip so far. I phoned Maggie, the General's niece, earlier. I met her at a seminar - very boring. But when she found out I knew General Sterndale she opened up with something that was worrying her. Sterndale kept the bulk of the bank's capital in a safe at the manor. Ran his own show. The capital was in the form of bearer bonds.'
'Which can be turned into cash anywhere in the West- they have no one's name on them. What sort of money are we talking about?'
'Three hundred million, Maggie said.' 'Oh, my God! Sterndale Bank's capital has gone up in flames.'
'If the bonds were still in the safe . . .'
At Devastoke Cottage on the edge of Stoborough, a hamlet not far south of the River Frome and Wareham, Marchat locked his packed case and looked at his new tenant, who hurried in with three cases. Partridge, a bachelor from nearby Poole, dumped the cases and smiled.
'Phew! That's the lot. Funny time to move in. Three in the morning. But when I got your phone call I just wanted to get here. Love this place.'
'You're satisfied with the agreement we've drawn up ourselves?' Marchat asked anxiously. He looked at the document on the table.
'Well, it didn't take long to make an inventory. Not a lot here, if you don't mind my saying so. Which suits me. How do I get in touch with you?'
'I'll write to you when my aunt confirms I can take over her flat in London. Do keep the place locked up.'
Marchat sounded anxious. It occurred to him Partridge looked very like himself. Strange he had not noticed the close similarity when Partridge had visited the property a few days earlier. Marchat had put an advertisement in a Poole newspaper, saying his cottage was available for renting.
'You said over the phone your aunt was unwell when you called me this evening, that is, yesterday.' Partridge remarked. 'Nothing serious, I hope?'
'No. She fusses. She probably rushed about too much getting ready to leave her flat. I know she'll move out when I have given her a hand with packing. You seem to have a lot of stuff to move.' remarked Marchat.
Partridge had already brought in five suitcases from his car earlier. He smiled, made a dismissive gesture.
'As I told you, I work from home. I've got a PC -personal computer, fax machine, you name it. I'm a financial consultant. I'll start getting everything fixed up in a few days. I want to explore round here. Lovely remote spot.'
'I'd better go then.' Marchat said, checking his watch. He pointed to a row of keys laid out on a table. 'All the security keys are there. Do make sure windows and doors are locked at night - or if you go out.'
'Don't worry.' Partridge assured him. 'I'll keep a close eye on the place.'
He had already decided Marchat was the nervous type. Taking an envelope from his pocket he handed his landlord a fat envelope of banknotes - the deposit and three months' rental in advance.
'You ought to check that.' he suggested.
Marchat had stuffed the envelope in his breast pocket. He shook his head, said he trusted Partridge, picked up his two cases, and hurried out to his old Austin.
He would drive through the night to Heathrow, park the car in 'Long Stay', and be ready to board his flight. He had an open flight ticket in his pocket and had phoned Heathrow to make a firm booking. His destination: Europe.
The early morning flight from Paris was disembarking its passengers at Heathrow. A tall man was the first to leave the plane. He hurried to the car hire counter, produced the requisite papers for the Volvo he had hired over the phone from Paris, paid the necessary money, and within minutes was driving away. His destination: Wareham.
A few minutes later another tall passenger off the same flight approached the same counter, went through the procedure for obtaining the car he had hired by phone from Paris. Once outside the airport he drove at speed, heading south. Destination: Wareham.
4
It was still dark when Philip heard the tapping on his window which overlooked the Boathouse entrance. By nature a zombie when he woke, he had trained himself to wake quickly. Careful not to switch on a light - which would make him a perfect target - he checked the time by the illuminated hands of his wristwatch. 7 a.m.
As he slipped out of bed his right hand grasped the Walther P38 from under his pillow. He pushed the safety lever upwards. He had loaded the weapon the night before. The tapping was repeated more urgently.
He approached the window, stood to one side, his weapon ready, slid back one of the curtains. Outside, illuminated by the lamp over the outer door, Newman stood, holding up a sheet of paper with a message in block letters. The sheet was pressed against the window.
Get up now. See you at b.'fast in fifteen minutes. We must be away from here for the day. Show a leg. Order from T.
Philip switched on his bedside light, went back to the window, nodded agreement. Newman disappeared.
Taking only a few minutes to wash and get dressed, wearing his hip holster with the automatic nestled inside, Philip opened the door from the suite, closed and locked it quietly. He looked across at Eve's door, left the Boathouse, and hurried to the breakfast room which he found on the ground floor.
'Buchanan is likely to call on us,' Newman explained as the waitress disappeared with Philip's order. 'Tweed wants us to avoid meeting him as long as we can. The bad news is that Buchanan arrived in Wareham last night.'
'He won't be a fun person.' Philip remarked after the waitress had brought rolls, marmalade, butter, a pot of coffee, and a jug of cold milk. 'Anyway, what's the programme?'
'We get out of here pretty damned fast. Then we drive round in the country in my car to waste time. We get back into Wareham just after ten.'
'What's the significance of ten o'clock in the morning?'
'The pubs round here open at ten. We'll try the Black Bear in South Street first. Barmen listen to gossip and know just about everything that goes on locally. I want to find out something about this weird character Marchat . . .'
They drove round slowly in Newman's Mercedes 280E, a big car he was very fond of. The roads into the Purbecks were quiet in February. Philip kept a lookout for the Porsche Eve drove but saw no sign of it. Overhead dark brooding clouds threatened more rain. They returned to Wareham just after ten.
Newman avoided parking his car in front of the Priory wall where he had left it overnight. Instead, crossing the bridge over the Frome back into Wareham, he turned a sharp right. Philip looked round as they entered a small square closed in with Georgian houses. On the fourth side was the river front and the water was high, almost lapping the square.
'We're tucked away here from Buchanan.' Newman said as he put money into a meter. 'Now for the Black Bear. . .'
Philip saw you couldn't miss the hotel. Above a square porch was perched a large black bear, reared up, made of metal and painted a grim black. The entrance was a long narrow corridor with the opening to the bar on the right. The corridor continued under a glass roof. Marler stood leaning against a wall as he lit a king-size. He took no notice of Philip and Newman as they entered the bar which had no customers until they walked in.
'Two glasses of French dry white wine.' Philip ordered, and left it to Newman to ask the questions. The barman was a genial type who greeted them pleasantly.
'Just visiting?' he enquired.
'We're looking for a place in the country for my sister.' Newman said. 'A bit early for customers? By the way, I wonder if you could help me? A friend of mine lives in the area. Chap called Marchat. I'd better spell it . . .'
'No need.' The barman studied Newman before replying. 'You obviously haven't heard. Your friend often comes in here for
a noggin one evening a week. He worked for General Sterndale, who lived out in the wilds below Lyman's Tout. Sterndale Mansion went up in flames last night. Horrible tragedy. The General and his son, Richard, were burnt to death. The rumour is it was deliberate. Arson.'
'Sounds awful,' Newman agreed. 'Not what you expect in peaceful Dorset.'
'No, it isn't.'
'What about Marchat?' Newman asked. 'I hope he wasn't there when that happened.'
'He wasn't. He was in here. His evening off. Drinking his usual noggin. We heard the police cars and ambulances screaming their sirens as they went past here. Later, a constable who had come off duty told us what it was all about. We were shocked, I can tell you.'
'Was Marchat here when the constable came in?'
'Yes, he was. He left very quickly without saying a word. In shock, I suppose.'
'Marchat lived in at the mansion, then?' Newman asked.
'Five days a week. He had the weekends off. A friend, you said?'
'Yes.'
'Then you'll probably find him at his cottage outside Stoborough. Know where that is?'
'We drove through it this morning.'
'Difficult place to find. I'll draw a map . . .'
Newman had just pocketed the map when a very large man clumped into the bar. His hair was thick and black, he had wide shoulders and large hands. His aggressive jaw was smeared with a dark stubble. He wore a shabby windcheater and denims. Philip was reminded of the large man riding a bicycle along the towpath the previous night.
'A pint of mild and bitter. Make it quick. I can't 'ang around here all day. Give me space at the bar,' he snapped at Newman.
'There is plenty of space.'
'Sassy, are we?' The newcomer glared. 'You look familiar. You look just like that newspaper peeper, Robert Newman.'
'Maybe because I am.'
'I'm Craig. People keep out of my way.' He rested his elbow on the bar close to Newman. 'I said people who know me keep out of my way. 'Eard me, did you? Or are you bleedin' deaf?'
The barman had placed the drink Craig had ordered on the counter in a tankard. Craig shifted his elbow, knocked it over. Philip heard the vroom-vroom of motorcyclists arriving. Three of them entered the bar and he thought of the experience Newman had told him about when he'd gone out to find a phone the previous evening. He turned to face them as Craig faced Newman.
'You just knocked me pint over. Order me another.'
'Knocked it over yourself,' Newman replied mildly.
'You asked for it . . .'
Craig clenched a huge fist to slam into Newman. The foreign correspondent's hands moved in a blur. Then he was gripping both Craig's arms at a certain point where nerve endings were located. Craig froze, gulped with pain as Newman pirouetted him round, forced him back against the wall, released one hand, grasped the head of his opponent, slammed it against the wall.
'Now grow up. Otherwise you might get hurt. In fact I think it might be wiser if you cleared out. Like now!'
During the confrontation Philip had stood between the two men and the three motorcyclists who showed signs of taking Newman from the rear.
'Have you come in for a drink or a barrel-load of trouble?'
'Let's make mincemeat of the boy,' one of them suggested.
'I wouldn't cause any trouble if I were you,' a voice drawled behind the three youths.
As they swung round Marler stood in the doorway.
He was holding a Beretta, a small automatic just over four-and-a-half inches long in his right hand. He kept tossing it a foot or so in the air and then catching it. Each time he caught it he held it for a moment so it was aimed at a different man point-blank.
'It's really a toy, in my opinion, but it's loaded with real bullets. And I have a certificate to carry this neat little weapon. Why don't you all shove off back to your silly machines and take off?'
It was the silky tone in which he spoke as much as the gun which scared them. Marler stood aside as they walked out, leaving Craig to cope by himself.
'Sue you for GBH,' Craig mumbled.
When Newman had thrown him back his skull had hammered against the wall. He was dazed, but his look was venomous.
'I won't forget this,' he mumbled again.
'I agree,' Newman responded. 'Take you a few days before your head stops hurting. Forget your pint.'
'Screw. . . you.'
Craig walked unsteadily out of the bar and into the street. The barman waited until he had left the hotel before he commented.
'I don't want any more visits from him and he didn't pay for his beer.'
'He's been in here before?' Newman asked.
'A couple of times over the last week. And he asked me the same question you did. Had I heard of a man called Marchat, and if so where did he live.'
'What did you tell him?' Philip enquired.
'Nothing. Said I'd never heard the name, so how could I know where the chap lived. I never said a word about Marchat's place, Devastoke Cottage.'
Marler had disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared by the time they finished their drinks, thanked the barman, and went over to where Newman had parked his Mercedes. Philip looked up and down South Street, which was almost deserted except for the odd woman carrying a shopping bag. No sign of the motorcyclists he had heard leaving near the end of the fracas.
'Where to now?' Philip asked as he glanced round the small square close to the bridge and the river.
'Don't say anything or stare when you look in the back of the car,' warned Newman, who had automatically checked the rear as he stepped into the vehicle. 'And we're going to find this Devastoke Cottage where Marchat lives. Time we had a word with him, to find out what he knows about the fire at Sterndale Manor.'
Philip glanced back quickly as he climbed into the front passenger seat. Coiled up in the back on the floor was Marler. He was holding a canvas sheath and Philip guessed that resting inside it was Marler's favourite long-distance weapon, an Armalite rifle.
Stoborough was little more than a hamlet with a few houses and a tavern. Glancing down at the map the barman had drawn Newman turned along a country lane, hedge-lined and with open fields under water on either side.
'You know who Bully Boy was?' Marler called out from behind them.
'Chap called Craig.'
'They call him "Crowbar" Craig. His real Christian name is Carson.'
'Why Crowbar, then?' Philip enquired.
'You're going to like what Bob did to him when I tell you. When friend Craig wants information from someone and they don't cough up he uses a crowbar to smash their kneecaps. A real charmer.'
'How do you know this?'
'Archie, an informant I met over lunch at an out-of-the-way bar, told me. He said if he ever saw Craig coming he'd run like hell. The intriguing thing is he's deputy to a rich man called Leopold Brazil.'
'A thug like that?' Philip's tone expressed disbelief. 'Brazil is a man who mixes in top society.'
'I thought his Cockney way of speaking was phoney,' Newman commented. 'What makes you so sure he was this Crowbar Craig?'
'Archie gave me a good description of him to put me on my guard. He's good at descriptions, is Archie. What he gave me fitted Bully Boy perfectly.'
'Slow down!' Philip called out. 'You just passed the place. There's a signboard stuck in the hedge.'
Newman glanced in his rear-view mirror, backed the car, saw why he hadn't noticed Devastoke Cottage. It was set well back from the road behind a thorny hedge. The cottage was small with a thatched roof and a single dormer on the first floor peering out between the thatch, which was a greenish colour.
Marler came with them as Newman opened a small wooden gate, which creaked. Not much sign of maintenance, Newman thought as he led the way up the path dense with weeds, noted the colour of the thatch. He was bothered - all the curtains were closed.
'I wonder what we shall find here,' he said, half to himself.
He had to press the bell four times before the ancient h
eavy wooden door was opened. A man stood framed in the entrance, small with a plump face, clean-shaven with a smooth skin. His brown hair was all over the place and he wore a dressing gown over pyjamas.
'Sorry to get you up,' Newman opened. 'I believe you are Mr Marchat.'
'No. I'm Partridge. Mr Marchat has rented Devastoke Cottage to me. I arrived early this morning and I was short of sleep.'
'Could we have a word with you about Mr Marchat? I apologize again for the inconvenience but it's very urgent.'
'All three of you?' Partridge asked nervously.
'This may reassure you.' Newman produced the Special Branch pass skilfully forged by the boffins in the basement at Park Crescent.
'Special Branch. I've never met anyone from your outfit. Please come in. Sorry about the mess. Let's go into the sitting room. I'll open the curtains . . .'
He ushered them into a small room on the right overlooking the front garden and the road beyond. When he had pulled back the curtains he invited them to take seats. The room was furnished with chintz armchairs, which matched the curtains. Newman and Philip sat down while Partridge occupied another armchair. Marler, as was his habit, leaned against a wall by the windows. He took out a king-size, put it between his lips, then paused.