Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'You may smoke,' Partridge assured him. 'Please do. I think I'll have one myself.' he went on, producing a packet from one of his dressing-gown pockets. 'How can I help you, gentlemen?'

  'We expected to find Mr Marchat in residence,' Newman explained. 'Could you tell us where he is?'

  Despite obvious lack of sleep, Partridge, a man Newman estimated to be in his forties, explained tersely the whole series of events which had brought him to Devastoke Cottage.

  'The extraordinary thing is.' he concluded, 'we look very like each other. I was quite startled when I first met him.'

  'You think he selected you as a tenant for that reason?' Newman probed.

  'Oh, no. We practically agreed I would take this place over the first phone call when I answered his ad in the local paper. Subject, of course, to my liking the place.'

  'How long ago is it since you first spoke to him?'

  'About a week. No more. Has he done anything wrong?'

  'Nothing like that,' Newman assured him. 'He may just be able to help us with our enquiries. He gave you the address of this aunt in London whose flat he was taking over?'

  'No, he didn't. He said he would phone me all details as soon as he knew she would definitely be moving. He had no doubt about that.'

  'I hope you won't mind my asking this,' Newman said at his most tactful, 'but could you give me proof of your identity?'

  'Not at all. You did expect to find Mr Marchat here. So would my driving licence do?'

  'That would cover everything.'

  While they waited for Partridge to come back Marler, who was still standing to one side of the window, suddenly stepped back against the wall and peered out from behind the folded curtain.

  A grey Volvo was cruising very slowly past the cottage from the direction of Stoborough. The windows were misted up but the driver had earlier rubbed a hole in the blurred surface. Marler had a fleeting impression of a tall man behind the wheel. Newman's Mercedes was parked on the grass verge outside the hedge. The Volvo speeded up once it was past the cottage.

  'Something wrong?' asked Philip.

  Marler had no time to reply as Partridge returned, handed a driving licence to Newman. Glancing at it he saw it was made out in the name Simon Partridge. He handed it back as he stood up.

  'Thank you, Mr Partridge. Again, very sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.'

  'That's all right.' Partridge glanced at a couch pushed against a wall. 'Think I'll lie down there and leave the curtains open. Otherwise I'll sleep until Heaven knows when. And there's so much to unpack . . .'

  'Strange.' Newman remarked as they walked back down the footpath, 'that Marchat should push off so quickly after the tragedy at Sterndale Mansion.'

  'He did start trying to let the place a week ago,' Marler reminded him. 'Seemed a harmless enough cove, that chap Partridge.'

  'Funny that business about his likeness to Marchat,' Philip commented.

  'Oh, they say we all have a double somewhere,' Newman replied.

  The weather had changed while they were inside Devastoke Cottage. The windows on Newman's car had misted up and he began cleaning them with a wash leather. He set the wipers going to clear the windscreen, squeezed out the leather, and dried his hands on another cloth.

  'We'd better get back to Wareham. We'll have to face the music sooner or later, the music with a nasty rasp played by Chief Inspector Buchanan. We'll forget we paid a visit to Partridge. Marler, I suggest you keep out of the way, slip back to the Black Bear Inn. No point in letting our favourite policeman know how many of us are down here. That really would rouse his suspicions . . .'

  Marler again coiled himself up on the floor in the rear after retrieving the Armalite he'd hidden under a travel rug. As they headed back for Wareham Philip was thinking about their colleague tucked up in the back. Marler had stood with a faraway look while Newman had cleaned the windows, as though he had something on his mind.

  They had passed through Stoborough and were close to the bridge over the Frome when Marler called out.

  'Bob, turn back now, please. Drive back to Devastoke Cottage.'

  'What the hell for?'

  Trust me. Just do it.'

  'Oh, all right. You might give me a reason.' he growled as he executed a three-point turn on the straight stretch of road, which was deserted.

  'A Volvo cruised slowly past the cottage while we were inside. I didn't like the look of it. The more I think about it I still don't like the look of it.'

  'I noticed that car,' Philip recalled. 'It crawled past while Partridge was fetching his driving licence. I thought the driver could be a woman.'

  'Hard to tell. It - he or she - was little more than a silhouette,' Marler responded. 'And why are we crawling?'

  'Because,' Newman explained as though speaking to a child, 'there's a farm tractor ahead of us with a car behind it. And there's traffic in the opposite direction. I can't overtake. Contain your impatience, we'll soon reach the turn-off lane.'

  'And the tractor will go down there,' Marler snapped.

  An air of tension was rising inside the car. Newman also was beginning to get worried. He'd had experience of Marler's intuitions and too often they had proved to be well founded. The tractor and the car ahead continued straight on towards Corfe and he turned down the lane where there was no traffic. He accelerated.

  'Everything looks the same as before.' Newman remarked as they left the Mercedes parked outside Devastoke Cottage.

  'No it isn't.' said Marler and produced his Beretta, holding it close to his side. 'Partridge clearly told us he wasn't going to draw the curtains over the living room while he had some more kip. Well, they're closed now.'

  'Could have changed his mind.' Newman pointed out.

  'There's a path leading round the side of the cottage, probably to a back door. I suggest we go and see . . .'

  Their feet made no sound on the moss-strewn path and at the rear of the cottage they found the back door. They stopped abruptly as Marler pointed, raised one finger for absolute silence. The back door was slightly ajar, had been jemmied open forcibly, shown by splintered wood in the door jamb. He pushed it open slowly, his gun raised. They crept into a darkened kitchen with an old iron cooker in a setback.

  Newman was gripping the .38 Smith & Wesson in his hand and Philip had produced his Walther. They walked slowly into a narrow hall. The door to the sitting room, now on their left, was half open. Marler stood to one side, slowly pushed it wide open. By now their eyes were accustomed to the semidarkness.

  'Oh, my God!' Philip whispered.

  Partridge was lying half on and half off the couch, his head on the floor, twisted at a bizarre angle. Marler walked in, bent down, checked the carotid artery, looked up.

  'Dead as a dodo. His neck is broken. I think I know whose work this is. There's a new assassin on the loose in Europe. Kills for big sums. Simple technique. He comes up behind his victim, slips his arm round the target's neck in a certain way. This is the result. They call him The Motorman.'

  'Weird name.' Philip said quietly. 'Why The Motor-man?'

  'Because he moves like greased lightning. As I'm sure he did here. He thought he was killing Marchat. . .'

  5

  'So you think this assassin believed he'd killed Marchat?' Tweed asked.

  He was sitting in his office at Park Crescent when Monica told him Newman was on the line. He had listened with a poker-face while Newman related tersely what had happened, including the encounter with Crowbar Craig. This was the first time he interrupted Newman's narrative.

  'That could be the deputy of Mr Leopold Brazil, a man called Carson Craig. But Monica has dug up more data on this gentleman. He usually sports a business suit and a sophisticated accent.' His tone became ironic. 'The sort of chap you could invite to your club.'

  'Except that I don't waste my time belonging to any club.' Newman retorted. 'But I thought his Cockney accent was a fake. "Gentleman" is not the term I'd use. Basically he is a sadistic tough. Nicknam
ed "Crowbar". Uses one to smash people's kneecaps if they annoy him.'

  'I see. Bob, Monica has also found Brazil owns Grenville Grange, in the vicinity of the Sterndale house. Perched near the cliffs at Lyman's Tout. Check that place out. Not by yourself. Take Philip and Marler with you.'

  'If you insist.'

  'I do. Three murders in Dorset is three too many. Try to avoid Buchanan as long as you can. Also send Butler to this Partridge's previous address in Poole to check him out. I presume you noted his address when he showed you the driving licence.'

  'I did. I'd better get moving before Buchanan hoves up on the horizon.'

  'Do that. I sense the momentum of something is building up. Continue to stay with Philip at the Priory. Anything further with Philip's new friend, Eve Warner? I can't confirm whether she's Special Branch or not.'

  'Nary a sign of the lady so far this morning. Signing off.'

  Take care . . .'

  'Why don't I keep my big mouth shut?' Newman said to himself as he emerged from the phone box in South Street in Wareham. Standing on the kerb, leaning against her red Porsche, was Eve Warner. Dressed in a clean white windcheater with the hood hanging on her shoulders, she waved to him. She had a small frame, he noted, and even wearing drainpipe blue denims with the windcheater she looked very attractive. No wonder Philip seems to be falling for her, he thought.

  Top of the morning to you, Bob,' she called out cheekily. 'I see your Merc parked behind me. Going someplace? I'll come with you. Hello, Philip. Sleep OK, all on your ownsome?'

  'Very well.'snapped Philip, who had just walked out of the Black Bear. He thought her remark tactless, as he'd told her that this was his first holiday on his own since Jean's death.

  'Then don't sound like a sore-head,' she rapped back. 'Where are we off to today?'

  'You're not invited.'Newman told her bluntly as she came up close to him.

  Marler had slipped out of the hotel and into the back of Newman's car without her noticing. She was too busy flashing her seductive smile at Newman, intent on persuading him.

  'Don't be an old spoilsport.'she challenged him. 'I need company.'

  'Look elsewhere, then. Excuse me . . .'

  'I can always follow you!' she shouted at his back as he disappeared inside the hotel. It took him only a few minutes to locate the burly Harry Butler, to give him Tweed's instructions about checking on Partridge and the address in Poole.

  'What about my sidekick, Pete Meld? He's in his room.'

  'Tell him to stay here and keep a discreet watch on the Priory Hotel for any sign of Chief Inspector Buchanan. He's round here somewhere. I'll come back here for your report later in the day.'

  When he came out on to the street Eve was leaning up against her car, arms and legs crossed.

  'You don't get rid of me as easily as that,' she told him.

  'We'll see about that.'

  Being careful not to show his annoyance at her persistence, he got behind the wheel. Philip was already in the front passenger seat; Marler was secreted in the back. He drove off towards the bridge, heading for Corfe and then Kingston, recalling that Philip had told him about the route over breakfast. In his rear-view mirror he saw Eve take off after him.

  'I'll lose you, hellcat.'he said aloud.

  'She's all right.'Philip protested.

  Newman made no reply.

  Back in his office at Park Crescent Tweed had relayed to Paula and Monica the gist of his conversation with Newman.

  'The Motorman?' Paula repeated. 'He does sound a bit sinister. From what you've told me he must have moved jolly fast to commit that foul murder at Devastoke Cottage.'

  'Hence his nickname, I presume. The Motorman,' Tweed said grimly. 'I've heard mention of him before. I know who it was. Arthur Beck, Chief of Federal Police in Switzerland. Get him on the phone, Monica - you should find him at his headquarters in Berne.'

  Monica was reaching for her phone when it began ringing. Answering it, she nodded to Tweed.

  'It's Lasalle from Paris again. Sounds urgent.'

  'Tweed,' Lasalle burst out the moment he knew he was talking to him, 'we've just discovered another topflight scientist and his family have disappeared. Over a month ago. From Grenoble. He was on leave, hence the delay in his unit realizing he'd gone missing.'

  'Another one? That makes a total of twenty of the world's most important scientists missing from Europe, here, and America. Details, please. What was this one's speciality?'

  'Advanced satellite communication. Very secret work - probably the top man in his field anywhere. Georges Blanc. Like the others, his wife has disappeared too.'

  'Kidnapped?' Tweed suggested.

  'No evidence of that. Before vanishing he instructed his lawyer to sell his house and contents - antiques included. The lawyer has to send the proceeds to a numbered account in a Belgian bank. The President is raving mad. We were leading the world in that field.'

  'Any clue as to how Blanc left Grenoble?'

  'His chauffeur - I'm having him flown to Paris so I can interrogate him myself - told me on the phone he had driven Blanc, his wife, and a load of luggage over the border to a remote airfield in Germany. He was ordered to drive back to Grenoble after Blanc handed him a handsome bonus to keep his mouth shut. Blanc's story was he was on a top secret mission.'

  'Any type of aircraft waiting on the airfield while this chauffeur was there?'

  'No. Blanc is brilliant. He was working on an advanced satellite - for communications between the Earth and the orbiting satellite.'

  'I'll add him to the list. While you're on the phone, have you ever heard of The Motorman?' Tweed enquired.

  'God! Why do you ask?'

  'Because this reputed assassin may be operating over in this country.'

  'He's a new, highly skilled killer. Very expensive, so the underworld rumours have it. He's assassinated two bankers in Paris. That's confidential. We've kept very quiet about him while we track him. Not a clue so far.'

  'What sort of bankers?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'Both owned small, very exclusive banks. One founded in the time of Napoleon. Family banks.'

  'How can you be certain The Motorman was responsible?' Tweed pressed. 'He leaves a calling card?'

  'Of course not. It's the technique. Both bankers had a lot of security round their houses. It was bypassed, God knows how. They both died of broken necks. One was killed in his library while his wife was in the adjoining room. She never heard a thing.'

  'Any money missing?'

  'Strange you should ask that,' the Frenchman commented. 'In each case a lot of the capital was held in bearer bonds. They've vanished. How the hell am I supposed to trace bearer bonds?'

  'The banks have gone bust?' Tweed enquired.

  'No. Enough cash was kept in each branch to keep them solvent. Tweed, I'm up to my neck, over my head.'

  'You'll swim to the surface,' Tweed assured him. 'You always do. Keep in touch . . .'

  Tweed sighed to himself as he put down the phone. Monica asked him whether she should still call Arthur Beck and he nodded. She began dialling immediately.

  'Beck here. What is it, Tweed?'

  The Swiss police chief, normally genial and calm however fraught a situation, sounded brusque.

  'Arthur, a little while ago you mentioned an assassin, a professional, called The Motorman. Have you had any luck identifying him?'

  'Why?'

  'He's been operating in France . . .'

  'I know that . . .'

  'Well, what you probably don't know is that he's now in this country as far as we can tell. He tried to kill a key witness to a double murder but by mistake murdered the wrong man.'

  'First time he's made a mistake.' There was a pause. 'I don't like this - he's becoming very international. I've got nowhere tracking him down. He just disappears into thin air. He's responsible for killing three Swiss.'

  'What were their professions?'

  'Bankers.'

  'Owners of small private
long-established banks?'

  'How on earth did you guess that? We've kept silent about his activities. I thought that might throw him off his guard.'

  'And you know it was The Motorman because with all his three victims he broke their necks?'

  'Yes. He's the bloody Invisible Man. No amount of top security can keep him out. You can imagine how security-conscious bankers are.'

  'He bypasses their security in some weird way?'

  'Oh, I think I've now worked that out. Tweed, he talks his way in. In all three cases the security was still intact. I'm wondering now if he has an attractive woman with him when he calls to help get him inside.'

  'Could The Motorman be a woman?' Tweed speculated.

  'She'd have to be pretty strong. One of the bankers was built like a bull. Didn't save him. And there's no sign of a struggle in all three cases. Except with the bull, whose feet scuffed up the carpet.'

  'To change the subject, do you know anything about a Leopold Brazil?'

  Another pause, a long one. Tweed, I've been warned off making any enquiries about him.'

  'I don't believe it. Nobody warns you off. Who are you talking about?'

  'That I can't tell you. Damn it, no one pushes me up against the wall. He has an expensive villa along the lake in Zurich. Between you and me I am watching discreetly. Very discreetly. Something strange about that man with all his power. I'll tell you he flew off in his private jet from Kloten, Zurich, on his way to Paris.'