by Colin Forbes
'What kind of a jet?'
'Well, here's the tricky part. He has two private jets, both Lears. One has Brazil SA, the name of his Swiss company, in huge letters along the fuselage. The other, painted white, has no markings identifying that it belongs to him. He uses the white jet to confuse watchers whether he's aboard or not. Both have aircrews standing in rotas twenty-four hours round the clock. It was the white job which flew to Charles de Gaulle. That's it.'
Tweed put down the phone. His concentration on what Beck had told him was so great he hadn't noticed Monica was holding her phone, staring at him impatiently.
'Lasalle is back on the line from Paris. He's asked me twice to make sure you're on scrambler.'
'I still am,' Tweed said, and picked up the phone again. 'Sorry to keep you hanging on.'he said into the mouthpiece.
'I told you I was warned off investigating Leopold Brazil. Which is why I omitted to tell you he flew in yesterday from Zurich. A limo with tinted windows met him and drove him to his villa in the Avenue Foch. One of my best men identified him as he left the limo.'
'So why tell me now.'
'Because I'm sure now he's on his way to Britain within the next two hours.'
Tweed half-closed his eyes. Paula noted the mannerism, which told her he was tense.
'How do you know that?'
'The pilot of his white Lear jet just filed a flight plan for two hours hence.'
'To where?'
'Bournemouth International Airport. In Dorset . . .'
Tweed thanked Lasalle briefly, jumped up from his desk, ran to a cupboard, hauled out two cases kept packed for emergency departures - one for himself, the other for Paula.
'We'll take the Ford Escort,' he snapped. 'I'll drive. You'd better bring your Browning automatic. Monica, phone the Priory Hotel. Book us each a room. Indefinite stay. You can reach me there, but wrap up any message.'
'What's the emergency?' Paula asked.
She had already opened a locked drawer, taken out her Browning .32 automatic, slipped it into the special pocket sewn into her shoulder bag which gave her instant access to the weapon. Tweed was studying the map of Dorset on the wall.
'Monica,' he rapped out before she could dial, 'if Newman phones tell him to post one man at the roundabout just south of Stoborough Green. Not Stoborough. Stoborough Green. I want another man posted to watch the ferry across the exit from Poole Harbour. Both are watching for a limousine with tinted-glass windows. If either man spots it they are to follow it with caution. My guess is it will be headed for Grenville Grange, in the Purbecks near Lyman's Tout. Leave you in charge . . .'
Paula caught him up as he jumped in behind the wheel of the Ford Escort parked outside as she slid into the front passenger seat.
'What is the emergency?' she repeated.
'Leopold Brazil is headed our way - flying within two hours from Paris to Bournemouth International Airport.' He was already driving towards Baker Street as Paula fastened her seat belt. 'From Bournemouth International he has to drive by one of only two routes - and we'll have watchers checking. Which means we should beat him to Wareham.'
'What is happening? Everything has suddenly moved.'
'I think Dorset is about to explode . . .'
6
'It's no good.' Newman said as he drove up the steep, winding hill to Kingston, leaving Corfe behind. 'Your Eve Warner is a damned good driver and I'm not going to lose her.' He checked his rear-view mirror. 'She's just come round that snaky bend like a pro at Brand's Hatch.'
'In that case.' Marler drawled from his curled-up position on the rear floor, 'my hiding is a waste of time. Warn me when you come to another bend and I'll get up, perch in a corner. When she sees me she may think I was sitting like that all the time.'
'Then get ready. . . Now!'
Newman had accelerated suddenly, swinging round a dangerous curve. In the back Marler scrambled up, settled himself in a corner of the seat, eased the ache out of his legs.
'Perfect! She didn't see you.' Newman reported.
'I still think we ought to have come in my four-wheel-drive.' Philip protested.
'And you'd have risked running into Buchanan if you'd tried to collect it from outside the Priory.'
'Your Merc will never make it along that track across Lyman's Tout.'
'Who said we were going to try?' Newman enquired.
'Then where the devil are we going?'
'Straight to Grenville Grange, residence of a certain Mr Leopold Brazil.'
'Asking for trouble . . .'
' "L'audace, toujours I'audace," as Danton once said, or something like that. I checked the map. We turn out of Kingston here to reach the entrance to his drive.'
'And when we're challenged by a posse of guards?'
'I bluff our way in. You seem to have forgotten that once I was a foreign correspondent.' Newman said jauntily. 'In that game you learn to get in anywhere.'
'Prepare for battle.' Marler commented.
The entrance to Grenville Grange appeared suddenly off a lonely road on the heights of the Purbecks. Two massive wrought-iron gates were thrown back and an open pebble drive stretched beyond them. Philip saw the dark hulk of Grenville Grange half a mile beyond. No sign of any guards, no sign of life.
'Stop the car a minute if you're going in there.' Philip said.
'All right. But why?' asked Newman, pulling up.
I want to go back and persuade Eve to wait for us back down the road. You heard what Marler said.'
'Good idea. She'll only get in the way. I'd been thinking about that same problem myself . . .'
Eve had stopped her Porsche a dozen yards behind them, behind the high grey stone wall which bordered the road. She raised her dark eyebrows as Philip approached and flashed him her inviting smile.
'I'll bet Bob Newman could horsewhip me. Tell him it's a free country.'
'Eve.' Philip perched his elbows on the edge of her open window. This could be very tricky. Dangerous, even . . .'
'But you'll protect me, won't you? If it came to a pinch I think even Bob would come to my aid. Who is the chap in the back? Haven't seen him before, have I?'
'Eve, I'm asking you to reverse the way we came. We'll come back for you.'
'Bet you will.' she said sarcastically. Tell Newman I'll be on his tail. I'm bloody stubborn.'
'You are,' snapped Philip.
'Now don't lose your temper.'
Philip shrugged, hurried back to Newman, climbed in beside him.
'She's not having any.' Newman remarked.
'I couldn't persuade her. How could you tell?'
'Her expression. Yours. Now what's she up to? She's running towards us. I suppose I'd better try and make her see sense.'
Eve poked her head in at Newman's window. She looked back at Marler.
'Hello, nice man. Who are you? Maybe you'd buy me a drink soon. My favourite tipple is vodka.'
'Go home.' said Newman.
Eve lit a fresh cigarette from the one she had been smoking. She blew out smoke, away from Newman's face. Her manner became serious.
'Bob, I could be useful. I have cat's eyes.'
'And cat's claws no doubt.'
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Are you calling at this place or just checking on it? If the latter, you see where the drive forks, one bit going up to the big terrace entrance, the other section curving round the back of this architectural masterpiece? That second fork would take you round the back and then away from Bleak House down a slope to the sea. Near the cliff's edge - and you'd better watch that - it curves round the end of a drystone wall on to Lyman's Tout.'
'How do you know that?'
She had Newman's attention now and he gazed straight at her, his curiosity aroused.
'Because when Philip took me up Lyman's Tout I noticed the drive coming round the house through a gap where the drystone wall had crumbled. I'm observant. Trust me . . .'
She ran back to her Porsche. Newman drove forward at a slow pace, s
tudying the dark house, which was very big. All the shutters were closed but as they got closer he noticed they had been painted black recently. Black. Awful!
The dark hulk seemed to move towards them and Philip saw that at the end they would pass round were several large barns - very like the barn General Stern-dale's old Bentley had been partially parked inside. Here the great doors were all closed.
'Let's hope she knows what she's talking about.' Newman commented. 'She's on my tail - if she drops back I'm going to get suspicious . . .'
Ever since they had left Wareham the weather had been unpredictable. And there had been no more rain overnight. Philip was pondering these factors as they cruised past the barns.
'You might make it back along the track over the top of Lyman's Tout even in your Merc.' he remarked. 'I think the mud might have hardened. I don't promise anything.'
There was still no sign of anyone occupying Grenville Grange. Newman was not reassured as he rounded the end of the house and saw a pebbled track continuing towards the sea which petered out into ruts halfway down the slope towards the cliff edge. He turned off the engine and the car slid slowly down the slope and inside the ruts, which were hardened, probably due to the lack of rain and the severe frost.
'What do you think?' Marler asked.
'Something's not right. Those wide-open gates bother me.'
'Why?' asked Philip.
'They suggest someone is expected. So I'd expect there to be staff inside the house. Everyone shut up. We're close to the cliff edge . . .'
He switched on the engine for more control. The wind off the sea had hit them like a hammer blow as they came round the end of the house and started down the barren slope. The sea gleamed an intense blue and great white horses showed on mountainous waves thundering in.
Reaching the end of the drystone wall, Newman eased the car round the end, glancing to his left. The cliff edge was very close. Behind him Eve drove her Porsche slowly, a few feet from his tail. As he negotiated the turn inland onto Lyman's Tout he watched her in his rear-view mirror. She had the sense to ease her way round, following Newman's example. He parked the car close behind the drystone wall, which was higher than his roof. Eve parked behind him.
'What now?' Philip asked.
'We watch that place for awhile. You and Marler stay a distance behind me to guard my rear. Take Eve with you if you have to drag her.'
He lifted the large pair of 'birdwatcher' binoculars he had borrowed from Butler, got out, found the ground was hard, wandered back, and lay down on the ground at a point where he could see the house round the end of the wall.
He could feel the cold seeping through his clothes as he focused, waited. Marler, Philip and Eve had disappeared behind huge rocks some distance to his rear. Patiently, he waited. He heard nothing above the whine of the wind, the dull thud of the monstrous waves against the cliff base far below. Then something round and metallic pressed against his neck, the muzzle of a gun. He froze.
'I'm holding a loaded shotgun, chum,' a familiar voice said. 'Blow your head off. My head still aches from your catching me off guard in that bar. Now, what are you doing here on private property? Might as well talk before I pull the trigger
The voice of Craig, a more sophisticated voice now, and even more menacing.
Pete Nield, Harry Butler's partner, was a great contrast in appearance and manner to the man he worked closely with. Whereas Butler dressed in denims and a shabby windcheater, Nield, unlike the burly Butler, was slim and a snappy dresser.
Nield wore a check sports jacket and fawn slacks with a razor-edged crease. His white shirt was spotless, bisected by a smart grey tie. He had returned from watching the Priory for any sign of Buchanan to contact Tweed, to bring him up-to-date on Newman's trip to Grenville Grange.
'Pete.' Monica interrupted him, 'Tweed is away.'
'Where?'
'He didn't say.'
'Paula there?'
'No. Listen. I have instructions for you and Harry. I assume you're calling from a phone box.'
'Monica, you have the most amazing intuition.'
'Flattery will get you nowhere. I said listen . . .'
Nield kept quiet while she relayed Tweed's instructions. After the brief conversation he hurried back to the Black Bear in the hope that Harry Butler would call him from Poole.
Fat chance of that happening now I have to leave to watch the roundabout at Stoborough Green, he thought. Life was not like that. As he turned the key in the door to his room he heard the phone ringing. He rushed across to the instrument - knowing it would stop ringing as he picked it up. He grabbed it.
'Yes. Who is it?'
'You sound breathless. You're out of training.' Butler's heavy voice mocked him.
'Very funny . . .'
'Partridge is OK for tonight's meal? Partridge is OK.'
'My favourite dish.' Meld replied, playing along with Butler's cryptic message. 'You're still in Poole? Good. New instructions. An important client is possibly coming via the ferry at the exit to Poole Harbour . . .'
'Sandbanks this side, Shell Bay on your side. Go on . . .'
'He has to be treated like royalty. If he travels that route he'll probably be inside a limousine with tinted windows. You're his escort - a very discreet escort. He could just arrive within an hour, maybe longer.'
'Got it. I'd better get moving.'
'Me too.'
At Sandbanks Butler eased his sturdy bulk out of the phone booth, ran to his parked Ford Fiesta. Pete Meld would have grasped the gist of what he had reported: that he'd checked out Partridge.
Using the phone directory on arrival, he'd torn round in his car, calling at four different addresses where a Partridge lived. Apologizing at the first three of them, explaining he was looking for a friend, he hit gold dust at the fourth, a small detached house with a notice in a window. Room To Let. The landlady, a portly woman, was forthcoming.
'I'm sorry, but your friend has just moved to a cottage near Wareham. Very quick it was. I'm sorry to lose him, he was a quiet tenant. Worked in his rooms - had a lot of funny equipment. Computers he called them. And a machine which chattered and spewed out typed sheets of messages.'
'Probably his fax machine,' Butler guessed.
'He was such a nice quiet man. No trouble at all. He wanted a quiet place in the country. Some people like that, you know. Wouldn't suit me. I like a bit of life . . .'
'Just to make sure I've got the right man, could you describe him,' Butler interjected to halt the flood of words. He waited. People were terrible at describing someone they even knew well.
'Small. Much smaller than you. Less well built, if you don't mind my saying so. I wondered if he was a foreigner. Mind you, he spoke perfect English, but his appearance. He had such smooth skin that I used to wonder if he ever had to shave . . .'
'Could you give me the actual address he's moved to?' asked Butler in desperation.
'Devastoke Cottage, near Stoborough. That's south of Wareham. You take the
'Many thanks.' Butler was backing away to escape the barrage. 'I know how to get there. I'll be on my way. . .'
He hurried to the phone booth he'd noticed, confident he'd get across to Nield that Partridge seemed genuine. Then he drove to the car ferry point.
Butler had already decided where he would wait. He had driven to Poole via the ferry from Shell Bay and had noticed a car park near the beach on the far side. A ferry, a large craft controlled by a chain from shore to shore, was just about to leave. The only other vehicle aboard on the films. Start counting up to ten. Who sent you? One . . . two . . . three . . .'
Huddled behind a huge boulder, Philip crouched shoulder to shoulder with Eve. Marler was behind another rock further back. He had his Armalite aimed at Craie's back, but Philip realized he dare not shoot. He'd
was a local bus. The ramp was elevated as he parked behind it.
The crossing took only a few minutes and in the distance Butler could see the curving ridge of the Purb
ecks. He drove off, paused at the toll-booth to pay the fare, then horned left into the car park a few hundred yards away from the crossing point. His was the only car on the sunny but bleak bitter February day.
'Perfect.' Butler said to himself. 'Perfect - cars passing don't notice this park unless the drivers are very observant.' And coming from Sandbanks he would be invisible to any traffic from Bournemouth and beyond. He opened a flask of coffee, had a hot drink, settled down to wait. Butler had the patience of Job.
The muzzle of the shotgun pressed deeper into Newman's neck. He lay quite still as Craig taunted him.
'Boot's on the other foot now. My head still aches. Better than having it blown right off. Who sent you?'
'I sent myself.' Newman mumbled, his chin pressed into the ground. 'I'm a reporter, in case you've forgotten.'
'Don't get sassy with me, chuml I'll ask you just once more. Then my nervous finger will pull the trigger. Come to think of it, this is an ideal spot. Afterwards I can dump your body over the cliff. Tide's about to go out. Why the two cars parked by the wall?'
'Porsche is my girl friend's. Motor conked out. She's been gone awhile on foot for help.'
'And you're about to conk out. I'll do it like they do on the films. Start counting up to ten. Who sent you? One . . . two . . . three . . .'
Huddled behind a huge boulder, Philip crouched shoulder to shoulder with Eve. Marler was behind another rock further back. He had his Armalite aimed at Craig's back, but Philip realized he dare not shoot. He'd get Craig but the brute might press the shotgun trigger as a reflex action when the bullet hit him. Newman's neck would be blown to pieces.