by Colin Forbes
'I'm going to try and creep up on Craig.' Philip said, gripping his Walther.
'I'll try and create a distraction.' Eve replied, her teeth chattering, with cold or fear: maybe with both.
'If you do think of something, for God's sake time it so I'm close enough to ram my gun into the bastard's back.'
'I'm not an idiot . . .'
Philip stood up, began walking forward, keeping to the soft arid turf which carpeted the Tout on either side of the track. His footsteps made no sound as he clenched his teeth and came closer to Craig. If the brute turned round the range of his weapon was still greater than that of his Walther. He narrowed the gap, wondering what on earth Eve had in mind.
Behind the boulder Eve searched quickly among a pile of stones, found a large round one. She took a firm grip on it, stood up while Marler, puzzled, watched her.
Philip was within a foot of Craig when Eve hurled the stone with all her force against the drystone wall. Its impact made a sharp crack.
Startled, Craig moved the shotgun away from Newman as he began to turn. Newman grabbed the barrel, thrust it well away from himself. At that moment Philip rammed his Walther into Craig's back.
'My bullet will smash your spine. Keep very bloody still. That's a good boy. Now let go of the gun slowly . . .'
As Craig released his grip on the weapon Newman, still gripping it by the barrel, hauled it well out of his attacker's reach. He stood up as Marler ran up to them.
'Are you all right?' Marler asked.
'Fine.' Newman flexed his right hand. 'But I do have a little unfinished business.'
He suddenly clenched his hand into a fist, hit Craig with a haymaker to the jaw. The big man collapsed. Newman checked his pulse.
'Out cold, but that's all. I guess he'll stay that way for half an hour.'
'We continue watching?' Marler asked.
'Of course.'
'Then I'd better tie up the parcel . . .'
He produced one of several handcuffs he carried, bent down, turned Craig over on his back, clasped both wrists behind him, handcuffed them together. He next took out two pieces of cloth from his capacious pocket. He tied the dark handkerchief round Craig's eyes, looked up.
'That will disorientate him when he comes to. This will keep him quiet as a babe.'
He twisted the white cloth into a makeshift gag and applied it across Craig's mouth. Then he dragged his 'parcel' across and shoved it against the drystone wall. Newman turned to Philip, who was slipping his Walther inside its holster.
'Thank you, Philip. You probably saved my life - and even I didn't hear your silent approach.'
'You should thank Eve,' Philip explained as she came up to them. 'She created the diversion that caused Craig to shift his weapon away from you.'
'Really?' Newman stared at Eve in surprise. 'Well . . .'
'Glad you approve.' Eve made a pantomime of studying her long shapely fingers. 'Maybe there'll come a time when you realize a woman can be useful.'
'That time has come.' Newman held out his hand, gripped hers. 'Thank you. You're something else again.' His tone became brisk. 'Now we resume watching Grenville Grange, knowing it's not as unoccupied as it looks. Incidentally, how did Craig come up behind me?'
'Because we weren't watching closely enough.' Eve said bluntly. 'Philip and I were whispering to each other.'
'And I was checking my Armalite.' Marler added. 'Out of the corner of my eye I did see Craig slip through that gap where the wall has crumbled. God, for a man that size, he moved quickly. It only seemed to take him an instant to come up behind you and jab his gun into your neck.'
'That's all right,' Newman replied. 'But I suggest from now on, Marler, you take up a position by that gap. Philip, you find a boulder close to Marler and back him up. Take Eve with you. Now I resume watching.'
He dropped to the ground at the end of the wall as though nothing had happened. Reaching for the binoculars he'd let go of he checked the focus on the house and began waiting. No point in telling the others, but he was pretty sure now something was going to happen.
7
Butler, seated behind the wheel of his Fiesta, jammed the top on his coffee flask, thrust it into the door pocket. Still waiting in the car park, he had the window open to hear anything coming from the ferry and the wind off the sea was raw. He could hear the crash of waves on the nearby beach, see a fleet of black clouds approaching the Purbecks.
What had alerted him was the arrival of another bus. Shortly afterwards he heard motorcyclists coming at a steady pace. Three men clad in black leather astride their machines headed towards the Purbecks. Butler started his engine, then paused.
A gleaming black stretch limousine with amber-tinted windows glided past. Behind it followed two more outriders.
'Jesus!' he said to himself. 'Nield did say royalty.'
He waited a short time, then drove out after the limo, keeping well back. No view through the rear window, which was also tinted. This stretch of road was lonely with a bleak stretch of swampland to his right. Reed islands protruded above the water. To his left a thorn hedge blotted out the sea.
'You should have waited a mite longer.' he told himself.
In his mirror he saw a single motorcyclist in black leather thundering up behind him. Like the earlier outriders he was astride a powerful machine, a Fireblade. As he drew up alongside him Butler saw the word Police painted on his jacket. The newcomer waved to him to pull over and stop. Butler obliged.
The motorcyclist shoved off his helmet, exposing a tough, hard-jawed face with eyes too close together. Butler said nothing as the cyclist shouted at him through his open window. His head was practically inside Butler's car.
'You following that limo?' the rider demanded.
'I'm going home. It's a free road.'
'That's an important personage.'
'What's the difference between a person and a personage?' Butler asked innocently.
'Police business. Turn round, drive back to the ferry.'
'Why should I?'
'Because I say so. Get that machine turned round now.'
Butler lit a cigarette. He leant his arm on the edge of his open window.
'Can I see some identification, please? That you really are police?'
The rider took off his right glove, he shoved his hand inside his jacket. As Butler saw the hand coming out gripping the butt of a large gun he leaned over, pressed his cigarette on the back of the man's bare hand.
There was a yelp of pain as Butler reached out, grabbed the gun. It was a 7.65mm Luger. Not a handgun the British police ever carried. He opened his car door and shoved with great force. It hit the motorcyclist. Everything toppled over sideways. Man and machine.
The rider was trying to get out from under his machine when Butler tapped him over the skull with the butt of the Luger. Unconscious, he sprawled back in the road.
Butler, checking there was no other traffic, went through every pocket swiftly. No sign of a warrant card or anything else confirming he was a policeman. Butler heaved him up by the shoulders, dragged him across the road, hurled him into a thick patch of gorse bushes. His cargo disappeared. It took Butler no time to find him, to unbutton the jacket and haul it off the inert body by sheer brute force. As Butler had estimated, they were about the same build. Ripping off his windcheater, he slipped on the black jacket. Not a bad fit, he said to himself, and zipped up the front. Then he pushed the thug's body further into the gorse.
For a well-built man Butler could move with great speed. He had already switched off the engine of the Fireblade and he folded his windcheater, opened the pannier at the rear of the machine. Under a spare black jacket he found an assortment of handguns, five in all with spare ammo.
'We have a different type of policeman these days.' he muttered under his breath.
Putting on his gloves again, he carried the handguns, using the spare jacket as a makeshift tray. A few feet along the grass verge he found a gap in the hedge with a lake of muddy
ooze beyond. He hurled each gun and saw them sink. The jacket followed the guns.
Hurrying back to the prone motorcycle, he lifted it upright, kicked out the prongs which held it in that position. He had already detached the black helmet from the thug's head and he pulled it over his own head.
En route from the ferry he had noticed several sandy tracks leading off towards the sea on his right and he saw another one a few yards away. No wheel tracks. Who would want to drive down to sit on the beach in this weather, at this time of the year?
It took him barely a minute to back his Fiesta down the track out of sight, to park it behind some bushes. Locking it, he ran back to the Fireblade, pulling the visor of his helmet over his face. He slipped the Luger into the pannier. You never knew when it might come in handy.
Astride the Fireblade, he checked his watch. Three minutes since he had knocked the outrider unconscious. He fired the engine, took off at high speed along the deserted road. He was anxious to catch up the limo before it reached the turn-off to Swanage. He rode through the sleepy hamlet of Studland like the wind, saw the limo in the distance.
Butler breathed a sigh of relief. The limo was still proceeding at a civilized glide, showing no sign of speeding up.
'Must be a big egg inside that,' Butler said to himself. 'Doesn't like being shaken up into an omelette.'
He slowed down as the limo with its distant outriders drove straight on, passing the turn-off to the small seaside resort of Swanage. Soon, to his left, Butler saw the steep slopes of a range of the Purbeck Hills sweeping up just behind the country road, shaped like great barrows.
'Corfe next,' Butler said to himself. 'Next point is where do you turn there? On to Wareham or up into the hills?'
His question was answered as the limo turned left at the base of the mound on which the great stones of the ancient castle reared up, then through the old village of Corfe itself. Just at the end of Corfe the limo swung off to the right past a signpost that pointed to Kingston.
'Looks like Grenville Grange.' Butler commented under his breath as the wind hammered down a steep hill against his visor. 'I wonder where everybody else is? Tweed would be interested in this development . . .'
'You do realize we've been followed all the way from Park Crescent?' said Paula.
Behind the wheel of his car Tweed nodded as he came close to Wareham.
'A blue Vauxhall.' he said. 'One man, the driver. Now he's disappeared and we have a grey Jaguar keeping us company. Maybe they do it in turns, hoping to fool us. The Jag is probably a coincidence. It appeared only a few miles back.'
'You don't normally believe in coincidences.' she reminded him.
'Because behind the Jag is a blue Renault which, I think, is using the Jag to mask himself. All this is very promising.'
'Promising?' Paula queried in surprise.
'Yes, it means my wide enquiries into the activities of Leopold Brazil have triggered off anxiety.'
'It sounds as though you've provoked suspicion deliberately.'
'Well, I did ask a few contacts to spread the news that I was asking leading questions about His Lordship.'
'I might have guessed. Heavens, look at those fields. They are just lakes.'
They were crossing a bridge over a river into the main street of Wareham, which looked dead. Paula gazed at the ancient Georgian terraces, each house with its door painted a different colour.
'In good weather this looks like a nice sleepy place, I expect.'
'Very sleepy.' Tweed commented. 'Three murders within twenty-four hours. Which reminds me, I think it's vital we track down the real Marchat. I have a hunch he was heading for Heathrow on his way out of the country.'
'So we've lost him.'
'Not necessarily. While you were out of my office for a few minutes freshening up I called Jim Corcoran, Security Chief at Heathrow, gave him Newman's description of Partridge - apparently looks very like our will-o'-the-wisp, Marchat. I asked him to check all the early morning flights out of Heathrow. Especially to Europe.'
'Why Europe?'
'Because so many things are happening in Europe. That's where The Motorman has been most active. Don't mention him to anybody. And Brazil has at least two houses in Europe we know about. One in Paris at the Avenue Foch, another on the lakeside in Zurich.'
'Why are you worried about Leopold Brazil?'
'Because of rumours from sources I trust that he is planning some huge operation. Because he has such power - with his contacts at the highest levels. Because I have been warned off investigating him - and so have Lasalle in Paris and Arthur Beck in Berne. Here we are . . .'
Tweed turned left off South Street at a point where, beyond a bridge, Paula could see the grim-looking sweep of the Purbecks in the distance, their summits lost in a blanket of black clouds. He arrived outside the Priory, parked the car in a slot up against a stone wall near the entrance. As he did so the grey Jaguar pulled up alongside. The driver waved to Tweed.
'We have pleasant company.' Tweed remarked. 'You do know Bill Franklin, ex-member of Military Intelligence?'
'I call him Uncle Bill . . .'
Paula jumped out of the car as a tall man climbed out from behind the wheel of the Jaguar. She ran across and hugged him.
'I've been following you, Tweed.' Franklin said over her shoulder.
Franklin was a well-built man in his forties without a trace of fat on him. He was constantly smiling, and was clean-shaven with a strong jaw and a quizzical expression. He hugged Paula, released her from his embrace.
'Such a warm welcome on a day like this. Are you and Tweed having a rare holiday? You could both do with one.'
He gave her an infectious grin. Franklin spoke slowly with a public school accent that came naturally to him. His movements were slow, giving the impression of a lazy man who never hurried. Paula knew that in his quiet way he was very active. She had always been fond of him.
'So, you've been following us,' Tweed said with mock severity. 'May I ask why?'
'You just did.' Franklin smiled warmly. 'I've been busy. For a change. Decided to take a few days off. I was driving around looking for a decent hotel and spotted you passing me at a side turning. I said to myself, I'm in need of some good company and there it is. You could have knocked me down with the proverbial feather when I saw Paula with you.'
'Well, the Priory here is a very good hotel,' Tweed replied. 'Why not stay here? When I have a minute we can talk over old times.'
'Great idea. Let me . . .' He took Paula's bag off her. She remembered he was always courteous and kind. Inside reception they registered and the three of them were given rooms in the main hotel.
'Tell you what.' Franklin suggested, after registering, 'why don't we dump our bags in our rooms and meet up in the lounge? I could do with a cup of coffee.'
'Black and strong as sin, you used to say,' Paula reminded him.
'Did I? But I remember you have total recall for conversations.' He smiled his slow smile again. 'So I will have to be careful what I say to you. It's a bit early in the day for me to compromise myself.'
'When you two have stopped flirting . . .' Tweed interjected. 'And yes, Bill, we'll meet up in the lounge. Say in five minutes?'
Well beyond Kingston Butler slowed down, stopped his Fireblade. Some distance ahead of him the cavalcade -outriders and limousine - was entering a drive between high drystone walls. As it disappeared he eased his machine forward slowly - just in time to see huge wrought-iron gates closing slowly. No sign of anyone shutting them, so he guessed they were automatically operated by remote control.
Parking his machine on a grass verge, he walked slowly up to the gates, then quickened his pace. As he passed them he saw the limousine pulling up at the end of a long curving drive beyond where it forked. He stopped, bent down as though to adjust his footwear.
The outriders gathered round the limo. A large door in the grim dark house perched on a terrace was opened. A tall man he couldn't see clearly emerged from the rear of
the limo, hurried agilely up the steps, disappeared inside the house, followed by the outriders who had parked their machines and removed their helmets. They tucked them under their arms and followed the tall figure like a military escort. The door closed.
Now the gates were closed he read the two words inscribed in gold, one on each gate. Grenville Grange.
'I guessed right.' he said to himself. 'They don't seem to have noticed they have one man missing. Or maybe his job is to stand sentinel outside. I'll wait awhile and see if anything more happens, then report to Newman . . .'
Newman, cold and stiff from lying on the ground at the end of the wall, raised his binoculars again. At the point where the drive curved he had a glimpse of the main drive coming up from the gates, had seen the cavalcade arrive.
'Go and tell Marler to hide in the back of my Merc,' he told Philip, who was lying alongside him. 'Tell Eve to get behind the wheel of her Porsche. Warn them both we may have to be ready for instant take-off down that track over Lyman's Tout. Order Eve that she is to come behind me. No arguments from her. Our lives may be at stake.'
'Will do . . .'
Newman waited a few more minutes, then raised his binoculars again. A terrace ran the full length of the back of the house and double doors had opened near a flight of steps.