by Colin Forbes
Philip, keeping his recital of events terse, began with their drive to Grenville Grange and what had happened afterwards. Tweed's expression didn't change when he came to the arrival of Leopold Brazil with his wolfhound, Igor.
'So Mr Brazil would like to meet me.' Tweed commented when Philip had concluded his description of their experience. 'Well, he will have to wait.'
'Why?' asked Paula.
'Because I need a lot more information about what he is up to.'
He slowed down, cruising. He had reached the roundabout south of Stoborough Green, had spotted Pete Nield parked in his Sierra, apparently reading a newspaper. Tweed continued cruising so Butler wouldn't lose them after instructing Nield.
Behind them Eve had been aware of the motorcyclist following the Jaguar behind her. The rider had kept his visor down so she couldn't see his face. She also missed seeing Pete Nield as she forced herself to drive like a snail behind Newman's car.
As soon as Butler caught them up Tweed increased speed. Reaching the junction below Corfe Castle and before entering the village he turned right onto a quiet country road signposted Church Knowle - Kimmeridge. He slowed down. At intervals along this road he knew there were isolated cottages and very little traffic. The sort of road where children ran out without looking.
'Where are we going now?' Paula asked.
'Didn't you see the signpost? Eventually it is a dead end if the firing range operated by the Army is being used for target practice. Mostly tanks. Kimmeridge is a tiny place near the edge of the sea. Buchanan certainly won't be using this road.'
He was almost crawling round sharp bends and then on into open country. To their right a range of the Purbecks climbed steeply in grassy slopes, hemming in the road, which was little more than a tree-lined lane.
Tweed was passing a house, back from the road with land in front of it, when he signalled, stopped the car.
'What is it?' Philip called out.
'Well, I'll be damned,' replied Tweed, who rarely swore even mildly. 'I'm sure that chap outside this house is Keith Kent, the money tracer. I'd no idea he had a place down here. Let's go and have a chat with him . . .'
Newman switched off his engine, got out, and stood, as Tweed went down the long path to meet him. He recognized Keith Kent too, despite the fact that previously he had only seen him immaculately garbed as a City gent. He frowned as he watched.
Kent, despite the cold, wore a check shirt rolled up to his elbows and a pair of old corduroy trousers. He was chopping wood, slicing up a tree trunk. His arms were sinewy and he swung a heavy axe high into the air without any apparent effort. The axe thundered down, split a huge log into two. He was lifting the axe again when he saw his visitor.
'Hello, Tweed.' He greeted him in an upper-crust accent which was entirely unaffected. 'Good to see you. I'd stay where you are for a moment. Wood chips can fly off at an angle and do you no good at all.'
The large axe was whipped up in a fresh arc, brought down with great speed, sliced straight through a huge log. Interesting, Newman was thinking to himself. Kent laid down the axe, turned to greet his visitors with a broad smile.
A slim man, of medium height, he was in his late thirties, early forties. Clean-shaven, he had thick dark hair, neatly trimmed, and shrewd grey eyes. He shook hands after wiping them on his trousers while Tweed made introductions. Suddenly aware that someone was standing close behind him, Tweed turned to find Eve waiting with a bleak look.
'Oh, and this is Eve Warner, a friend of Philip's. Keith Kent.'
Eve held out her hand after Kent had extended his own with an apology.
'Hope my mitts aren't sticky. Welcome to Bradfields. Excuse the attire. We ain't given to puttin' on nice duds down 'ere,' Kent explained with a grin as he mimicked a Cockney. 'Coffee, everyone? I could drink a litre. Come inside . . .'
The old house was built of brick covered with whitewash and with a thatched roof above the first floor. Inside Kent ushered them straight into a large living room with ancient leather armchairs scattered about, invited them all to sit down.
'I'll just make the coffee. How do you like it?'
'Black for me.' Eve chimed in quickly. 'No sugar.'
'I'll give you a hand,' Paula said, following Kent. She noticed Eve had sat down in a chair with her legs crossed, obviously with no intention of giving her host any aid. She heard Tweed say something which struck her as odd because she had seen him complete the task.
'Don't think I locked the car. Be back in a moment.'
With all the others inside he hurried down the path into the road. Butler was perched astride his machine just out of sight of the property. Tweed walked briskly up to him.
'I hoped you'd come out.' Butler said. 'I left my car hidden down a track near Studland. I'd like to go back there now and retrieve it.'
'Do that. Then go back to the Black Bear and I'll be in touch. Where did you get the Fireblade?'
Butler explained what had happened briefly when he had seen the escorted limo with tinted windows pass him after coming over via the ferry.
'You did well. Very well. Look after yourself . . .'
When he returned to the house he made for the kitchen. It struck him as odd that there was no sign with the name Bradfields. Paula was pouring coffee from a large jug into cups on a tray.
'Look,' she said, 'Wedgwood. Keith has some lovely chinaware.'
'Keith indulges himself when he can't afford to,' Kent said and grinned. 'If you can put some work my way it would be welcome.'
'Investigate where Leopold Brazil gets all his money from.' Tweed whispered. 'It's urgent.'
They went into the living room with Kent insisting on carrying the heavy tray. Paula served coffee, not looking at Eve as she filled her cup. Not that Eve noticed: she was too busy chatting up Bill Franklin. Philip didn't look too happy at her enthusiasm.
Tweed sat in an armchair, sipped his coffee, and let the others do the talking. He noticed Philip's annoyance but he also noticed that he was scanning the room, looking for clues to Kent's personality and interests. He was doing his job.
Newman appeared relaxed, glancing first at his host and then at Franklin and was unusually quiet. Along one wall were shelves crammed with books from floor to ceiling. He had just seen that a number dealt with the history of old British banks when the house shook. Thump! Thump! Thump . . . ! Six times altogether.
'What on earth is that?' Eve cried out. 'It sounded like thunder but then again it didn't.'
'Not to worry.' their host assured her. 'It's the tank range at nearby Lulworth practising. Gunfire from the tanks. At Bovington Camp, to be precise.'
'I wouldn't like to live here.' she said tactlessly.
'Oh, you get used to it. Like living near a railway line.'
Tweed leaned across, laid a finger on Kent's arm to attract his attention. He kept his voice low while the others continued chattering away.
'Keith, could we go for a short walk? I'd like to stretch my legs and get your opinion on an insurance problem.'
The reference to insurance was for Eve's benefit. Already Tweed suspected she had the gift of listening to one conversation and eavesdropping on another. Kent asked her, as he stood up, had she got a good job in London.
'A very good job.' Her eyes gleamed. 'In security. I can't give you any details. I had to sign a piece of paper.'
The Official Secrets Act? Tweed wondered. He stood up as Kent prepared to leave, opening a cupboard and taking out an expensive suede jacket which looked as though it had not been worn before. He apologized as he slipped it on.
'Hope you don't mind my leaving you for a few minutes. I am the host, I know . . .'
'I'll look after everyone,' Paula said quickly.
'Then I'd like some more coffee,' Eve said casually.
As they walked down the path from the house Kent gestured towards the land on either side, scruffy grass which was waterlogged.
'Step off this path and you're into a quagmire. I hear it's been
raining solidly for a week. Dorset is under water. Lucky I've got that stone patio near the house or I wouldn't have been chopping logs. Now, what is it you really want to talk to me about?'
'You've heard about Sterndale Manor going up like a torch?' Tweed asked.
'No, I only got down here from Heathrow soon after the crack of dawn. You were lucky to catch me.'
'Heathrow? Been on your travels again, Keith?'
'Just a short trip to Paris. Waste of time. My potential client wouldn't give me enough data to go on. I insisted he paid my expenses. Bloody nuisance. I came back on the first flight and hared down here to get away from it all. But you've something on your mind. Is it to do with my checking on Leopold Brazil?'
'Yes. Of course you know about bearer bonds?' Tweed enquired.
'Usually issued by the big international oil companies. Other large conglomerates, too. They're a way of moving - or storing - really large sums of money. A single bearer bond can be worth a huge amount of money. The weakness is you have to guard them like gold - they have nothing on them to show the owner. So they're totally negotiable anywhere in the world. One bond could be worth six figures in pounds. You know this. Why are they significant?'
'Because General Sterndale, who perished in the inferno along with his son, Richard, kept the bulk of the bank's capital in a large old safe in his house.'
'God! Does that mean Sterndale will go bust if the bonds have been reduced to ashes?'
'No. Apparently he kept enough funds at his different branches to keep them solvent.'
'How do you know this?'
'Someone I trust who was close to him told me. But I'm wondering if the bonds were no longer in that safe. A number of other private banks in Europe have had bearer bonds stolen, especially in France and Switzerland . . .'
That's true.'
'Check out what form their capital was in.'
'This is concerned with my checking out Leopold Brazil?'
'Yes. Where did he get all this money from is the big question. And watch your back.'
'Will do. I'd better warn you this is going to cost you.'
'Bill me.'
'When you leave you ought to drive on to Kimmeridge. An interesting chap lives in a tiny cottage called the Bird's Nest. Useful bloke. I bumped into him in Paris. He's called Archie . . .'
10
When they returned to Bradfields Tweed had decided that a visit to Archie, the informant Marler also had met during his trip to Paris, would have to wait.
Marler had stayed in the back of Newman's car while the others were Kent's guests. Tweed had not invited him, which was enough to tell him, 'Stay under cover . . .'
The Mercedes was parked several yards behind Tweed's car and Marler had remained huddled in his corner. Now he wore wrap-around dark glasses and a deerstalker hat, which would make it impossible for someone who had not met him to recognize him.
Going into the house Tweed was surprised to find Eve in the kitchen with Paula, helping her with washing the dishes. Had Paula bulldozed her into giving a hand? The two women seemed to be chatting amiably. As Tweed entered Eve looped a tea towel over a wire hung above an old-fashioned stove to dry.
'Job's done,' she said cheerfully. 'What's next?'
'Back to the Priory for lunch, if we're not too late. Which I hope is not the case . . .'
As Kent accompanied them into the front garden Newman walked along a paved path leading to the patio where Kent had been chopping wood. Lifting the axe, Newman swung it high, brought it down on a very large log and split it into two smaller pieces.
'One more for the fire.' he said to Kent.
They thanked him for his hospitality and headed for their cars. Newman led the way alongside Tweed a short way ahead of the others.
'That's a very heavy axe,' he commented as they went out on to the road.
'Who is that chap who likes to keep to himself?' Eve asked chirpily. 'The man in the back of Bob's car.'
'A friend who came along for the ride.' Tweed said quickly.
'If it's all right with you I think I'll travel back with Eve in the Porsche.' Philip suggested.
'Why not?' said Tweed agreeably.
Paula joined him in his car, Tweed did a three-point turn and headed back for Corfe and Wareham, leaving the others to follow.
'Did you have to drag Eve into the kitchen by the hair?' Tweed asked.
'Not at all. She volunteered to help, just came in with me. She's a funny girl. She can be warm and friendly, and at other times she's almost rude.'
'She feels the need to assert herself, particularly in the presence of a number of men, would be my guess. I noticed Newman was very quiet while we were in the house.'
'So did I. He was studying our host and Franklin.'
'So, which one intrigued him - and why? Was it
Franklin, or Kent?'
* * *
They parked their cars on the Quay, the small square on the edge of the Frome. After putting money in the meters they walked the short distance to the Priory. They met trouble the moment they entered the hotel. In the shape of Chief Inspector Buchanan.
'Tweed, Newman, I need to talk to you both. On your own. Now. The lounge is empty. Follow me . . .'
'Really?' Tweed exploded. 'We've had no lunch and if we don't get it now we go hungry!'
'That's your problem.'
Buchanan was a tall lanky man in his forties, slim and normally with a languid manner. His grey eyes glared at Tweed. Behind him stood his assistant, Sergeant Warden, a tall clean-shaven man who always reminded Tweed of a wooden Indian. This time Warden came to life.
'It is essential the Chief Inspector questions you now.'
'Who asked you?' Tweed rapped out with a rare burst of apparent aggression.
'The lounge,' Buchanan said firmly, fingering his neat brown moustache.
'You have a warrant for our arrest?' Tweed demanded.
'No, of course not . . .'
'Then we're having lunch first.' Tweed glanced into the dining room where a waitress was hovering, wide-eyed. 'May we, please, all have lunch? Sorry we are rather late.'
'That's all right, sir.' the waitress replied. 'The chef is ready when you are.'
'I said the lounge.' Buchanan repeated, rasping. 'I have a very busy day.'
'Then you have two alternatives.' Tweed told him. Tf you have business elsewhere I suggest you go about it. Otherwise wait in the lounge and we will come in when we have finished a leisurely lunch.'
'You're supposed to cooperate with the police.' Buchanan snapped.
'Not at the drop of a hat - and when we're hungry. I am not arguing the point one moment longer.'
'There have been three murders I am investigating.' Buchanan said after he had come close to Tweed.
'Then what are you hanging about here for?'
'I'll expect you in the lounge after you've had your lunch. Don't take too long
'We'll take as long as we like. I'm not getting indigestion for anyone. Incidentally, you can get coffee in the lounge, and it's very good here . . .'
On this note, spoken in a genial tone, Tweed entered the dining room.
He skilfully manoeuvred the table placings so that he would be seated at a table by the rear wall with Paula, Newman, and Philip. Taking Eve by the arm he ushered her to another table some distance away, overlooking the garden.
'Bill,' he said to Franklin, 'would you mind looking after Eve?'
'It will be my pleasure.' Franklin agreed with zest.
'Afterwards.' Tweed went on as they sat down, 'we'll be grilled by Buchanan. I don't think you'd enjoy that, so Bill, why not take Eve for a drive out into the country? Leave the dining room quietly before we do.'
'What about Philip?' Eve demanded.
'In a few minutes I'll send him over to join you at this table. Then he can come with you on your jaunt. Don't come back too early . . .'
'What are you up to?' Paula asked quietly after they had ordered. 'I saw you scribble a brief note
before you left the car when we arrived. You screwed it into a ball and tossed it into Marler's lap as you passed Bob's car.'
'The note instructed him to go straight back to the Black Bear and stay under cover with Meld - and Butler when he gets back with his car. Now, Philip, if Buchanan should grab you, you're down here with a girl friend on holiday. Don't tell him anything else. I suggest you now go and join Eve and Bill - and later go with them for a ride in the country.'
'I'll go over to their table now, then.'
'He didn't need much encouragement.' Newman commented. 'What's the strategy in coping with Buchanan? He's on the warpath.'
'You and I - with Paula - came down here because we thought Philip would be on his own. You, Paula, insisted on coming. We found he'd met a girl only after we got here. Buchanan knows how deeply affected Philip was -is - by the death of his wife, Jean.'
'And what about people like Marchat?' Paula queried.
'Never heard of him. I'm surprised Buchanan knows about Marchat. . .'
'Partridge.' Newman warned.
'Quite right. But Buchanan has caught on to Partridge very quickly - he did refer to three murders.'
'That's because of me.' Newman explained. 'Before I left Devastoke Cottage with Marler I slipped into the kitchen, where the phone is. I called Dorchester police anonymously, put a silk handkerchief over the mouthpiece to disguise my voice. Simply told them there was a dead body there, at least I thought the man was dead, so would they also send paramedics. I couldn't just walk out and leave the poor devil to rot for days.'