by Colin Forbes
'You were right, again. But why Dorchester?'
'I guessed Buchanan would have established his base at Wareham police station on West Street, on the outskirts. We needed time to get clear. Dorchester would have to phone Wareham and ten-to-one Buchanan would be out.'
'Good thinking. Ah, here's the main course. I could eat a horse.'
'Let's hope you're not going to.' joked Paula.
'Not here. This is a first-rate hotel. Fuel up - we need full stomachs before we face my old friend, Buchanan . . .'
'You were right, Tweed.' Buchanan greeted them with a dry smile. 'The coffee here is excellent. Do sit down and relax.'
Tweed went on full alert inwardly. He had not expected such an amiable approach. Buchanan was a dangerous opponent, experienced at throwing people off guard. He had arranged the seating cleverly.
With Sergeant Warden, notebook at the ready, Buchanan was ensconced on a couch, long legs crossed behind a wide table. Chairs for his guests were arranged on the other side of the table, upright chairs with arms.
Tweed, Paula, and Newman had just sat down when Buchanan leaned forward. He stared at Tweed.
'Ever heard of a man called Marchat?'
'March-what?'
'I'll spell it.' Buchanan snapped and proceeded to do so. He suddenly switched his gaze to Newman.
'You know a man called Partridge.'
It was a statement rather than a question, a typical Buchanan ploy.
'I have never in my life spoken to anyone with that name.' Newman said blandly.
'Made any anonymous calls to the police?' Buchanan rapped out almost before Newman had finished speaking.
'Not since this morning.' Newman said with a broad grin. 'It isn't really one of my pastimes.'
'I'm serious.' Buchanan snapped. He turned to Tweed. 'So why are you down here with such a heavy back-up?'
'Heavy?'
'There's three of you here and Philip Cardon was with you. Where has he disappeared to? Paula, maybe you would care to enlighten me.'
Paula gave the explanation Tweed had suggested. Coming from her the story carried conviction and Buchanan looked frustrated.
'You're all lying,' he said grimly. 'I suppose you're going to say you haven't heard about the three murders.'
'Are you talking about General Sterndale and his son, Richard?' Tweed enquired, jumping in.
'That's two of them. How do you know about them?'
'It's local gossip,' Tweed said in a bored tone. 'I have even heard the Sterndale mansion was burnt down, that it was arson . . .'
'It was! The place was sprayed with petrol and then set alight while Sterndale and his son were inside.' He switched his attention suddenly to Paula. 'You know a place called Devastoke Cottage?'
'How do you spell that?' she asked sweetly.
'Never mind.' Buchanan reached in his pocket, pulled out a small cheap wooden frame with a photograph, and tossed it into Tweed's lap. The frame slipped down between his legs under the table and came apart. As he bent down to retrieve it Tweed saw there were two photographs of the same man, one behind the other. He fiddled with the strut at the back of the frame, slipped one photo out, put his foot on it, brought the other photo and the frame above the edge of the table. He spent a short time re-assembling it so the full-length picture of a man in a garden fitted back inside the frame. Then he studied it.
'You've seen him somewhere before?'
Buchanan stared hard at Tweed. He'd made it sound like an accusation.
Paula slipped her shoulder bag onto the floor, rubbed her shoulder as though the strap had been uncomfortable. While Buchanan's attention was concentrated on Tweed she bent down, picked up the photo as Tweed raised his foot, slipped it inside her shoulder bag. Her hand came up holding a handkerchief and she pretended to blow her nose.
'You've had enough time to study it,' Buchanan rasped.
'I've never seen this man in my life.' Tweed said truthfully. 'But he has an interesting face. Who is it?'
'Marchat. We're sure of that. We found that framed photo tucked under some foreign newspapers at the back of a drawer.'
'Three murders, you said,' Tweed reminded him. 'Who is the third victim? This man?'
'It was supposed to be, we think. Marchat lived on his own at Devastoke Cottage. We found a body there. But it was the body of a man called Partridge. We found an agreement to lease the cottage in Partridge's favour, as a tenant of Marchat. We believe the murderer made a mistake, thought Partridge, who had just moved in, was Marchat.'
'Why?' asked Newman.
'Because Marchat was a servant at Sterndale Manor, the only one. Normally he lived in five days a week and spent his weekends at the cottage.'
'Still don't understand,' Newman commented.
'We think Marchat could have given us a clue as to who torched Sterndale Manor, that he was supposed to have perished in the flames with the Sterndales.'
'I suppose it's a theory.' said Newman.
'So.' Buchanan said, taking back the framed photograph, 'none of you know anything? Is that it?'
'We know what you've told us.' Tweed said placidly. 'Oh, you mentioned you found that photo under some foreign newspapers. What country were they from?'
'Copies of the Journal de Geneve. At least a fortnight old. Geneva. Switzerland
11
After talking to Tweed outside Bradfields, Keith Kent's remote house, Harry Butler headed back on the Fireblade through Corfe and Studland to where he had hidden his car.
He left the motorcycle perched on the grass verge and walked the last hundred yards to the entrance to the sandy track. He held his own Walther by his side, approached the Sierra cautiously. It appeared to be just where he had left it.
He listened for several minutes, heard only the endless crash of the waves on the invisible shore. He next got down on his knees, dropped flat, crawled under the car. No bomb had been secreted under the chassis. He ran back to the Fireblade.
Pushing it on the opposite side of the road, he found the disturbed gorse where he had left the unconscious body of the fake policeman. The body had gone.
'Probably hitched a ride to as near to Grenville Grange as he could manage,' he said to himself.
He became very active. He wheeled the machine back to a gap in the gorse hedge he had noticed, pushed the machine through to the edge of the quagmire beyond. He gave the Fireblade a hard shove, watched it enter the marsh, the front wheel sinking first, followed by the rest of the machine which disappeared under the evil ooze.
He had taken his windcheater and the Luger out of the pannier before getting rid of the Fireblade. He took off the black leather jacket, hurled it into the quag, then threw the Luger with his gloved hand. The gun vanished in seconds.
He returned to his car, was about to switch on the engine when he heard motorcycles coming from the direction of Studland and towards the ferry. Wishing he'd kept the Luger a little longer, he left the car, crept forward, hid behind a thick bush.
He was just in time to see the stretch limo with tinted windows cruise past, bound for the ferry. A single outrider, clad in black leather like the others, brought up the rear.
I think Tweed will be interested, Butler was thinking. Mr Big-Wig didn't spend long at the old dark house . . .
He waited a few minutes, then drove out, turned left for Studland and Wareham way beyond.
'I feel in need of some fresh air,' Tweed had remarked pleasantly to Buchanan when the interview ended.
They were walking up to the square leading to South Street when Buchanan, at the wheel of an unmarked car with Warden alongside him, passed them.
'I think we all coped with that rather well,' Paula mused.
'Certainly he couldn't get a handle on us,' Tweed agreed. 'But he didn't believe one word we'd said. Let's call in at the Black Bear . . .'
There was no sign of Buchanan's car when they crossed South Street. They found Marler leaning against the bar when they entered the hotel.
'
This is Ben,' Marler said, introducing the barman, who greeted them cheerfully. 'He's standing in for a friend who's away on holiday. What are you drinking?'
'I need a double Scotch,' said Newman.
'A small glass of white wine, please.' Paula requested.
Tweed had ordered orange squash when he looked back at the doorway and saw Butler, standing in the corridor and beckoning to him. Saying he'd better go to the loo, Tweed joined him outside.
He listened while Butler told him about the motorcade he'd seen returning the way it had come when he'd first spotted it.
Tell Newman on the quiet I'll be back later. I'm on my way to that public phone box. I live in them . . .'
He was surprised when he dialled the private number at Heathrow of Jim Corcoran, security chief, to find his old friend was in his office.
'Any news about Marchat?' he asked.
'Yes. Good job it's February.'
'Why?'
'Not many passengers. So I had fewer passenger manifests to check. I even found the check-in girl who dealt with him. She remembers him. He seemed nervous.'
'I'm waiting for you to get to the point.'
'Always want everything yesterday. Anton Marchat was the passenger's full name.'
'I have his photo now. When I get back to London I'll send a copy to you by courier. See if the girl agrees the photo is of Marchat.'
'You never stop plaguing me. OK.'
'He caught a flight to Geneva,' Tweed said.
'Via Swissair. So why the devil do you ask when you know?'
'It was an educated guess.'
'Who said you were educated?' asked Corcoran.
'I have another favour to ask you. Now, don't blow a gasket. Do you know the security chief at Bournemouth International?'
'Yes, I do. Jeff is a pal I sometimes visit. Nice part of the world down there. What is it this time?'
'I'm pretty sure that Leopold Brazil will be taking off from that airport in his private jet - may already have done so. He'll have filed a flight plan, or his pilot will. It's very important I know his destination. If I could know it before he lands that would be marvellous.'
'Marvellous is the word.' Corcoran said cynically. 'I call you at Park Crescent?'
'Yes. And give the destination to Monica.'
'You owe me . . .'
Corcoran had gone off the line. Tweed knew he was very quick. He'd already be calling Jeff at Bournemouth International. Tweed dialled Park Crescent, explained the situation briefly to Monica.
'If Corcoran calls you, leave a message for me at the Priory. Just the destination.'
'Understood. Don't go, I've got a message for Marler. From someone called Archie. He asked for General and Cumbria Assurance, so I don't think he knows who we really are. Message was, could Marler go and see him urgently? Address, The Bird's Nest, Kimmeridge. I ask you! The Bird's Nest. Sounds cuckoo to me.'
Tweed chuckled briefly at one of Monica's rare bursts of humour.
'How would this Archie know Marler is down here?' he asked.
'I was going to tell you. He saw Bob Newman somewhere down there, thought Marler might be with him.'
'Did he? I'll pass on the message . . .'
Tweed never looked smug. It wasn't in his nature. But as he hurried back to the Black Bear he looked pleased. Everything was on the move, the momentum was building up.
Re-entering the bar, Tweed found Paula and Newman with Marler seated at a large table near the bay window overlooking South Street. Ben, the barman, was sitting between Marler and Newman. He started to get up but Tweed waved him back into his seat. 'I've still got my orange juice.'
'Ben.' Marler began, 'was waiting for you to come back. He's got something interesting to tell us about Marchat, apparently.'
'Really?'
Tweed sat down, relaxed. Ben was a small tubby man with a ruddy complexion and a mop of sandy hair. He smiled at Tweed, cleared his throat before speaking. Paula was amused. There was something about Tweed's appearance, his personality, which made people tell him things they wouldn't normally speak about.
'Ben is a stand-in, as I mentioned earlier.' Marler explained. 'For a friend, the normal barman who has gone off to the Caribbean for a month's holiday.'
'Marchat.' Ben started, 'came in about a week ago and had more to drink than usual. I wouldn't say he was tipsy but he wasn't sober either. He told me that he was worried. He'd spotted prowlers outside Sterndale's house several nights running. Always after dark. He reported what he'd seen to Sterndale but the General pooh-poohed his fears, said nobody could get into his house after he'd locked up.'
'About a week ago?' Tweed said thoughtfully.
'Yes, it would be that.' Ben agreed. 'I told him to tell the police, to go to the station in Worgret RoadRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'
'That's the name.' Newman interjected. 'I said West Street earlier.'
'Lot of people make that mistake.' Ben was still talking to Tweed, rubbing a hand over his plump face. He struck Tweed as a likeable, decent chap, not over-endowed with brains but shrewd in summing up customers. 'You see, West Street runs into Worgret.' He paused. Tweed waited, sensing Ben was wondering whether to tell him something else. He was sipping his orange juice when Ben started talking again, keeping his voice down even though no one else was in the bar.
'He told me something else which sounded important - Marchat thought it was very importantRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'
He broke off as two men entered and stood by the bar. One rapped a coin on the counter.
'Have to go serve them.' Ben looked indecisive. 'You know Bowling Green?'
'I do.' said Newman. 'A grassy bowl beyond the far end of North Street, or near the end. There's a footpath on the right past St Martin's Church . . .'
'That's it.' said Ben. 'I live near the River Trent, take my dog for a walk at eleven o'clock at night. Could we meet at Bowling Green? Mind you, the forecast is for a cold frosty night.'
'We'll be there.' Newman promised him. 'We may come along the East Walls . . .'
'That will get you there.'
The two men were getting impatient at the bar and again the coin was rapped on the counter. Newman glanced at them as Ben ambled back to the bar. He lowered his voice.
'I suppose they couldn't be more of Mr Brazil's kindly friends?'
'He might have left a couple behind to keep an eye on things, but I think it's unlikely.' Tweed was speaking very quietly. 'Butler has told me he saw the limo which brought Brazil to Grenville Grange was on its way back to the ferry. I think he's leaving the country again.'
'So we've lost him.' said Paula.
'Maybe . . .'
'I'd like a quiet word with Marler.' Tweed said as they left the bar and entered the corridor.
'We could walk further along this passage to what they call the Beer Garden.' Marler suggested. 'It won't be very comfortable at this time of year - wooden benches and a cobbled floor.'
'Ideal.' Tweed looked at Paula and Newman, but Paula spoke first.
'I noticed a place called the Old Granary down on the Quay. We'll wait there for you . . .'
'Good idea. Near where the cars are parked outside the Priory . . .'
Tweed was being cautious. He suspected Archie was very careful to keep his clients, the people he acted as an informant for, separate and unknown to each other. He doubted whether Newman knew Archie was Marler's informant.
Seated on a cold hard wooden bench, he told Marler about Archie's urgent call to Monica. He asked whether Marler would sooner drive there on his own.
'I don't think so,' Marler decided. 'You come in your own car, following me, and Newman and Paula can come in the Merc. When I get there, drive past the cottage a short distance and I'll consult Archie.'
'We'd better get moving.'
'Just so long as you don't mind if I drive like the wind to Kimmeridge. Archie sounds worried.'
'We might just manage to keep up with you.'
It was still daylight as the three cars drove
along the winding road well beyond Corfe Castle. They had to slow down as they approached Keith Kent's house because of a bend just before they reached it. As they passed Tweed saw one of the curtains in Kent's living room twitch. They had been observed.
They turned left later where a narrow road was signposted Kimmeridge. They had been hemmed in on both sides with hedges and the odd copse of trees. Now the landscape opened out and in the gloom of the afternoon they saw the sea below them.
'Looks very rough.' Paula commented to Tweed. 'Think I'll suggest to Bob behind us he goes for a swim.'
'Tiny little place, Kimmeridge.' Tweed observed. 'It's one short lane with cottages on either side and the road stops at the sea.'
'Seems a good idea.' Paula joked. 'Lord, it looks like the end of the world.'
She thought she had never seen such a bleak outlandish coast. They had descended several hairpin bends to reach Kimmeridge and beyond was a large bay with grim-looking cliffs enclosing it. Not a sign of life anywhere.